ST. PETERSBURG IN JULY.
The Russians play their alphabet of thirty-six letters for all it
is worth. Having plenty of letters, they string these out into long
words. How our German friends, with their addiction to polysyllables,
would enjoy such alphabetical resources! What tremendous jaw-breakers
they would manufacture! Our first acquaintance with the beauties of
the Russian language was made from the window of a sleeping-car at
daybreak. We were then in Russian territory, far from the frontier. As
the tram jogged along without stopping, we could see the Russian names
of the stations. At first, perhaps, there would be four or five regular
English letters, mixed up anyhow. Then would come a Greek character.
Next would occur an unmistakable figure 3. This would possibly be
followed by an N or an R or an L turned upside down or otherwise
distorted. And in the midst of these capital letters there would be a
sprinkling of “lower case,” as printers say. The whole effect was that
of “pi” of the most exasperating description. I can imagine no mental
exercise more debilitating than that of trying to spell out Russian
signs with the misleading help of the English letters on them. Even if
all the rest were smooth sailing, there are fatal snags in the shape of
gridirons, double saw-horses, and other symbols of unknown import.
On the tongue of a polite Russian this language is musical and fluent.
We heard its accents first at Wirballen, where the baggage inspection
takes place. It is no joke for persons who have been traveling for
fifteen hours from Berlin to be wakened at midnight and put through
a custom-house ordeal. As I stepped off the train into the cold and
damp of the Wirballen station, a pleasant voice saluted my ear with a
long sentence, of which I caught only the word “passport.” Looking up,
I saw, by the dim light of a lantern, a Russian officer of gigantic
stature. He was most becomingly dressed in a blue tunic, flowing
trousers tucked into highly polished boots, an Astrakhan cap with a
red top and white pompon, and a long sword trailed from his side to
the floor. His large, healthy face beamed benevolence. If he had asked
for my pocket-book, I believe I should have given it up to him without
hesitation. I handed him Mr. Bayard’s valued certificate, with the
single word “American.” You should have seen the smile on his face
stretch into a positive laugh of welcome! He bowed profoundly, and
pointed the way to a spacious room which had been depicted to me as a
torture-chamber.
We had been told that the Russian examination was most inquisitive
and merciless. We had heard that all English books and newspapers
were confiscated. Having read our stock of these on the way, we were
ready to surrender them cheerfully to the Russian censor. But we were
expecting to have great fun out of a quart-bottle half full of lemonade
and tightly corked. We had painted to ourselves the disappointment and
disgust of the officials when they opened that bottle in pursuit of
brandy and found only water. I confess I was almost sorry when they
did not smell or even look at it. As for the books and papers, these
gave the worthy men no more concern than the wisp-broom and slippers.
Mind you, the search was not a pure farce. Those engaged in it did not
look at you all the time as if they itched to be bribed. They did not
examine some trunks and “chalk” others without opening them, and then
expect you to pay for their forbearance. It was a strict and honest
business throughout. But there was a liberal construction in favor of
travelers. I had some paper rubles in my vest-pocket for an emergency.
But slight observation of the men at work convinced me that they did
not look for a gratuity from me, and that possibly they might be
affronted if I offered them one. We have undergone many custom-house
inquisitions, but that at Wirballen is the only one in which there was
not something strongly suggestive of bribes or gifts.
It was this same national politeness on the part of a Russian to
Americans that first induced us to try the rail route from Berlin to
St. Petersburg. At Dresden, where we took train for Berlin, the only
other occupant of our carriage was a gentleman of middle age, with a
finely shaped head and a shrewd, kindly face. Some trivial incident
started a conversation, and he soon learned that we were Americans. It
was at once evident that this fact thawed any little fragment of ice
that yet clung to our intercourse. Our fellow-traveler then proclaimed
himself a Russian, and spoke with feeling of the friendship that had
always existed between his country and America, and hoped it would
be lasting. We echoed his sentiments every time, you may be sure.
These international comities having been exchanged, we proceeded to
extract from our friend some much-needed information about the Russian
facilities for traveling, the best hotels and shops in St. Petersburg
and Moscow, and a great deal else in respect to which our guide-books
are imperfect or stale. His knowledge of all these matters was full
and exact, and I took mental notes of his advice, which, during our
whole stay in Russia, proved of great value. A talk which was certainly
very profitable for us--and in which he manifested the utmost interest
and willingness to assist--was abruptly broken by the arrival of the
train at the German capital. Rising to take leave, he shook hands with
us heartily, and then informed us that he was Count Paul Schouvaloff,
Russian Embassador at Berlin, and said he would be happy to be of any
further service if we would call at the embassy. He was received at the
station by military and other _attachés_ of his staff, and driven off
to the palace on the Unter den Linden, which is his official residence.
It was under such agreeable auspices that we began our Russian journey,
and they were but a foretaste of the kindness which everywhere met
us--as Americans.
The trip from Berlin to St. Petersburg takes about thirty-six hours.
You start at 9 A. M. in an express train, and do not strike the
“sleepers” till you reach Wirballen. The Russian conveniences for night
travel are almost perfect. The compartments are large, the beds good,
the ventilation is scientific, and the motion easy. The springy gait
of the carriage rocks you to sleep. The attendants are all alive,
and do not ask for or seem to expect fees. The train stops often and
long enough after daylight to “refresh” the hungriest and thirstiest
of mortals. At the tidy-looking stations--wooden, one-story, painted
yellow, each with boxes of flowers in the windows--he finds glasses of
delicious coffee or strong tea, “screeching” hot. The tea is served
from the _samovar_, or big urn, and is on tap night and day. A slice of
lemon floating on top makes this cheering drink look like brandy-punch.
There also may be had the whitest bread, the most golden butter, and
dainty Russian dishes, of which I am most happy to recall mutton and
rice drowned in a brown sauce that would kindle an appetite under the
ribs of Death. Such comforts and such luxuries made the long ride from
Wirballen to St. Petersburg unfatiguing. The country is flat, with
a large allowance of forest and swamp, and is sparsely settled. The
little aisle of the car was a common meeting-ground for passengers, who
were amiable and talkative.
And so the time did not drag badly till we rolled into the Petersburg
station (they all say Petersburg here) a little before nine o’clock,
P. M. It was broad daylight in effect, and, as we were driven to our
hotel (d’Europe), we could see and enjoy the out-door life of this
great, modern-looking, wonderful city as well as if it had been high
noon. There were signs of business enterprise and prosperity on every
side. The _droschkies_ burned the pavement, as the French say, but the
drivers held their horses well in hand. These “cabbies,” by-the-way,
are almost the only class here whose dress is not European. Their
long wraps, like bathing-robes, buckled about the waist, and their
little hats, which look like the stove-pipe pattern badly crushed, are
the only marked oddities of attire in the streets. The pedestrians,
although through with the business of the day, walked rapidly. The
general aspect of the city, as of the people we saw, was more American
than French, German, or English. But for the maddening inscriptions
on the shop-fronts, and the golden domes and peculiar crosses of the
Greek churches, the city of Peter the Great might pass for a compound
of Chicago and Washington. The wide, straight streets--the _Prospekts_,
or perspectives, as they are called--remind me of the latest type of
American cities. On arriving at the hotel, I again surrendered my
passport (which had been countersigned and stamped by the Russian
consul-general at Berlin, and handed back to me after a brief detention
at Wirballen). It was returned next day, without any additional mark
upon it.
The famous St. Isaac’s Church, about which so many writers rave, does
not impress us as much as we expected. Nothing could be simpler and
nothing richer than its outside and inside. It is immense, but it looks
small. Its great dome is a sheet of pure gold. Its interior has columns
of malachite and lapis-lazuli, massive shrines made of precious metals
by the hundred-weight and blazing with diamonds, sapphires, rubies,
and emeralds. One knows that millions of dollars have been lavished
on all these things, and yet the whole effect is not magnificent. The
money is not put where it shows on casual inspection. For a repetition
of visits I prefer the Kazan Cathedral, of which less ado is made in
the guide-books. That is the church beloved of Petersburgers; while
it is not dowered with as much malachite, lapis-lazuli, gold, silver,
and gems as fall to the share of St. Isaac’s, it is very rich in all
these gifts, and it has one shrine of incomparable splendor. That is
our Lady of Kazan. The Greek Church does not tolerate images among its
symbols. Reverence for the Saviour, or the Madonna and Child, or any
of the saints, is expressed by heaping up riches upon their portraits.
Our Lady of Kazan appears in a gold frame about three feet square. You
see only her face and hands. The rest of her is buried under solid
gold and silver crusted all over with the costliest jewels. She is a
special object of veneration. Princes and generals, opulent merchants,
beggars, old and young, women and children, all sorts of people, may
be seen at almost any hour of the day struggling to kiss her hands.
Before doing this the more devout bow and touch the cold stone floor
with their foreheads and cross themselves repeatedly. They bring little
votive candles which they light and stick in places provided for them.
Priests and women all dressed alike, in black robes and high hats minus
the brim, stand around with dishes to receive donations. I heard the
service intoned by lay readers with deep-bass voices, but did not see
a priest performing his sacred functions. The religion of the people
seems very real, so far as outward signs reveal it. Shrines are set up
at the street corners and in the fronts of shops and houses, and no
Russian fails to remove his hat and cross himself and bow deeply in
passing one of them.
The most remarkable curiosity in this city is the perfect skeleton
of a mammoth dug out of an ice-bank in Siberia nearly one hundred
years ago. It is in the Museum of the Academy of Sciences, and I lost
no time in inspecting the bones of the colossal beast. He stood, in
his original full dress, as high as the lamented Jumbo at least. His
general appearance as to head, tail, trunk, legs, and chest was that of
an elephant. But his tusks, ten or twelve feet long, curved outward
and upward, as if they were trying to tie knots in themselves. Remains
of mammoths have often been dug up in Russia, but this skeleton is the
only one to which some of the flesh and skin and hairs still adheres.
The hide is about an inch thick. The hair is half a foot long, of a
whitish brown. At what remote date this monster was browsing around in
Siberia, what use he made of his queer horns, and how he got frozen up
in a mass of ice and mud, are questions which I leave to the lively
fancy of Jules Verne.
Most smokers are proud to own a real amber mouth-piece. What would
they say to a room, seventy-five or one hundred feet square, lined on
all sides with amber clear to the high ceiling? That is what we saw
at Tsarskoé Selo, an imperial summer palace near St. Petersburg. The
precious fossil gum was cut and dovetailed so as to make beautiful
figures of Cupids, fruits, and flowers. The whole is in the highest
state of polish. It reflects the light not only from its surface, but
from its depths, and is lovely to look upon, even if one does not
think of the treasure expended in procuring all that rare product of
nature. We made the weary round of a hundred rooms, all gilded and
upholstered magnificently, and full of art-objects from every part
of the globe, but saw nothing that spoke so eloquently of boundless
wealth and luxury as that amber-lined chamber. When a Tsar undertakes
to do something really splendid in this line, he leaves all his brother
sovereigns far behind.
I shall never take the least interest in the band-chariot of a circus
after having seen the forty or fifty gorgeous state carriages of the
Tsars. The best artists and artisans of all Europe have contributed
to the production of these wonderful objects, in which expense is
of no account. They are deeply gilt all over, and each panel bears
a painting from some master’s hand. In the midst of this brilliant
collection stands the traveling-sledge of Peter the Great, made
entirely by himself, and an honest and strong piece of work. It was
built for service, not for coronations and weddings, like the rest.
Adjoining this venerable relic is a _coupé_ of the simplest style, to
which our courteous guide points as he says, with emotion, “Alexander
the Second.” We look, and are startled to see that the rear part of
the _coupé_ is split open in several places and a little sunk down
on one side. Then we know at once that before us is the wreck of the
carriage in which the monarch sat when the first bomb exploded beneath
it. Within as well as without the havoc of the missile was terrible to
behold. It is a wonder that the doomed man escaped alive only to perish
by the second bomb, which his murderers held in reserve for him. The
memory of this martyred emancipator of the serfs is cherished with the
deepest affection by the people. His portrait is one of the commonest
in the shop-windows. In the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul (within
the fortress of that name) is the tomb of the unfortunate Emperor. Like
the sepulchres of his predecessors, all about him, it is of marble
unadorned. But its top is heaped with fresh flowers. Above and around
are hung wreaths of immortelles and other floral tributes and elaborate
mourning emblems in silver and gold testifying to the love of his
subjects and the admiration of men of other lands.