THE FIRST DROSCHKY-RIDE--SUNSET AT THE ISLANDS--EARLY MORNING VIEWS OF
THE NEVSKOI PROSPEKT.
“Don’t forget Firkin! I will write his name for you on the back
of my card.” Such were the closing words of a long conversation
about Russia held between myself and a young American who had
recently visited that country. The person to whom he referred was
the celebrated St. Petersburg guide, with headquarters at the Hôtel
d’Europe. This injunction to remember Firkin was laid upon me across
the breakfast-table of the Hôtel Grande Bretagne, Naples. I thanked
the young American, and placed his card thus indorsed in a select
compartment of my pocket-book. About two weeks later, dining one day at
“Schweizerhof,” Lucerne, my neighbor on the right, an English tourist,
led up a desultory talk to Russia. I have noticed that persons who
have been to Russia are apt to apprise others of that fact upon no
provocation at all. He also said, with great emphasis--speaking of St.
Petersburg--“By all means secure Firkin as a guide”; adding, “without
him you are helpless.” Frequently afterward, when we were pursuing our
devious journey to the great northern capital, some misgivings would
arise about difficulties to be encountered there; and then these would
all vanish when we recalled the magic name of Firkin.
When we arrived at the Hôtel d’Europe, my first inquiry, after securing
rooms, was for this treasure of a man. The polite manager scoured
the reading-room, the restaurant, the smoking-room, and all the
passage-ways of the ground-floor in search of the famous guide. “He
must be out now with a party,” explained the manager, in French. “Did
you telegraph ahead to engage him?”
Ah! I had forgotten that. I had thoughtlessly assumed that, as I was
visiting St. Petersburg out of the busy season, he would be entirely at
my disposal. Rash confidence!
Next morning, after a good night’s rest, my first thought was of
Firkin. Even before breakfast, I resumed my inquiries for him, and
could have hugged him with delight when he was at last brought before
me by the courteous manager himself. He was a man of middle height
and age, with an ingratiating manner, and spoke English--his native
tongue. He looked the model guide. He smiled and shook his head when
I told him I wanted to engage his services during my stay. Then he
referred to a tablet in his hand, and, after carefully inspecting a
series of entries, said, “You wish to see the most remarkable sights in
Petersburg, I suppose.” I nodded. “Well, then,” said he, “I can give
you from nine to twelve day after to-morrow. That is the best I can
do. But it will afford you some idea of the manners and customs of the
natives. Strangers have no conception of them, I assure you.”
Three hours seemed very little, and day after to-morrow was far off.
But I was curious to learn something about the real native life in
Russia, and jumped at the proposition. “All right,” said I, “we shall
be through breakfast by nine on Wednesday, and ready for you.”
“Breakfast, my dear sir?” he cried. “Dinner, you mean; 9 P. M. is the
hour of starting. Between that and midnight I can show you the most
wonderful--”
I laughed at the mutual mistake, and explained to the accomplished
guide that the sights we had in mind were those best seen by day
light--churches, palaces, museums, picture-galleries, etc.
“Ah! I see,” he said, with a smile, “there is a lady along.”
Thus ended my negotiations with Firkin. I tried in vain to engage
another guide at the hotel, one who spoke French a little. But he was
also booked far ahead. There was nothing left but to trust to my own
ingenuity and the judicious use of “tea-money,” as tips are called
in a land where tea is drunk even more generally than corn-brandy. I
bethought myself of the tourist’s best friend--the head-porter. He was
a Russian giant, amiable, like all oversized men, and speaking some
French. He promised me his best assistance, and, I will say at once,
was very useful. Whenever I wanted to go anywhere, he would give all
the directions in Russian to the droschky-driver. As the driver was
usually stupid, and, I should think, deaf, from the thundering tones
in which the head-porter invariably addressed him, it always took some
time to get us fairly started. Woe be to the _ishvoshtnik_ if I had any
occasion whatever to complain of him on my return, as I sometimes had!
Then the head-porter would seem to grow in stature to about eight feet.
He would shake his enormous fist in pretended rage at the blundering
fellow, and roar at him in the purest Russian. I could not understand
a word, but I knew by the driver’s looks that he was “catching it
hot.” It is on such occasions that the Russian alphabet of thirty-six
letters comes out strong. It enables one to do justice to the subject.
The man would quail before this frightful shower of expletives until
I would really pity him, and touch the shoulder of my good friend the
head-porter to call him off. After several repetitions of this severe
but wholesome treatment, the drivers made fair substitutes for the
lamented Firkin himself.
Strange as the statement may seem, my principal difficulty at first
was getting back to the hotel. Not a single one of the drivers engaged
for me knew the name “Hôtel d’Europe,” which was painted in letters
six feet long on the blank side of that immense establishment. I was
obliged to say “Nevskoi Prospekt,” which they all understood; and, when
they had entered that broadest of avenues, I piloted them to the hotel,
which fronted it. Finally, I obtained from the head-porter the Russian
name of the house--something like “Europeiskaya Gostinnitza”--and made
that work every time.
Most of the streets are paved with large cobble-stones, and, if the
droschkies ever had springs, these have become unelastic by much
bumping over them. One mounts a droschky in St. Petersburg as he
steps into a gondola in Venice--with a feeling of romance. It is
something that shows off beautifully in pictures. You see a miniature
victoria, with thick little wheels--the front ones just the size for
barrows--drawn by a horse whose back is spanned with a high ornamental
arch of wood, to which bells are attached. The driver holds in the
flying steed with both hands--a graceful attitude. The whole turn-out
is so fairy-like and different from any other elsewhere, that the
tourist looks forward to a ride in a droschky as one of the greatest
treats of St. Petersburg. Among the few Russian words he picks up as
indispensable are _poshoi_ (go ahead) and _stoi_ (stop). Armed with
these, he sets forth on his first exploration of the city, careless,
light-hearted, prepared to enjoy everything, and particularly the
droschky.
When we proceeded to seat ourselves in this vehicle, we barely found
room for two, and there was no back to it except a little rim, three
inches high, to prevent our falling out. We instinctively clung to
each other for support. If we were a little crowded, and there was any
danger of our tumbling into the street backward, those very facts were
new and interesting. The safe and comfortable carriages are always
commonplace, you know. We really felt like extolling the inventive
genius of Russia which had produced something totally unlike any of
the equipages of Western Europe. There was fascination in the risks of
it. The _ishvoshtnik_ (I roll this word like a sweet morsel under my
tongue) starts off quickly. This gives us a jerk, but, while holding on
to each other, we have each a spare hand with which we grasp the end
of our thin cushion. We are not thrown out, or likely to be, and we
murmur: “What fun!” “How exhilarating!” “What novel sensations!” as we
go jolting over the bowlders.
The _ishvoshtnik_ has a good horse, and is proud to show him off. The
animal and his master seem to understand each other well. The one bends
back his ears, while the other pours a stream of unintelligible words
into them. No whip is ever used. We both feel much inconvenienced by
the horrible pavement, though we heroically suppress our emotions. We
suppose that we will soon get used to it. To distract our attention,
we try to amuse ourselves with the enigmatical signs on the shops. We
study the strange faces in the streets. We note the golden domes and
spires as they flash under the morning sun. We make every effort to
lose ourselves in the contemplation of this interesting city. But it is
of no use. The cobble-stones keep our teeth chattering, and at times
threaten to dislocate every bone in our bodies. We strike a bowlder of
extra size, and the droschky bounds up a foot.
“How horrid! do stop him, do!” are the words I now hear. I yell
_poshoi_ at the driver. A voice at my side says, “How lucky you
remembered the word!” The man hears me, and he calls out _poshoi_ to
his horse. Now we shall see the sagacity of the animal. But no! The
brute does not understand his own language. He has broken his trot; he
is galloping. I hear a shriek--“Oh, pull his what-d’ye-call it, do!”
I grasp the driver’s baggy and greasy robe just above the girdle and
nearly jerk him off his seat. He looks around astonished, and I then
signal him to check his horse. He nods, and calls out _stoi_! And the
beast comes to a halt. Then the thought flashes upon me that I have got
my two Russian words mixed. Such is the fact, and we have a good laugh
over it in which the driver joins; and I have no doubt the mistake
would have amused the intelligent horse, if he had been told of it.
We were glad to get back to the hotel at a walk. This was our first
and last joint experience of a droschky in the rough streets of St.
Petersburg, though for little trips about town I tried it alone and
became somewhat hardened to it.
Late one afternoon, the head-porter, who was always making useful
suggestions, said to me, “Have you seen the sun set?” I told him I
came from the land of the setting sun. “But you must see it set here!”
pursued the good fellow. And before I could object, he whistled a
springy phaeton out of the court-yard of the hotel where it had been
standing awaiting orders. We stepped into the carriage, and he gave
directions in Russian to the driver. We were bound to a summer garden
or fashionable park, situated on what is known as “the islands.” We
crossed the Neva for the twentieth time, perhaps, as it divides the
great city in twain and lies between the Hôtel d’Europe and many places
of interest; and I again admired its noble breadth, its tranquil flow,
the dark steel-blue of its waters. From any of the bridges the view
along the quay is striking. The most imposing public buildings face the
Neva. The private edifices on the same alignment are only less stately.
It is here that the visitor recalls Paris as he has seen it from the
Pont de la Concorde; only the Neva is twice as wide as the Seine.
And this suggestion of Paris is strengthened when his eye catches a
reminder of the dome des Invalides, in the golden hemisphere of St.
Isaac’s. But for the frequency of the gilded bulbs and the square Greek
crosses that shine above the horizon of roofs, there is nothing Russian
or peculiar in the general view of St. Petersburg.
Across the river we pass through streets destitute of novel features.
The fact that we are in the Tsar’s capital invests all things with a
certain glamour. We are far from home, and feel as if we ought to be
rewarded for our trouble in getting there, by the constant exhibition
of strange things. But, save for the puzzling signs and the universal
custom among the poorer classes (and all the military) of tucking
trousers into boots, and the low-wheeled droschkies with their drivers
in badly-crushed hats and tunics like blue meal-bags loosely tied in
the middle, little challenges our wonder or admiration. We leave the
busy streets for the green and shady gardens. These seem in no wise
different from public grounds elsewhere. The trees--spruces and firs
preponderating--are the same that thrive in all parts of Northern
Europe. The summer flowers are equally familiar to us. There are
restaurants, with people in the latest Paris styles, sitting in the
open air and drinking tea or something stronger; and bands are playing
for their delight just as they do in the Bois de Boulogne or Central
Park. The roads are macadamized and free from dust. Our carriage is
luxurious and from the depths of its cushions we look out idly on the
shaven lawns, the clipped shrubbery, the crystal ponds full of swans
and wood-ducks, the birds and butterflies spreading their wings to
the soft, caressing air, and shiver to think of the change that a
few months will make in this summer scene. For, perhaps, as soon as
mid-October, these little lakes and the Neva, of which we get frequent
glimpses between the trees, will be solid ice and all the landscape
Arctic.
But we are coming to the sunset. We emerge from a thick wood at a point
where the glorious river widens out into the Gulf of Finland. There is
nothing to interrupt the view. Accustomed to American sunsets, we can
not fully share the enthusiasm which we see expressed in the eyes of
other persons, sitting in carriages and looking intently at that pile
of gold and rubies in the west. The driver, not hearing us utter any
exclamation of delight, turns half-way round and points to the setting
sun. I nod approvingly, and then we square off at it. It is indeed a
splendid exhibition of cloud-forms and luminous effects. Broad bands of
light shoot aloft like the pale tails of comets. There are many peaks
that turn rosy as if with an Alpine glow. Among the golden clouds one
traces the shapes of domes, as if another St. Petersburg were sinking
into night over there in the west. This is a brilliant spectacle for
the lover of Nature. But it sets us thinking of home and friends, so
many thousands of miles away in the direction of sunset. I dare say the
other people there looking at that wonderful sky as we do with alien
eyes, feel the same tender memories come over them with a rush, for we
are all silent together for a few minutes.
The driver took the liberty of breaking the spell by moving on. We rode
through more woods, past more lawns with parterres of flowers, skirting
more lakes looking like duplicates of those we had before seen.
Finally, after about fifteen minutes of this pleasant but slightly
monotonous route, we came out upon another view of the sunset. It was
the same that we had seen before, but a quarter of an hour farther
along. The surrounding scene also appeared identical with the one we
had but just left. There was a small restaurant of fantastic design,
a precise copy, even to the large gilded weather-cock, of one I had
previously noticed, in front of which several carriages were drawn up,
while the owners or riders sat on the stoop eating ices. And there,
beyond the possibility of mistake, were a pair of bob-tail grays and
the same party of four ladies finishing up their light repast. We had
been taken to the same place twice to see the same sunset! It was
all the more vexatious as we were getting hungry, and I peremptorily
waved off the sunset with one hand and motioned with the other to go
ahead. The man evidently understood me, for he said _poshoi_ and off
we started. As we whirled along we fell into a talk about our future
plans and did not notice the scenery through which we passed. In about
fifteen minutes more we struck another view of the sunset, coming
abruptly upon it at a turn of the road. It was still so beautiful that
we could not forbear to look at it once again, although it was already
twice burned in upon our memories. Suddenly, as I took my eyes off
the molten splendor, I recognized the same old restaurant, with its
whimsical gables, its weather-cock and all the surroundings complete,
even to the bob-tail grays, pawing the ground and anxious to get away.
The four ladies were just on the point of entering their carriage.
It was maddening. I would have given anything for a few Russian words
appropriate to the occasion. Would that the head-porter were there!
Oh, for one minute of Firkin! But I was powerless. I could only gasp,
“Europeiskaya Gostinnitza! _Poshoi!_” at the same time shaking my
fist at the driver. He understood me this time without a shadow of
doubt. In about forty minutes we entered the court-yard of the Hôtel
d’Europe. When the head-porter came forward to assist us in alighting,
I explained to him, with some indignation, the absurd persistence of
that ass in taking us to see the sunset three times running, when once
was all we wanted of it. Contrary to my expectations, the head-porter
did not interpret my emotions to the culprit, but calmly explained to
me that everybody who went to the Summer Garden to see the sunset took
it in three times before leaving the grounds. It was the regular thing
to do. The circuit, which is thrice made, was part of the fashionable
routine never omitted on any account. Though the excellent head-porter
did not say so, I could read in his face surprise that I should
complain of having had too much of a St. Petersburg sunset.
At 4.30 A. M. it is broad daylight. I happen to be awake, and I step
to a window which overlooks the Nevskoi Prospekt. The vast Gostinnoi
Dvor, in which we had shopped three hours on the stretch the day before
and seen but little of its inexhaustible stores in that short space of
time, is closed now. In two or three hours its thousands of shutters
will be taken down, and its swarming population of proprietors,
book-keepers, clerks, porters, and small boys will be getting ready for
another day’s business. The eternal lights burn at the beautiful Greek
shrine in the square opposite. The roof of the little temple is covered
with gold. Its shape is that of a Paris kiosk, but greatly magnified. A
Frenchman seeing it for the first time would step into it and ask for
“Le Figaro.”
There are people abroad at that hour, and every one who passes this
shrine bows profoundly before it three times, and elaborately crosses
himself. A carriage drawn by two coal-black horses stops in front of
it. A priest, with the tall, black rimless hat and somber sweeping robe
of his order, descends. All spectators bow to him. He passes through
the ever-open doorway of the shrine to a place where I can see gleaming
gold and flashing jewels as the light of many wax-candles falls upon
them. After a short absence, the priest returns, carrying in his arms
a large square something. It is covered by a white cloth, but, as this
is accidentally displaced for a moment, I see the face of the Saviour.
It looks solemnly and tenderly out of the matted gold and precious
stones which overlay it. Three women in black follow it in procession
from the shrine to the carriage, with bent heads and slow steps. The
driver removes his hat. The heads of all spectators are bared, for
this is the principal Icon of the shrine near the great Bazaar, and
held in the deepest reverence by all orthodox Russians. It is about
to be taken to the priest’s house for some solemn ceremony of renewed
consecration. The carriage proceeds slowly along the Nevskoi Prospekt.
Through the open window I see the priest holding the Icon upon his
knees, and bending above it in the attitude of prayer. All beholders
doff their hats, bow, and cross themselves as the adored object passes.
A young officer is galloping down the street. He is dressed in the
dandy uniform of some crack regiment. He wears a shako with a tall
feather, and a gold chain about his neck; a long saber swings from his
waist; the blue cape of his light overcoat is thrown back to disclose
the rich scarlet lining. Even at that early hour his mustache is waxed
to fine points. He looks like a lady-killer. I say to myself, “He will
not bend his haughty head as the Icon goes by.” I am greatly mistaken.
He removes his shako, and bows to the pommel of his saddle. I notice
only one man who pays no respect to the Icon--that brawny fellow
sitting in a chair on the sidewalk, exactly opposite my window. His
head rests upon his breast, and he is evidently fast asleep. He is the
_dvornik_, or _concierge_, of the house in front of which he is taking
his nap. He is supposed to be watching the premises for the protection
of the inmates and their property. Perhaps he spends the whole night
in slumber, after the custom of unfaithful guardians in all climes and
ages. If so, the policeman, who is now coming slowly down the middle of
the street, with a drawn sword in his hand, must discover the fact if
he keeps his eyes open, and will perhaps wake the _dvornik_ to a sense
of his neglected duty by prodding him playfully. He glances at the
slumbering man as he saunters by, but does not disturb him. Doubtless,
requiring charity himself on that point very often, he is prepared to
extend it to others. Soon after he has passed, the _dvornik_ gives a
slight start, raises his head, pulls a bottle from beneath his heavy
cloak, takes a long pull at it, and goes to sleep again.
I hear the heavy tramp of feet. Soon a battalion of soldiers comes in
sight. They are men of the medium size, young, healthy, and strong.
They put their feet down firmly, but do not march well, because
they have no music, not even a drum and fife. Their uniform is of
a bluish-gray color, and they wear fatigue-caps of cloth, slouchy
and unsoldierlike. Blankets are wreathed across the right shoulder,
and hang below the waist in an enormous fold, like a piece of
boa-constrictor. On their backs are knapsacks, with small tin pans
externally attached. The men look about as well as the raw conscripts
of other countries, and are probably good fighting material if well
drilled and handled. At their head rides the commanding officer, a
young fellow, whose bright face is clouded, as if he were leaving
somebody or something highly prized behind him. He may only be leading
his men to their morning drill in the exercise-grounds near the
arsenal. But it is more romantic to suppose that he is on his way to
Central Asia, and that he will engage in terrible skirmishes with
the border-ruffians down there, perform incredible deeds of valor,
capture a big chief, annex a province, and then come back to St.
Petersburg laden with loot and glory, to receive promotion to the rank
of major-general and the grand cross of St. George at the hands of the
Tsar.
At that moment a still, small voice calling from the adjoining room
breaks up this day-dream, and ends my early morning view of St.
Petersburg.