SITKA—THE CASTLE AND THE GREEK CHURCH.
At six o’clock in the morning the water lay still and motionless as we
rounded the point from which Mount Edgecombe lifts its hazy blue slopes,
and threaded our way between clearly reflected islands into this
beautiful harbor, which is the most northern on the Pacific Coast. In
the mirror of calm waters the town lay in shimmering reflections, and
the wooded side of Mount Verstovaia, that rises sentinel over Sitka, was
reflected as a dark green pyramid that slowly receded and shortened as
the ship neared the shore. By old traditions the ravens always gather on
the gilded cross on the dome of the Greek church when a ship is in
sight, and one lone, early riser flapped his big black wings and croaked
the signal before the ship’s cannon started the echoes. A steam launch
put out quickly from the man-of-war _Adams_ to carry the mail bags to
that ship, and a sleepy postmaster came down to look after his
consignments. There were signs of life in the Indian village, or
_rancherie_, further up shore, and one by one the natives assembled on
the wharf with their baskets and bracelets for sale, or, wandering down
with the blankets of the couch wrapped about them, and lying face
downward with their heads propped on their hands, yawned and studied the
scene. They sprawled there like seals, and some of the members of this
leisure class remained on the wharf for hours and for nearly all day
without stirring.
The queer and out-of-the-way capital of our latest Territory seemed
quite a metropolis after the unbroken wilderness we had been journeying
through, and the rambling collection of weather-beaten and moss-covered
buildings that have survived from Russian days, and the government
buildings, in their coats of yellow-brown paint, smote us with a sense
of urban vastness and importance. At a first look Sitka wears the air
and dignity of a town with a history, and can reflect upon the brilliant
good old days of Russian rule, to which fifteen years of American
occupancy have only given more lustre by contrast. It is a straggling,
peaceful sort of a town, edging along shore at the foot of high
mountains, and sheltered from the surge and turmoil of the ocean by a
sea-wall of rocky, pine-covered islands. The moss has grown greener and
thicker on the roofs of the solid old wooden houses that are relics of
Russian days, the paint has worn thinner everywhere, and a few more
houses tumbling into ruins complete the scenes of picturesque decay.
Twenty years ago there were one hundred and twenty-five buildings in the
town proper, and it is doubtful if a dozen have been erected since. The
æsthetic soul can revel in the cool, quiet tones of weather-worn and
lichen-stained walls, and never be vexed with the sight of raw boards,
shingles, and shavings in this far northern capital. A gravelled road
leads straight from the wharf to the front of the Greek church, the
board walk beside it painted with lines of white on either edge, to
guide the wayfarer’s steps on the pitch-dark nights, that set in so
early and last so long during the winter season.
[Illustration: SITKA.]
The barracks, the custom house and the governor’s castle form a group of
public buildings on the right of the landing-wharf, and the small
battery at the foot of the castle terrace is quite imposing. The castle
is a heavy, plain, square building, crowning a rocky headland that rises
precipitously from the water on three sides, and turns a bold embankment
to the town on the other. According to Captain Meade, this eminence was
called Katalan’s Rock by the early Russian settlers, in memory of the
chief who lived on it, and the governors made it a perfect fortress,
with batteries and outer defences and sentries at all the approaches.
This colonial castle is in latitude only 17´ north of Queen Victoria’s
summer home at Balmoral. Two buildings have crowned Katalan’s Rock
before the present one, the first rude block-house being destroyed by
fire, and the second one by an earthquake. The castle is one hundred and
forty feet long and seventy feet wide, built of heavy cedar logs, while
copper bolts pierce the walls at points, and are riveted to the rock to
hold it fast in the event of another earthquake. The Russian governors
of the colony resided in the castle, and many traditions of social
splendor hang to this forlorn and abandoned old building. The Russian
governors were usually chosen from the higher ranks of the naval service
and of noble families at home. These captain-counts, barons, and princes
deputed to rule the colony maintained a miniature court around them, and
lived and entertained handsomely. Lutke, Sir Edward Belcher, Sir George
Simpson, and other voyagers of the early part of this century, give
charming pictures of the social life at Sitka. State dinners were given
by the governor every Sunday, and a round of balls and gayeties made a
visitor’s stay all too pleasant.
Baron Wrangell’s wife was the first chatelaine of the castle who left a
social fame. She was succeeded in her pleasant rule by the wife of
Governor Kupreanoff, who accompanied her husband to Sitka in 1835,
crossing Siberia on horseback to Behring Sea. It was Madame Kupreanoff
who entertained Captain Belcher, and after a line of many charming women
there came the second wife of Prince Maksoutoff, a beautiful chatelaine,
who made the castle the abode of a gracious hospitality, and left many
social traditions to attest her tact and charm. Society was more
democratic in her days than it has been at any time since, and the noble
Russian hostess overlooked rank and class, and welcomed all to the
castle on an equality. The admiral of the fleet and the pilot were on
the same social plane while under the governor’s roof, and at a ball the
governor made it his duty to lead out every lady, and the princess
danced with every one who solicited the honor, no matter how humble his
station. Caviare and strong punches marked every banquet board, and at
the beginning of a ball the ladies were first invited out by themselves
to partake of strong and pungent appetizers, and then the gentlemen
gathered around the side tables and took their tonics. A big brass
samovar was always boiling in the drawing-room, and day or night a glass
of the choicest caravan tea was offered to visitors. Some beautiful
samovars were brought out from Russia by the families of the higher
officers, and after the brass foundry was established, they were
manufactured at Sitka. Some of these old Sitka samovars are still to be
found by the curio-hunters, and, as they grow rarer, they are the more
highly prized.
The governors brought all their household goods with them from Russia;
and surrounded themselves with comfort and luxury. The castle was richly
furnished, the walls of the drawing-room were lined with mirrors, and
its interior appointments were all that Muscovite ideas could suggest.
When it was turned over to the United States as government property
seventeen years ago, the castle was well furnished and in perfect
condition, but after the troops left, it was neglected like everything
else, and has been stripped, despoiled, and defaced. Every portable
thing has been carried off, the curiously wrought brass chandeliers, the
queer knobs and branching hinges on the doors, and all but the massive
porcelain stoves in the corners of the large apartments. The lantern,
and even the reflector, that used to send beacons to the mariner from
the castle tower, have gone, and the place is little better than a ruin.
The hall where the governors received and entertained the Indian chiefs
is a rubbish hole; of the carved railing that fenced off a little
boudoir in the great drawing-room, not a vestige remains; and not a
relic is left of the old billiard-room to prove that it ever existed.
The signal officer has rescued two rooms on the ground floor for his
use, but otherwise the only tenant of the castle is the ghost of a
beautiful Russian, whose sad story is closely modelled on that of the
Bride of Lammermoor. She haunts the drawing-room, the northwest chamber,
where she was murdered, and paces the governor’s cabinet, where the
swish of her ghostly wedding-gown chills every listener’s blood. Twice a
year she walks unceasingly and wrings her jewelled hands.
At Easter time she wanders with sorrowful mien from room to room, and
leaves a faint perfume as of wild roses where she passes. Innumerable
young officers from the men-of-war have nerved up their spirits and gone
to spend a solitary night in the castle, but none have yet held
authentic converse with the beautiful spirit, and learned the true story
of her unresting sorrow. By tradition, the lady in black was the
daughter of one of the old governors. On her wedding night she
disappeared from the ball-room in the midst of the festivities, and
after long search was found dead in one of the small drawing-rooms.
Being forced to marry against her will, one belief was that she
voluntarily took poison, while another version ascribes the deed to an
unhappy lover; while, altogether, the tale of this Lucia of the
northwest isles gives just the touch of sentimental interest to this
castle of the Russian governors. The Russian residents cannot identify
this ghost with any member of the governors’ families, and say that the
whole thing has been concocted within a few years to keep sailors and
marauders away at night, and to entertain the occasional tourist.
The room is pointed out in the castle that was occupied by Secretary
Seward during his visit, and the same guest-chamber has an additional
interest in the memory of Lady Franklin’s visit. It is possible that
with the arrival of a territorial governor the castle may again become
an official residence; and if repaired and restored to its original
condition, it could be made quite a pleasant place.
The Custom House building also shelters the postmaster, whose office,
not being a salaried one, does not offer great temptations to any
aspiring citizens as yet. His compensation was a little over one hundred
dollars for the last year, and by the quarterly accounts, which all the
Alaska postmasters are dilatory about sending to the department, the
Sitka post-office has only about the same amount of business as the
Juneau and Wrangell offices.
A detachment of marines from the man-of-war in the harbor was quartered
in the old barracks at the opposite side of the steps leading down from
the castle terrace. Every morning while we were there, about eight men
went through guard mount and inspection with as much military precision
and form as if a company or regiment were deploying on the parade
ground. The houses that were used for officers’ quarters during the time
that a garrison was maintained were burned by the Indians, after the
soldiers were withdrawn, and there is a blank on that side of the green
quadrangle. The Indian village is reached through a gate in the stockade
fence at one side of the parade ground, and in the Russian days the gate
was closed every night, and the Indians obliged to remain outside until
morning. Under United States rule they have been permitted to roam as
they pleased, and during the time between the withdrawal of the troops
and the arrival of a naval ship, they held the inhabitants at their
mercy.
The buildings on the main street are all heavy log houses, some of them
clapboarded over, and a few of them whitewashed, but decay has seized
upon many, and their roofs are sinking under the weight of moss. Both at
the Northwest Trading Company’s store on the wharf, and in the large,
rambling stores on this street, there were curios by the roomful, and
everything from canoes to nose rings were to be seen. Though the prices
were higher, as befits a capital, the Sitka traders had the most
tempting arrays of carved and painted woodwork, and baskets, and
bracelets in endless designs.
[Illustration: THE GREEK CHURCH AT SITKA.]
At the end of the main street, fronting on the small square or court,
stands the Russian Orthodox Church of St. Michael. It has the green
roof, the bulging spire, the fine clock, and the chime of bells, that
might distinguish any shrine in Moscow. In these days of its decadence,
much of the glory has been stripped from the Sitka church, and the faded
walls and roof, almost destitute of paint, tell a sad tale. It was once
a cathedral, presided over by a resident bishop, and when dedicated in
1844, the venerable Ivan Venianimoff, Metropolite of Moscow, who had
labored for years as priest and bishop at Ounalaska and Sitka, sent
richest vestments, plate, and altar furnishings to this church. Since
the purchase of Alaska by the United States, the richer and better class
of Russians have left, and there are only three families of pure Russian
blood to worship in the church. Of the Creoles, or half-breeds, the
emancipated serfs, and the converted natives, who once crowded the
church on Sundays and saints’ days, not a third remain, and decreasing
numbers bow before the altar of St. Michael’s each year.
The Russian government, in its protectorate over the Greek church,
assumes the expenses of the churches at Sitka, Ounalaska, and Kodiak,
and about $50,000 are expended annually for their support. With the
diminishing congregations, it is merely a question of time when the
Alaska priests will be recalled, as the abandonment of the Russian
chapel in New York is significant of the coming change.
After the transfer of the territory, the Russian bishop moved his
residence to San Francisco, and, taking charge of the chapel there, made
annual visits to the Sitka, Kodiak, and Ounalaska churches. The last
incumbent of the office, Bishop Nestor, was lost overboard while
returning from Ounalaska to San Francisco in May, 1883, and at Moscow no
one has been found willing to be sent out to this diocese. Father
Mitropolski, now in charge with one assistant, was formerly at the
Kodiak church.
The exterior of the church is not imposing, as the paint has worn and
flaked off the walls, and the panelled picture of St. Michael over the
doorway is dim and faded. The chime of six sweet-toned bells in the
tower were sent from Moscow as a gift, and they retain their clear and
vibrant tones, and still ring out the hours. Our watches, that had been
keeping Astoria or ship’s time, were forty-five minutes ahead of the
true local time indicated by the ornamental dial of the church clock,
and for the first time we realized that the ship had veered to the
westward considerably while apparently going due north. A more serious
difference of time had to be contended with at the time of the transfer,
as the Russian Sabbath, which came eastward from Moscow, did not
correspond to the same day of the week in our calendar travelling
westward. It took official negotiations to settle this difference and
set aside the old Julian calendar.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE GREEK CHURCH AT SITKA.]
The interior of the cruciform church is richly decorated in white and
gold. In either transept are side altars, and the main altar is reached
through a pair of open-work bronze doors set with silver images of the
saints. In this inner sanctuary no woman is allowed to tread, and on the
smaller altars there the richest treasures of the church are kept. Over
the bronze doors is a large picture of the Last Supper, the faces
painted on ivory, and the figures draped in robes of silver. On either
side are large paintings of the saints, covered with robes and draperies
of the same beaten silver, and the halos, surrounding their heads, of
gold and silver set with brilliants. Heavy chandeliers and silver lamps
hang from the ceiling, and tall candlesticks and censers are before the
pictured saints. There is a small chapel in the north transept, where
services are held in winter, and on one of the panels of the altar there
is an exquisite painting of the Madonna. The sweet Byzantine face is
painted on ivory, and a silver drapery is wrapped about the head and
shoulders. St. Michael, St. Nicholas, and the glorious company of
apostles and angels on the same altars are robed in silver garments with
jewelled halos. This chapel and the whole church still wore the lavish
Easter decorations of wreaths, festoons, evergreen trees, and streamers
of bright ribbons, both July weeks that I visited it.
On the Sunday morning that the _Idaho_ lay at the Sitka wharf we all
attended morning service at the church, and were seated on benches at
one side while the congregation stood throughout the long service, which
was chanted by a male chorus concealed behind a carved screen near the
altar. The men stood on one side of the church, and the women on the
other, and at places in the service they knelt and prostrated themselves
until their foreheads touched the floor, and made the sign of the cross
constantly. One aged man especially interested me with the devout manner
in which he bowed and continually made the sign of the cross during the
service. He was poorly clad, and in appearance he was one of
Tourgénieff’s serfs to the life, as one pictures them from the pages of
his novels.
[Illustration: EASTER DECORATIONS IN THE GREEK CHURCH AT SITKA.]
On the following Monday—July 16, 1883—we heard the church bells chiming
in full chorus at an unwonted hour in the morning, and, hurrying to the
square, we found that the Czar’s manifesto was to be read, and a grand
Te Deum sung in honor of the coronation of Alexander III. Although the
Ruler of Holy Russia had donned his imperial coronet weeks before, the
official papers notifying the priest of that event only came up with the
mails of our steamer. The usual morning service was elaborated in many
ways. The choir of male voices chanted all the Te Deums appointed for
such special occasions, the priest wore his most sumptuous vestments of
cloth of gold and cloth of silver, the incense was wafted in clouds
through the wreathed and garlanded church, and the kneeling congregation
rose one by one and went forward to kiss the richly-jewelled cross that
the priest extended towards them. At the close, a joyous peal rang out
from the six sweet-toned bells in the steeple, and the devout souls went
about the church kneeling and crossing themselves before the altars, and
kissing the silver and ivory bas-relief images of the saints. Having
doffed his splendid robes and his purple velvet cap, Father Mitropolski
came forth and greeted his visitors, and had his assistant bring out
some of the ancient treasures and vestments to show us. There were
jewelled crosses, chalices of silver and gold, jewelled caskets, and
quaint illuminated books in precious covers. The bishop’s cap shown us
was a tall, conical structure lined with satin, and covered with pearls,
amethysts, rubies, and enamelled medallions in filigree settings. The
crowns held over the heads of the bride and groom during the marriage
service were fine pieces of Russian workmanship, and the silver basin
for holy water was well executed. Rich vestments of old damask, of heavy
velvets embroidered with bullion and set with small stones, and robes of
cloth of gold and cloth of silver, were displayed, together with the
draperies used on the altar on various occasions, and the embroidered
pall thrown over the coffin at funeral services. The choicest of the
church treasures, including an enamelled cross set with diamonds and
fine stones, and a book of the Scriptures with an elaborately wrought
silver cover weighing twenty-seven pounds, were taken to the San
Francisco church after the transfer. The bishop’s robes and special
belongings were taken there also, and after Bishop Nestor’s death the
richest of them were sent back to Russia. In 1869 the church was robbed
of much of its plate and treasures, by some discharged soldiers of the
garrison, it was thought, and only a few of the valuables were
recovered.
During our first stay the assistant priest found a chest of old bronze
medals, crosses, and enamelled triptychs in the garret of the church,
and the visitors contributed well to the poor fund in order to obtain
these relics. It was certified that all the small crosses and medals had
been blessed at Moscow before being sent out to the colony, and these
ikons or images were given to the soldiers and others on their saints’
days. A small bronze medal with the image of St. Nicholas fell to my
lot, with the head of Christ in one corner, that of the Virgin in
another, and their names raised in old Slavonic characters above them.
It has a loop to be hung by a ribbon, and St Nicholas’ face is worn
smooth by the reverent lips that have touched it. These medals,—common
enough and to be bought for a few coppers in Russia,—were highly valued
by us among our other Sitkan souvenirs.
The priest of the Sitka church, Father Mitropolski, is broad and liberal
in his views, and quite astonishes some narrower sectarians by his mode
of life and participation in ordinary amusements. His tolerance and
liberal tendencies were proved by his recently reading the Episcopal
marriage service before the altar of the Greek Church, uniting at the
time a naval officer of Unitarian faith to a teacher at the Presbyterian
mission. Father Mitropolski, a wife, and a family of little
daughters—Xenia, Nija, and Alexandra—keep life and sunshine in the
rambling, half-ruined house, which, as the bishop’s residence, was
formerly the finest dwelling after the castle. The roof was then bright
emerald green, and this and the green dome and roof of the church showed
well in the cluster of red roofs that covered the other buildings in the
town. With diminished church revenues and a lessening congregation, the
building has slowly fallen into sad decay, the galleries and porches
have dropped off, and only a part of the house is now occupied. The
drawing-room contains a few pieces of rich furniture as relics of its
former days, and the portraits of the czars, and the shining samovar,
declare it the home of loyal Russians. An ancient guitar, made of some
finely grained wood that is hardly known to modern makers of that
instrument, was for a long time in the possession of Father Mitropolski,
having descended with the residence from the line of bishops and
priests. It is very curious in its shape and details, one end of it
being rounded in a great curve, and the keyboard not resting on the body
of the guitar at all. It has a sweet, melancholy tone, and accompanies
appropriately some of the strange little Russian songs that are sung to
it. There is a private chapel off the drawing-room, which contains a
beautifully decorated altar, and family service is held there daily.
A Lutheran church, facing the Greek church on the square, was founded by
Governor Etolin, in 1844, for the Swedes and Finns employed by the fur
company, and in the foundries and shipyard at Sitka. During the stay of
the United States troops the Lutheran church was used by the post
chaplain, a Methodist. The abandoned church is now in the last stage of
ruin, the roof sunken in, and the walls dropping apart. The pipe-organ,
brought from Germany forty years ago, was rescued by a young officer of
musical tastes, and by clever repairing it was put in good condition,
and found to be a very fine instrument.
Facing on this same church square is the warehouse and the office of the
old Russian-American Fur Company. The solid log buildings have stood the
ravages of time and the damp climate, and a mining-engineer and assayer
has taken possession of it for his office. Quite appropriately the
headquarters of the fur trade, which constituted the most valuable
interest of the early days, is now the laboratory of an assayer, who
tests the minerals upon which so much of the future importance of the
territory rests.
The officers’ club-house, back of the Greek church, is still in a fair
condition, but the tea-gardens and the race-course have vanished in
undergrowth. A sturdy little fir-tree, rooted in the crevice of a great
boulder or outcropping ledge of rocks in front of the club-house, is one
of the curiosities of Sitka, and has been growing in that solid granite
as long as anyone now living there can remember.
The sawmill, with its large water-wheel, is dropping to decay, the
hospital building was burned while used as a mission-school, and it is
hard to trace the site of the old shipyard, that was a most complete
establishment in its day. For a long time it was the only yard on the
coast, and vessels of all nationalities put in there for repairs. The
Russians had one hundred and eighty church holidays during the year, and
observed them all carefully. English naval commanders, by keeping their
own Sabbath, and having the Russian Sabbath and holidays celebrated by
closing the shipyards and stopping work, used to have long stays in the
harbor; and the impatient navigators, in view of the whirl of social
life that marked the visit of a strange ship, fairly believed that the
delays were managed by the governor’s authority. At the foundries,
ploughs were made and exported to the Mexican possessions south of them,
and the bells of half the California mission churches were cast at the
Sitka foundry.
At the end of the scattered line of houses that fringe the shore, the
Jackson Institute, a Presbyterian mission-school and home, occupies a
fine site, facing the harbor. The mission was founded in 1878, and named
for the Rev. Sheldon Jackson, who has charge of the Presbyterian
missions in Alaska, and the building is soon to be enlarged, to
accommodate a larger number of pupils than were first gathered in it,
under the care of Mr. and Mrs. Austin.