As one leaves the Pacific and enters Avatcha Bay he passes high rocks
and cliffs, washed at their base by the waves. The loud-sounding ocean
working steadily against the solid walls, has worn caverns and dark
passages, haunted by thousands of screaming and fluttering sea-birds.
The bay is circular and about twenty miles in diameter; except at the
place of entrance it is enclosed with hills and mountains that give it
the appearance of a highland lake. All over it there is excellent
anchorage for ships of every class, while around its sides are several
little harbors, like miniature copies of the bay.
At Petropavlovsk we hoped to find the Russian ship of war, Variag, and
the barque Clara Bell, which sailed from San Francisco six weeks
before us. As we entered the bay, all eyes were turned toward the
little harbor. “There is the Russian,” said three or four voices at
once, as the tall masts aird wide spars of a corvette came in sight.
“The Clara Bell, the Clara Bell—no, it’s a brig,” was our exclamation
at the appearance of a vessel behind the Variag.
“There’s another, a barque certainly,—no, it’s a brig, too,” uttered
the colonel with an emphasis of disgust. Evidently his barque was on
the sea.
Rounding the shoal we moved toward the fort, the Russian corvette
greeting us with “Hail Columbia” out of compliment to our nationality.
We carried the American flag at the quarter and the Russian naval
ensign at the fore as a courtesy to the ship that awaited us. As we
cast anchor just outside the little inner harbor, the Russian band
continued playing Hail Columbia, but our engineer played the mischief
with the music by letting off steam. As soon as we were at rest a boat
from the corvette touched our side, and a subordinate officer
announced that his captain would speedily visit us. Very soon came the
Captain of The Port or Collector of Customs, and after him the
American merchants residing in the town. Our gangway which we closed
at San Francisco was now opened, and we once more communicated with
the world.
Petropavlovsk (Port of Saints Peter and Paul) is situated in lat. 53°
1′ North, long. 158° 43′ East, and is the principal place in
Kamchatka. It stands on the side of a hill sloping into the northern
shore of Avatcha Bay, or rather into a little harbor opening into the
bay. Fronting this harbor is a long peninsula that hides the town from
all parts of the bay except those near the sea. The harbor is well
sheltered from winds and furnishes excellent anchorage. It is divided
into an inner and an outer harbor by means of a sand spit that extends
from the main land toward the peninsula, leaving an opening about
three hundred yards in width. The inner harbor is a neat little basin
about a thousand yards in diameter and nearly circular in shape.
Some of the mountains that serve as landmarks to the approaching
mariner, are visible from the town, and others can be seen by climbing
the hills in the vicinity. Wuluchinski is to the southward and not
volcanic, while Avatcha and Korianski, to the north and east, were
smoking with a dignified air, like a pair of Turks after a champagne
supper. Eruptions of these volcanoes occur every few years, and during
the most violent ones ashes and stones are thrown to a considerable
distance. Captain King witnessed an eruption of Avatcha in 1779, and
says that stones fell at Petropavlovsk, twenty-five miles away, and
the ashes covered the deck of his ship. Mr. Pierce, an old resident of
Kamchatka, gave me a graphic description of an eruption in 1861. It
was preceded by an earthquake, which overturned crockery on the
tables, and demolished several ovens. For a week or more earthquakes
of a less violent character occurred hourly.
Besides the Variag we found in port the Russian brig Poorga and the
Prussian brig Danzig, the latter having an American captain, crew,
hull, masts, and rigging. Two old hulks were rotting in the mud, and
an unseaworthy schooner lay on the beach with one side turned upward
as if in agony. “There be land rats and water rats,” according to
Shakspeare. Some of the latter dwelt in this bluff-bowed schooner and
peered curiously from the crevices in her sides.
[Illustration: BREACH OF ETIQUETTE.]
The majority of our visitors made their calls very brief. After their
departure, I went on shore with Mr. Hunter, an American resident of
Petropavlovsk. In every house I visited I was pressed to take
_petnatzet copla_ (fifteen drops,) the universal name there for
something stimulating. The drops might be American whisky, French
brandy, Dutch gin, or Russian vodka. David Crockett said a true
gentleman is one who turns his back while you pour whisky into your
tumbler. The etiquette of Kamchatka does not permit the host to count
the drops taken by his guest.
Take a log village in the backwoods of Michigan or Minnesota, and
transport it to a quiet spot by a well sheltered harbor of
Lilliputian size. Cover the roofs of some buildings with iron,
shingles or boards from other regions. Cover the balance with thatch
of long grass, and erect chimneys that just peer above the ridge
poles. Scatter these buildings on a hillside next the water; arrange
three-fourths of them in a single street, and leave the rest to drop
wherever they like. Of course those in the higgledy-piggledy position
must be of the poorest class, but you can make a few exceptions.
Whitewash the inner walls of half the buildings, and use paper or
cloth to hide the nakedness of the other half.
This will make a fair counterfeit of Petropavlovsk. Inside each house
place a brick stove or oven, four or five feet square and six feet
high. Locate this stove to present a side to each of two or three
rooms. In each side make an aperture two inches square that can be
opened or closed at will. The amount of heat to warm the rooms is
regulated by means of the apertures.
Furnish the houses with plain chairs, tables, and an occasional but
rare piano. Make the doors very low and the entries narrow. Put a
picture of a saint in the principal room of every house, and adorn the
walls with a few engravings. Make a garden near each house, and let a
few miscellaneous gardens cling to the hillside and strive to climb
it. Don’t forget to build a church, or you will fail to represent a
Russian town.
Petropavlovsk has no vehicle of any kind except a single hand cart.
Consequently the street is not gashed with wheel ruts.
We were invited to ‘assist’ at a wedding that happened in the evening
after our arrival. The ceremony was to begin at five o’clock, and was
a double affair, two sisters being the brides. A Russian wedding
requires a master of ceremonies to look after the affair from
beginning to end. I was told it was the custom in Siberia (but not in
European Russia) for this person to pay all expenses of the wedding,
including the indispensable dinner and its fixtures. Such a position
is not to be desired by a man of limited cash, especially if the
leading characters are inclined to extravagance. Think of being the
conductor of a diamond wedding in New York or Boston, and then paying
the bills!
[Illustration: UNEXPECTED HONORS.]
The steward of the Variag told me he was invited to conduct a wedding
shortly after his arrival at Petropavlovsk. Thinking it an honor of
which he would hereafter be proud, he accepted the invitation. Much to
his surprise on the next day he was required to pay the cost of the
entertainment.
The master of ceremonies of the wedding under consideration was Mr.
Phillipeus, a Russian gentleman engaged in the fur trade. The father
of the brides was his customer, and doubtless the cost of the wedding
was made up in subsequent dealings. As the party emerged from the
house and moved toward the church, I could see that Phillipeus was the
central figure. He had a bride on each arm, and each bride was
clinging to her prospective husband. The women were in white and the
men in holiday dress.
Behind the front rank were a dozen or more groomsmen and bridesmaids.
Behind these were the members of the families and the invited
relatives, so that the cortége stretched to a considerable length.
Each of the groomsmen wore a bow of colored ribbon on his left arm and
a smaller one in the button hole. The children of the families—quite
a troop of juveniles—brought up the rear.
The church is of logs, like the other buildings. It is old, unpainted,
and shaped like a cross, lacking one of the arms. The doors are large
and clumsy, and the entrance is through a vestibule or hall. The roof
had been recently painted a brilliant red at the expense of the
Variag’s officers. On the inside, the church has an antiquated
appearance, but presents such an air of solidity as if inviting the
earthquakes to come and see it.
There were no seats in the building, nor are there seats of any kind
in the edifices of the same character in any part of Russia. It is the
theory of the Eastern Church that all are equal before God. In His
service, no distinction is made; autocrat and subject, noble and
peasant, stand or kneel in the same manner while worshipping at His
altars.
As we entered, we found the wedding party standing in the center of
the church; the spectators were grouped nearer the door, the ladies
occupying the front. With the thermometer at seventy-two, I found the
upright position a fatiguing one, and would have been glad to send for
a camp stool. Colonel Bulkley had undertaken to escort a lady, and as
he stood in a conspicuous place, his uniform buttoned to the very chin
and the perspiration pouring from his face, the ceremony appeared to
have little charm for him.
The service began under the direction of two priests, each dressed in
a long robe extending to his feet, and wearing a chapeau like a
bell-crowned hat without a brim. “The short one,” said a friend near
me, pointing to a little, round, fat, oily man of God, “will get very
drunk when he has the opportunity. Watch him to-night and see how he
leaves the dinner party.”
Priests of the Greek Church wear their hair very long, frequently
below the shoulders, and parted in the middle, and do not shave the
beard. Unlike those of the Catholic Church, they marry and have homes
and families, engaging in secular occupations which do not interfere
with their religious duties. During the evening after the wedding, I
was introduced to “the pope’s wife;” and learned that Russian priests
are called popes. As the only pope then familiar to my thoughts is
considered very much a bachelor, I was rather taken aback at this bit
of information. The drink-loving priest was head of a goodly sized
family, and resided in a comfortable and well furnished dwelling.
[Illustration: RUSSIAN MARRIAGE.]
At the wedding there was much recitation by the priests, reading from
the ritual of the Church, swinging of censers, singing by the chorus
of male voices, chanting and intonation, and responses by the victims.
There were frequent signs of the cross with bowing or kneeling. A ring
was used, and afterwards two crowns were held over the heads of the
bride and bridegroom. The fatigue of holding these crowns was
considerable, and required that those who performed the service should
be relieved once by other bridesmen. After a time the crowns were
placed on the heads they had been held over. Wearing these crowns and
preceded by the priests, the pair walked three times round the altar
in memory of the Holy Trinity, while a portion of the service was
chanted. Then the crowns were removed and kissed by each of the
marrying pair, the bridegroom first performing the osculation. A cup
of water was held by the priest, first to the bridegroom and then to
the bride, each of whom drank a small portion. After this the first
couple retired to a little chapel and the second passed through the
ordeal. The preliminary ceremony occupied about twenty minutes, and
the same time was consumed by each couple.
There is no divorce in Russia, so that the union was one for life till
death. Before the parties left the church they received
congratulations. There was much hand-shaking, and among the women
there were decorous kisses. Our party regretted that the custom of
bride kissing as practiced in America does not prevail in Kamchatka.
When the affair was ended, the whole cortége returned to the house
whence it came, the children carrying pictures of the Virgin and
saints, and holding lighted candles before them. The employment of
lamps and tapers is universal in the Russian churches, the little
flame being a representation of spiritual existence and a symbol of
the continued life of the soul. The Russians have adapted this idea so
completely that there is no marriage, betrothal, consecration, or
burial, in fact no religious ceremony whatever without the use of lamp
or taper.
In the house of every adherent to the orthodox Russian faith there is
a picture of the Virgin or a saint; sometimes holy pictures are in
every room of the house. I have seen them in the cabins of steamboats,
and in tents and other temporary structures. No Russian enters a
dwelling, however humble, without removing his hat, out of respect to
the holy pictures, and this custom extends to shops, hotels, in fact
to every place where people dwell or transact business. During the
earlier part of my travels in Russia, I was unaware of this custom,
and fear that I sometimes offended it. I have been told that
superstitious thieves hang veils or kerchiefs before the picture in
rooms where they depredate. Enthusiastic lovers occasionally observe
the same precaution. Only the eyes of the image need be covered, and
secrecy may be obtained by turning the picture to the wall.
The evening began with a reception and congratulations to the married
couples. Then we had tea and cakes, and then came the dinner. The
party was like the African giant imported in two ships, for it was
found impossible to crowd all the guests into one house. Tables were
set in two houses and in the open yard between them.
The Russians have a custom of taking a little lunch just before they
begin dinner. This lunch is upon a side table in the dining room, and
consists of cordial, spirits or bitters, with morsels of herring,
caviar, and dried meat or fish. It performs the same office as the
American cocktail, but is oftener taken, is more popular and more
respectable. After the lunch we sat down to dinner. Fish formed the
first course and soup the second. Then we had roast beef and
vegetables, followed by veal cutlets. The feast closed with cake and
jelly, and was thoroughly washed down with a dozen kinds of beverages
that cheer _and_ inebriate.
The fat priest was at table and took his lunch early. His first course
was a glass of something liquid, and he drank a dozen times before the
soup was brought. Early in the dinner I saw him gesturing toward me.
“He wants to take a glass with you,” said some one at my side.
I poured out some wine, and after a little trouble in touching glasses
we drank each other’s health.
Not five minutes later he repeated his gestures. To satisfy him I
filled a glass with sherry, as there was no champagne handy at the
moment, and again went through the clinking process. As my glass was
large I put it down after sipping a few drops, but the old fellow
objected. Draining and inverting his glass, he held it as one might
suspend a rat by the tail, and motioned me to do the same. Luckily he
soon after conceived a fondness for one of the Wright’s officers, and
the twain fell to drinking. The officer, assisted by three men, went
on board late at night, and was reported attempting to wash his face
in a tar-bucket and dry it with a chain cable. About midnight the
priest was taken home on a shutter.
[Illustration: RUSSIAN POPE AT HOME.]
There were toasts in a large number, with a great deal of cheering,
drinking, and smoking. About ten o’clock the dinner ended, and
arrangements were made for a dance. Dancing was not among my
accomplishments, and I retired to the ship, satisfied that on my first
day in Asia I had been treated very kindly—and very often.
For two days more the wedding festivities continued, etiquette
requiring the parties to visit all who attended the dinner. On the
third day the hilarity ceased, and the happy couples were left to
enjoy the honeymoon with its promise of matrimonial bliss. May they
have many years of it.