Our journey—Kabitkas—Russian custom—Endless forests and
morasses—Desolation of the country—Musical yemstchick—Scarcity
of inhabitants—Criminals: their aspect—A bad mother—Monastery
of Seea—Visit to the abbot—The church—A saint’s
shrine—Peasants—Change in the scenery—Accidents—The driver—A
contented veteran—Love of country—Soldiers’ songs—Russian
melodies—Yemstchick’s gratitude—Another driver: his prospects
in life—Beautiful effect—Ladinapol—Schlusselberg—A village inn
in Russia.
After our return to Archangel we had to wait there some weeks, until the
winter roads had become sufficiently hard to render sledge-travelling
pleasant. We procured a kabitka—a kind of Russian vehicle much resembling
a large cradle on slides—bought a mattress to fit into it, and provided
ourselves with enough provisions for our long journey, such as frozen
fowls, soups, &c., which we were to thaw at the different stations. As
it was quite unsafe to traverse roads so unfrequented alone, we agreed
to join a party of Russians and Germans who were going to visit the
capital. It was arranged that our kabitka was to precede those of our
acquaintances, as we were strangers to the country. On the morning of our
departure we assembled at a house belonging to one of our acquaintances:
a great many friends had met there in order to see us set out, and to
bid us God speed on the journey. We seated ourselves, conformably to the
Russian custom, a few moments in silence: champagne was handed round to
drink to our success; the whole company then arose, and assembled at
the gate to see us comfortably seated in our sledges; some of them even
escorted us beyond the barriers of the town before they would bid us
adieu; nor was it without regret on our side that we took leave of those
kind-hearted people, whom in all probability we should never see again.
Once fairly on our journey, we found ourselves surrounded by those dreary
forests and boundless morasses (now hidden by the deep snow) of which we
had so recently had so much experience. I do not know whether this wild
region is not more agreeable in the winter-season, as then its barrenness
is concealed. It is not an exaggeration to say that four-fifths of the
northern portions of Russia consist of the sandy plains and marshy
forest-land I have already described, but, in the winter, it matters
little what lies underneath the frozen snow.
From Archangel to St. Petersburg we passed hundreds of versts of this
description of country. In these districts utter desolation reigns,
scarcely a living thing is seen; even the birds have deserted them, and
have flown to the neighbourhood of the towns, to find there the food
their native woods can no longer afford them. A solitary wolf or fox may
occasionally be descried, either skulking among the bushes or sitting
watchfully by the wayside, in faint hopes, perhaps, of some weary horse
being left on the road to die and to become the victim of the hungry
droves now lying perdus in the forest depths, and only scared from the
traveller’s path by the tinkling of the bell attached to the sledge. No
other sound breaks the weary silence but the yell of the yemstchick
inciting his team to greater speed, or his wild voice chanting forth
the songs of the people, which echo far away through those melancholy
forests, and only serve to awaken the heart to a still greater sense of
the utter desolation around. Yet Nature is always grand, and perhaps
never more so than in the wilderness!
No inhabitants dwell in these tracts, with the exception of the few poor
peasants whose huts surround the government post-stations; it is a rare
occurrence indeed to meet a human being, and for hours one travels on,
and the only sign of being in a civilized country is the wooden cross,
gray with age, placed here and there by the wayside. Several times on
the journey we met gangs of wretched criminals, heavily chained, and
escorted by soldiers, whose duty it is to conduct them from station to
station. Along the roads in Russia the traveller may remark small brick
houses, placed at intervals of about twenty or twenty-five versts; these
are the places at which these gangs rest on their way to Siberia. One of
these miserable escorts was standing still as we were changing horses,
which gave us the opportunity of examining their countenances. Features
more debased or expressions more frightful it is impossible to conceive.
Crime and every evil thought seemed to have deprived them almost of even
the traces of human beings; I shuddered as I gazed on them. Among the
convicts was a woman with a face, if possible, more horrible than that of
the men; she had a child with her, a poor little thing of scarcely five
years old, that was suffering dreadfully from the hooping-cough; instead
of treating it with kindness and compassion, its wicked mother was
treating it unmercifully, until even the men, her companions in crime,
brutalized though they were, called out shame on her, and begged her to
desist. I never felt so convinced that punishment was justly deserved as
in the case of this wretched woman.
At the distance of about fifty-five or sixty versts from Archangel we
came to a monastery at a place called Seea; it was surrounded by woods
and lakes, which, in the summer-time, must have a very pretty effect. For
a Russian building, it was quite an ancient one, and was erected before
Peter the Great’s reign: it was the sanctuary to which that monarch
often retired to perform his devotions. Like most monasteries in the
empire, it was surrounded by a wall, having a curiously dovetailed top
with towers at each corner pierced with loopholes. One of the gentlemen,
who was acquainted with the abbot, proposed to us to pay him a visit; we
all of course willingly assented, and turned out of the post-road for
the purpose. Half a verst brought us to the gates: on ringing a bell,
one of the holy brothers appeared, who to our disappointment informed
us that the Father (for such they designate their superior) was ill
and asleep, but offered to awake him if we wished; we thanked him, but
begged that the abbot’s slumbers should not be disturbed on our account,
and requested the monk to express our great regret at his superior’s
indisposition, with good wishes for his recovery. The monk, seeing us
about to depart, entreated us to take some little refreshment in the
refectory: on our declining, he asked us if we would not like to see
the shrine of their patron, Saint Anthony, whose body was interred in
their church. We accepted his offer, and followed him into the cathedral,
which, like all Greek places of worship, was filled with pictures
of the innumerable saints of their calendar, and wretchedly-painted
scripture-pieces. Having walked round the interior of the building and
examined the very curious lamps hung before several of the images, we
were led to a shrine quite brilliant with lighted tapers and oil, and
here our guide pointed with evident pride to a full-length likeness
of the saint placed on the top of a long box that covered his mortal
remains. Above it was a wretched daub of a Virgin and Child, which he
triumphantly informed us was the holy man’s own work. Although there
was nothing to admire in it, we saw that it would give him pleasure to
express our satisfaction, and therefore did not fail to do so: we also
made the offering of a piece of silver to the church, which seemed to
raise us immensely in the good monk’s estimation. After thanking him for
the trouble, we left the monastery of St. Anthony just as a party of the
peasantry from a village close by, dressed in their best clothes, with
smooth hair and well-combed beards, were reverently ascending the steps,
bent on asking the prayers of the respected superior for the success of
the ensuing harvest.
Having traversed about four hundred versts, we came to the town of
Kargapol; it contains nothing remarkable, and is composed of wooden
houses, as usual. From this place the scenery began to show a little
variety. We had no longer to complain of those monotonous plains of which
we were so thoroughly weary: the country now became diversified by hills
and valleys; sometimes we were rapidly galloping up a declivity (for
the Russians drive at the top of the horse’s speed up hill), at others
we were gliding along the edge of a precipice. One of the horses slipped
aside, and by so doing broke his thighbone; the poor yemstchick cried
most bitterly, saying that his master would beat him almost to death. We
were so grieved at his misfortune that we made up a little subscription
for him, which afforded him some consolation, and I dare say served to
comfort him under the correction. As for our unlucky steed, we were
obliged to leave him behind on the snow, and doubtless in a few hours
his carcase had furnished an unwonted feast to the prowling wolves with
which the forests around were infested. During the next post we were
doomed to meet with more misfortunes, for our yemstchick drove us so
near to the edge of the road that he turned us both out into the midst
of an enormous snow-drift I really thought we should be smothered, for
the kabitka rolled right over upon us; being half-buried in the snow
was disagreeable enough, but to have pillows, mattress, portmanteaux,
and a whole shower of small etcetera with which our sledge was filled,
upon our backs, rendering it impossible for us to move, was even worse.
The other kabitkas had by this time come up, and great inquiries were
made for our yemstchick, who had unaccountably disappeared; presently
a voice was heard whose smothered tones seemed to come somewhere from
under ground, and to our horror we found that he was just under us,
and that the kabitka had jammed him deeply into the snow, so that he
could not get out. To raise the sledge was the first thing to be done,
and with the aid of the other yemstchicks we were extricated from our
dilemma; our coachman was pulled out of the snow. We expected to find him
half-dead, or at the least with some bones broken; he, however, merely
shook himself, just as a dog does on coming out of the water, and jumped
upon his seat as if nothing had happened. Our friends, finding that we
were neither of us hurt, enjoyed a hearty laugh at our expense: I make
no doubt that we cut a sorry figure. As for our yemstchick, he was ready
to go down on his knees to ask our forgiveness. He begged to know if
we were bruised at all; being answered in the negative, he repeatedly
crossed himself, and thanked God for our sakes, and perhaps for his own
too. We were glad enough to get into the sledge again and drive on, to
escape the jokes with which our friends assailed us. Our yemstchick
had been a soldier, he said, and boasted of having served the Czar in
every government in his dominions; but now that his time was out, he had
turned post-driver. He told us that the last province he had been in was
Podolia, of which he gave the most flourishing accounts.
“But,” said I, “why did you not remain, when, as you say, your prospects
were so good, and the country so delightful?”
“Ah! Matutchka, how was it possible? I thought of my native village far
away in the north. I was always longing to see the snow and pine-forests
again, which made me so miserable that I asked for my discharge; and as I
had served the required term, here I am.”
“But how did you return from so great a distance? Did the government send
you back?”
“Not at all, Barishna! I walked all the way.”
“What! fifteen hundred versts?”
“Yes, to be sure; that is nothing.”
“But I suppose you live comfortably here. You have a little pension, I
dare say?”
“Pension! no, only the officers ever get that, and they only when they
are wounded. But as for being well off, slavo Bogen! we live as our
neighbours do. I have a wife and two children; we get plenty of black
bread and salt, and very often stchie. What else could we wish for?”
It was really something agreeable to hear that even this poor man
could feel attachment for his miserable village of log-huts, situated,
doubtless, in the midst of some dreary morass in this obscure corner of
the earth. My reflections on the wonderful affection everywhere felt
for the scenes in which childhood has been passed were interrupted
by the driver asking if we would like to hear some of the songs the
soldiers used to sing on the march. On our assenting, he began in a full,
deep-toned tenor, awakening all the echoes of the surrounding forests.
The burthen of his song was concerning some country belle who danced
so elegantly that even the Czar himself came to see her performance.
According to all accounts, the hearts of the village-swains were all
sore with being so much in love with her; but she settled the matter by
choosing a happy fellow named Ivan, whose felicity, we were assured,
was inconceivable. This love does not appear to have been entirely
disinterested, for there followed a long list of the bride’s trousseau.
She had a _crasnoi sarafane_, or red gown, and was further endowed
with some pillows and a counterpane; added to which she was the richest
bride in the whole village. The air was pretty, and, like most Russian
melodies, in the minor key; the whole was terminated by the peculiar
scream which finishes each cadence. We were so amused by our yemstchick
that we were quite sorry when we arrived at the station. Notwithstanding
his _mal-adresse_ in overturning us, we made him a present, which was so
much more than he expected, that he was overpowered with gratitude, and
crossed himself many times in wishing us a prosperous journey.
He was succeeded by a merry little fellow, who entertained us by giving
us a confidential tableau of his prospects in life. He began by informing
us that he was going to be married, and that he was so much in love
he could get no rest night or day; that his intended bride’s name was
Katrina; she was seventeen and he was twenty-one, and “Please God, they
should soon be as happy as they need be.” He also volunteered a song, the
subject of which was a soldier’s daughter who had fallen in love with the
major of the regiment; but, it appears, her case was a hopeless one, as
he was going to wed another.
Night had now closed in, and for the first time during our journey the
full moon shone in all her splendour upon the scene; during the previous
days the sky had been much clouded, and occasional falls of snow had
prevented our remarking a most beautiful effect produced by the shadow
of the trees on the pure glittering plains beneath. I can compare it
to nothing but a mezzo-tinto drawing, only infinitely more defined.
There was not a breath of air to stir the branches of the lofty pines
interlaced over our heads; a mysterious silence seemed to pervade the
very atmosphere we breathed; it was excessively cold, and the moon
lighted up the clear sky with such brilliancy, that we could easily
read a moderately-sized print; the snow at the same time glittered
and sparkled like millions of diamonds strewn in our path, and clung
to the sombre foliage of the forest like gems of the purest water on
sable plumes. Yes, truly, even this barren land possesses beauty and
loveliness. One who has travelled through a night such as this will
never forget the impression left on his mind by so splendid a scene, and
will cease to wonder at the attachment of the barbarian serfs to their
isolated villages.
The next day we reached Ladinapol, an insignificant place. The extensive
lake of Ladoga not being sufficiently frozen to make it safe for us to
cross it in our sledges, we continued our route by the post-road. We
passed the small river Swere, and soon came to the town of Ladoga on the
Volkof; from thence we proceeded to Schlusselberg, on the lake which
formerly belonged to Sweden, and of which Peter the Great deprived her.
It was in the castle of this place that his son was confined.
Once during our journey we were tempted to see what a village-inn was
like, for after travelling eight days and nights we felt so thoroughly
worn out by fatigue, that we thought any place in which we could rest
a little would be welcome; we therefore asked our yemstchick if there
were no house of entertainment at the neighbouring hamlet. “Ay, surely,”
replied he, “there is a very good tavern for travellers at the other end
of the village.”
“Then drive on, pray, my good fellow, and let us be there as quickly as
possible.”
“Horro sha Barishna!”
Crack went his whip, and our steeds, having a vision of hay near at hand,
were tempted to stretch their legs into a real gallop; we, in the mean
while, had the _douce illusion_ of thinking that we should soon have a
smoking samovar on the table and a few hours’ repose. Alas! how our hopes
were disappointed! Our kabitka suddenly drew up at a miserable-looking
peasant’s isba, half tumbling down, from the foundation having sunk a
foot or two on one side. The yemstchick rapped at the door, which was
opened by a dirty, long-bearded old fellow, who seemed to have had quite
enough whisky to make him perfectly stupid. When we at last succeeded in
making him understand what our wishes were, he said that he had a room in
which we could very well pass the night. Our Russian acquaintance begged
us to alight, which we did in the faint hope of finding the interior
better than the exterior would lead us to suppose. Our host thereupon
threw open the door of an apartment, on the floor of which some dozen
or two of peasants in their sheepskins, men, women, and children, were
huddled promiscuously on the bare boards. The heat and stench were
intolerable; one look was sufficient. I and my friend hastened back
to the kabitka, nor did we heed the repeated assurance of the worthy
landlord that we could sleep very well on the table! Our compagnons de
voyage, however, had the courage to pass the night somewhere in the
house; we ladies preferred the refuge of our kabitka, which was drawn
under an open shed that served as a stable as well. Our slumbers
were somewhat disturbed by the horses’ noses sniffing at us several
times during the night, attracted, I suppose, by the hay placed at the
bottom of our sledge. According to the accounts our friends gave of the
manner in which they had passed the time, we had, notwithstanding this
annoyance, every reason to congratulate ourselves on having given the
preference to the stable.
There is a chaussée from Schlusselberg to St. Petersburg; so the
remainder of our journey was easily enough accomplished, nor did we
observe anything more that was worthy of remark excepting the very
wretched state of the villages belonging to the Count Sherrematief,
in the neighbourhood of the capital, which we thought were a perfect
disgrace to one who is considered the richest nobleman in the empire.