Travelling in Russia—Monotony of scene—Want of animation—Style
of dwellings of the nobles, the gentry, and the peasantry—Poor
gentry—Pride and poverty—Peasants’ isbas, the furniture they
contain—Vermin—The breaking up of the ice—The Dwina—Distressing
occurrences—The peasant and his dog—The aged peasant—The
commandant’s gold cup—Native barks: the peasants on board of
them—Neva boats—Concerts al fresco—Numerous imperial palaces.
I have given no account of our various journeys in Russia, as it would be
merely a repetition of the same terms, in which forest, sand, and morass
would figure as the leading objects, and would indeed be only wearisome
to the reader. Not but that there are some pretty places here and there,
but they are very wide apart, and the trouble of wading through two or
three hundred versts of monotonous travels over the unchanging post-roads
would be but ill repaid by being told that on such a spot stands such
a town or such a village, the name of which is never heard beyond the
frontiers of the province in which it is situated, and which possesses
no interest whatever for any one but the traveller himself, who in
journeying through the country is apt to hail the sight of an inhabited
place with much the same feeling as he who in making a voyage across
the ocean welcomes the appearance of a strange ship in the offing: so
inconceivably wearying is the constant view of the endless tracts of
forest-land and waste. Descriptions of provincial towns would be almost
as tiresome as those of pine-woods and marshes; the same style of
houses, the same kind of churches with green roofs and gilt domes; the
streets badly paved, or rather unpaved; the same unvarying background of
firs and sky—in fact “_sameness all_.” Besides all these objections to
a detailed account, so many descriptions have already been published,
that the road from St. Petersburg to Moscow must be almost as well known
as that from London to York. Nothing perhaps is more striking to a
foreigner travelling through Russia than the utter want of animation in
the people; there are no merry laughs ringing joyously on the ear from
some light-hearted maiden; no lively bustle at the post-stations when the
diligence stops to change horses, such as was seen on similar occasions
when stage-coaches ran on the level roads of England, when the arrival
of the London mail caused quite an excitement in the village. The sound
of songs may be everywhere heard, it is true; but they can scarcely be
called joyful ones—they are almost always sad and mournful, being in
the minor key; their melancholy cadences, as a French writer remarks,
“might be said each to contain a tear.” The peasants’ downcast looks and
inexpressive faces—their cowed manner, as if they were shrinking from an
uplifted lash—the want of intelligence which the absence of civilization
causes in their countenance, give them an almost brutish appearance, and
cause a painful sensation in the stranger’s heart. Even the cattle seem
to want that air of life which makes our fields and meadows so gay; there
are no snowy flocks and frisking lambs, no shepherd’s dog with joyous
bark, no robin on the flowery thorn: it is, as my friend remarked, not
the “repose of the living,” but the “slumber of the dead,” that reigns
over the land of Muscovy.
A nobleman’s mansion contains as much beautiful furniture, as many
articles of taste and luxury, as we could see anywhere else; the
apartments are, generally speaking, much larger and loftier than with
us; the whole of them are thrown open for the reception of guests and
for the free circulation of the air; and a long suite of rooms thus
disclosed has a very pretty perspective effect. The floors are not
covered with carpets, but are composed of parquet, or inlaid oak; very
often each room has a floor of a different design; the doors are shaded
by rich portières, matching the window-curtains of each room; splendid
chandeliers are everywhere suspended from above; many of the ceilings
are richly painted in fresco, and a great deal of gilding adds to the
effect; the chairs and sofas are covered with velvet or flowered silk
of the most beautiful and delicate colours; marble statues and elegant
vases are placed here and there, with objects of virtù, &c. The lady
of the house has a boudoir which is often a complete gem; the splendid
furniture, covered with light blue or rose-coloured satin or brocade;
the inlaid floor partly covered with a Persian carpet; the tables in
marqueterie, enamel, and ormolu, on which elegant trifles of the most
exquisite taste are placed; fine and valuable pictures decorate the
walls, which are probably covered with flowered silk or satin, instead of
paper. The gentleman’s cabinet is but plainly furnished in comparison. I
do not know where I read, some time since, ‘A Description of the STIES
of the Russian Nobility.’ It was certainly with indignation that I did
so: whoever wrote the description could never have seen or entered the
house of a nobleman either in St. Petersburg or Moscow; nor is it fair or
just to speak so of a people, merely because our nation is at war with
them; the truth ought not to be affected by any sentiment of hostility
we might feel to the government. The above description may serve to give
a slight idea of what _really_ exists. The less wealthy of the nobility
take a suite of apartments (flats as they are called in Scotland) in some
large hotel, built on the plan of those in France. Some of the extremely
poor gentry do, it is true, live in a very comfortless state, of which
an anecdote has already been given in these pages; their pride of birth
preventing them from gaining a livelihood by following any profession,
for fear of losing caste; and their natural indolence making them
prefer a life of poverty, and almost of want, to the doing anything to
increase, by their own labour, the slender means furnished by the serfs
of some insignificant estate, who generally are doubly miserable from the
pressing indigence of their owners. To these people and their dwellings
the names of _sties_ and their usual occupants may be justly applied, for
they live in dirt and discomfort, in the midst of filth and vermin that
could only find their equal in an Irish lodging-house; they sleep on the
sofa, which is so dirty that the silk with which it is covered is almost
invisible; their clothing is so abominably unclean, that it is quite
offensive; and they live “littéralement de pommes de terre,” as we were
often assured. Yet when these people go out their filthy underclothing
is hidden by a showy silk gown and cloak _à la mode_. They pay visits
in their own carriages, which are wormeaten and worn, with four horses
half-starved—a coachman, footman, and postilion in miserably soiled
and tarnished liveries; they look down with contempt upon respectable
merchants and shopkeepers, and, to use a vulgar expression, they turn up
their nose at the industrious, “parce que leur naissance est noble.” I
shall never forget the disdain with which one of these second-rate people
mentioned one day at dinner that an English merchant in St. Petersburg
had made her daughter an offer; “but how was it possible?” she said, “un
homme qui n’est pas noble!”
The sleeping apartments in the houses of very rich people are elegantly
arranged and separate from the drawing-rooms; but in many they form a
part of the suite of salons. They are divided by an ornamental screen
from the other part of the room, so that a stranger may frequently
have been in them without having had the least idea that they were the
sleeping-rooms. Each room is heated by a kind of oven, which, when the
wood is burned to ashes, is shut down so as to confine all the warm air
and prevent it from escaping, and thus an equal temperature is ensured.
If this stove happen to be closed too soon, the vapour diffused through
the apartment is extremely injurious, being the fumes of charcoal, which
find no egress from the double windows, and produce a terrible headache,
and a sensation as if water were running over the brain: it is soon cured
by being a short time in the open air.
The isbas, or cottages, are constructed by the peasants themselves;
the exterior is formed of balks, cut of precisely the same length and
thickness, laid horizontally one above the other, the ends of which cross
each other at each corner of the building; the interstices are filled
with moss and tow; the roof is somewhat like that of a Swiss châlet
(indeed, in general appearance an isba resembles one); the eaves are
decorated with wood-work _à jour_; pretty balconies are very often to be
seen, and windows round which the same ornament is carried; these are the
cottages of the wealthier peasants, but the poorest isbas are destitute
of any of these gay decorations, and sometimes even of windows, and
consist of merely a small balk cottage, with a plain roof. The furniture
inside is in almost every case the same: a wooden settee, a deal table
and a chair or two, a samovar or tea-urn, a few earthenware pipkins and
basins, some bowls of birch-wood and spoons to match them, and a picture
of the Virgin or of some saint, which is always suspended in the corner;
and, if the peasant be rich enough, a lamp filled with oil is burning
before it. The bedroom in a cottage is the one in which the inmates live
and cook; the bed for the family is the flat top of the stove, where
they enjoy their sleep and fairy dreams in company with the cockroaches,
tarracans, and brown beetles, in a heat that seems sufficient to bake
them, and in an air foul and close enough to stifle any one but a
Russian. We were once travelling near Velsk, and stopped for a short time
at one of the cross-road stations; it was in the middle of the night when
we arrived. On going into the room we looked around, and at the first
sight we all thought that the walls were papered, a small tallow candle
alone serving to make darkness visible; but on approaching nearer, to our
horror and dismay they were completely covered with insects that must
not be named to ears polite; myriads swarmed even upon the ceiling. We
rushed breathlessly down the stairs, and, when we had reached the asylum
of our carriage, we trembled lest we should unwittingly have transported
a colony on our dresses.
In the summer-time the peasants sleep on the bare ground, and generally
in the open air. When the weather is not wet they throw themselves down
anywhere, in their ordinary dress and sheepskin, and usually turn their
faces to the earth.
When the foundation of one of their isbas becomes decayed, they raise the
whole of the upper part by means of beams inserted between the balks, and
reconstruct the lower part, which operation renders the cottage almost as
good as it was before.
To a stranger one of the most interesting sights is the breaking up of
the ice on the large rivers. As spring advances, everybody is anxiously
expecting the day when it will take place. Groups of people may be seen
standing along the quays or banks, with their eyes all fixed on the same
object, giving their opinion from past experiences, drawing inferences
from the black and watery appearance of the ice, and gravely debating
upon the probability of its disappearing “either to-day or to-morrow.”
Gentlemen bet wagers on it, ladies chatter about it, peasants quarrel
over it; every person is interested concerning it, and, when it is first
seen to move, pleasure is expressed on every face.
The breaking up of the ice of the Neva is by no means so magnificent a
spectacle as that of the Volga or the Northern Dwina, although the whole
of the frozen masses from the lake of Ladoga descend by its stream.
How delighted I was when, for the first time, I saw the breaking up of
the ice in the Dwina! Sometimes the immense blocks seemed to assume the
shape of a lion, a dog, a swan, and every kind of figure, beautiful or
grotesque, according to the fancy of the spectator. The rushing and
crashing of the enormous masses in their onward journey to the ocean;
the force with which they became heaped one on another, as if they were
really endowed with life, and were struggling to obtain the foremost
place in the watery race; the deep blue sunny sky that had succeeded the
cloudy canopy of the dreary winter months; the flocks of wild swans; the
solitary sea-mew, skimming with snowy pinions the liberated waves—formed
a scene altogether strange and beautiful. Sometimes some huge bark would
float by, like a wreck vainly struggling with its fate amid the sea of
ice, and carried along with irresistible force; sometimes an uprooted
pine or sombre fir might be seen dashing against everything in its way.
Many fatal accidents occur at these times. I remember a sad day we once
passed at Jaroslaf when the Volga was breaking up. The ice is a long time
floating past, from the immense length of the river and the numerous
tributaries that empty themselves into it. We used, when the weather was
fine, to go in a party to the shore to enjoy the sight. It was on one of
these occasions that we perceived a bark rapidly descending the stream.
On its nearer approach it was discovered that there were several people
on board. It came so close to the shore that the men could hail it. To
our horror they informed us that they had been seven days on board, and
that they had eaten up all their provisions “three days ago.” They
begged and prayed that some help might be given them, for they had not a
single piece of bread or any other article of food remaining. Loaves were
instantly brought, and every exertion was made to throw them on the deck.
Some men even drove at full speed along the banks, so as to precede the
vessel, and have the better chance of succeeding; but, alas! all was in
vain. Every attempt failed; and the bark, with the ill-fated peasants,
was carried away by the rapid current far out of sight.
“And what will become of these poor men?” I asked of one of our party.
“The probability is, that they will be driven with the ice down into
the Caspian Sea, unless, as sometimes happens, a stoppage may occur by
the masses being jammed together in some narrow part; they will then be
saved; but, if not, nothing but starvation is before them.”
Can any one imagine a death more dreadful than to be dying of want while
passing through so many inhabited places, within a stone’s throw of them,
seeing crowds of people on the shores, all anxious to afford aid, yet
unable to do so?
Apparently the waters were unusually high that year, for several isbas
also floated by that had been swept away by the flood, indicating that
one or more villages had been overflowed. At Twer the flood was so great
that the governor’s family all went in boats, with hundreds of loaves in
each, down the centre of the streets, and the servants were employed to
throw them into the windows of the poor people’s houses, lest they should
be starved. In Petersburg there are stones inserted here and there with
the date 1824 inscribed on them, to commemorate the dreadful inundation
of that year. During it thousands of people perished, whole villages were
washed away, the coffins of the dead were seen floating down the streets,
and the names of those enclosed therein were read on the plates as they
passed by. Each spring the capital is in a similar danger. One other like
misfortune would be almost the ruin of it. A lady told me that she was
residing on the quay at the time, and mentioned a curious circumstance.
The countless rats infesting the banks suddenly made their appearance by
thousands, and sat on the window-sills, or any place where they could
be in safety, until the waters had subsided: they then as suddenly
disappeared, and were seen no more.
It seemed that we were destined to witness misfortunes on the day above
alluded to on the shores of the Volga, for we were just on the point
of returning home when another bark hove in sight. We waited, out of
curiosity, to see it pass by. Only one man was on board: he and a dog
were standing together on the deck. At last, perceiving how near they
were to the shore, he resolved to make a desperate attempt to reach it.
He seized a pole, and, calling to his companion, leaped upon a large
sheet of ice that was floating past. The people on shore, admiring his
courage and agility, cheered him to the utmost, and, with shouts and
acclamations, stood ready to welcome him to land. The poor dog, having
less boldness than his master, or warned by instinct of the imminent
danger, remained for a few seconds upon the fast receding bark, whining
with grief and dismay, and then made up his mind to run the same risk.
He soon stood by the side of the man, whose steps he followed as he
leaped from one sheet of ice to another by the aid of the pole. All
eyes were eagerly watching their movements. They really seemed to have
a chance of success. Another and another leap, and they were now within
twenty yards of the shore. “Courage!” shouted the multitude; “there
is but one leap more, and the danger is over.” The man looked at the
crowd of eager faces, all anxious to extend a helping hand, when he was
seen to hesitate, and he trembled violently. Was it possible that at
the last effort his heart failed him? The dog had already leaped the
watery space, and had reached the shore in safety, on which he stood
barking encouragement to his master. “Courage!” again shouted the people;
“Courage!” The piece of ice on which the man was standing was floating
on: there was but one chance, and that was going from him. He summoned
all his energies. A cry of despair was heard, answered by one of horror
from the spectators, as the body of the unhappy peasant was swept rapidly
past us down the river, impelled onwards by the crashing masses under
which he had disappeared. Poor fellow! the ice that had been strong
enough to bear the weight of his light-footed companion, gave way with
his, and the fate he so earnestly sought to avert overtook him at the
last.
A friend of ours related to us that some years before, being at Peterhoff
when the Neva was breaking up, she was at the window one day, when she
thought she perceived an object at an immense distance off on the ice.
By means of a telescope she was enabled to see a poor old peasant on
his knees, his white hair streaming in the wind, his hands raised in
imploring despair towards heaven, apparently praying for that aid that
none, alas! could render him. His horse and telega were standing by, soon
destined to become the prey of the rushing waters that surrounded them.
He was swept gradually from her sight, but, as long as it was possible
to discern him, he still remained on his knees, in the same attitude of
devotion.
In St. Petersburg, as soon as the ice has disappeared, the commandant
of the fortress crosses the river to the winter palace on the opposite
side. Several boats, with flags flying and bands playing, form a kind
of aquatic procession. The custom was, that, on the commandant’s
presentation of a gold cup on this occasion to the Emperor, his Majesty
should return it filled with ducats; “but,” said General P——, “his
Majesty, perceiving that by some unaccountable means the cup became
larger every year, was under the necessity of limiting the number of
ducats to a fixed sum, since which time no change has been observed in
the size of the cup.” It is not until this ceremony has taken place that
any boats are permitted to cross the Neva, as the rapid descent of the
ice may cause fatal accidents.
Immense numbers of native barks come down from the interior as soon
as the river is clear. They are large, unwieldy, flat-bottomed
boats, constructed in a very primitive fashion, with an enormous
barbarous-looking helm, at which a long-bearded peasant, in loose shirt
and trowsers, is generally standing. Several others propel the vessel
with long poles, which must be very fatiguing, as they are obliged to
walk to and fro incessantly. A gallery is often erected outside, on the
upper part of the large corn-barks, with a long wooden seat, on which
the men can sit when the vessel is at anchor. When a couple of these
boats run foul of each other, the people on board run hither and thither,
shouting and bawling with all their might, making clumsy attempts to get
free, and perform a frantic pantomime, as if the accident had driven them
completely mad. At last, _slavo Bogen_! they part company with their
bulky friend, and are in no more danger from his awkward embraces, so all
goes on as before, until a similar event again occurs, when they become
animated by another _accès_.
These poor men have perhaps come a thousand versts or more from their
native villages, pursuing patiently their toilsome and weary journey,
pushing themselves onwards with those long thin poles, walking three
times the length of the whole distance in going to and fro as we see
them now, to bring the produce of their proprietors’ estates—corn, flax,
linseed, deals, and hides. Their cargoes are destined mostly for the
English market, and will be taken in this manner down to Cronstadt,[13]
where they will be transferred to British vessels. Theirs must be a
dreary life, one would think; yet on the banks of the Volga I have often
passed an agreeable hour in listening to their wild songs, is the sounds
were borne to the shore from the strange-looking barks, during the calm
evenings of a Russian summer.
The little ferry-boats that ply on the Neva are slight, dangerous-looking
things, with a very elevated stern, painted with all sorts of colours,
and in every device that may suggest itself to the owner’s fancy:
sometimes there is a fine landscape at the back of the seat, sometimes
extraordinary tulips and marvellous roses, most unhappy-looking fish,
or a melancholy lady and gentleman staring at each other. The boatmen
are like the peasants, with long beards and loose shirts, and generally
civil and obliging; indeed, it must be allowed that the lower class of
the Russians are remarkably so, not only to their superiors, but to each
other. The most unpolished boor in the country will always take off his
hat when he meets a companion or acquaintance, and that with quite as
much respect as to a person above him in rank.
A little pleasure-trip in these small boats to some of the numerous
islands in the vicinity of St. Petersburg is extremely agreeable on a
summer’s evening. These islands are formed by different branches of the
Neva and by canals, which serve to drain the marshy ground of which they
are composed. Although everything about them is purely artificial, Nature
having done little enough to embellish them, yet the effect produced is
very delightful. Pretty little country houses, or fancy isbas, built of
wood and fantastically decorated, show themselves here and there among
the foliage of a forest of trees and shrubs; a Chinese temple or Turkish
kiosk placed on some little promontory arrests our attention; a Greek
statue or Corinthian column ornamenting some sequestered spot, and half
buried in the creeping plants that twine around it. The whole scenery is
entirely flat, there are no hills or even elevations, and its chief charm
consists in the bright-green verdure with which the islands are covered,
the clear blue streams everywhere meeting the eye, and the glorious sky
of a northern summer. Bands of musicians play in various spots on certain
days: they are mostly Germans. These al fresco concerts are excellent,
the pieces (generally selections from operas) are admirably performed,
and crowds of ladies in beautiful dresses, and gentlemen in country
costumes, repair in the evening to attend them. Now and then there is a
benefit-night, otherwise the amusement is entirely gratuitous. As the
entertainment takes place in the open air, even the humblest classes can
enjoy it, and numerous groups of the people may be seen standing at a
respectful distance among the trees, for they are very fond of music. No
disturbances ever take place in Russia, even when a crowd is assembled;
but then, as Count Custine said, when the remark was exultingly made to
him by a Russian nobleman on some public occasion, “Mon cher, c’est très
bien, mais je ne vois pas de peuple!”
Yalagen is among the islands, and is a very favourite place of resort:
the grounds belonging to the palace are beautiful and the flower-garden
charming.
Pavlofski is another place whither many go to reside during the summer:
there is a palace there also and a Vauxhall, whereat concerts and balls
are given. Tzarskoselo is a large estate belonging to the crown, the
grounds of which are laid out in the English style: of course there is
a palace there also. At Gatchen there is another; indeed there seems
no end to imperial residences. Go where you will, there is a country
house belonging either to the Emperor, the Empress, some grand-duchess
or other, nephew or grandchild of Nicholas the Czar. They almost seem to
have descended in some hailstorm, they lie so thickly on the ground. The
expense[14] of supporting them must be almost equal to that incurred by
the “million of men,” the mighty boast of the Russian nation, which is
not yet enlightened enough to perceive who pays for them all.