THINGS RUSSIAN IN KAMCHATKA--A VERDANT AND FLOWERY LAND--THE VILLAGE OF
TWO SAINTS.
It has been well observed by Irving, that to one about to visit
foreign countries a long sea voyage is an excellent preparative.
To quote his words, "The temporary absence of worldly scenes and
employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive
new and vivid impressions." And he might have added with equal
truth--favourable impressions. The tiresome monotony of sea life
predisposes the traveller to regard favourably anything that will
quicken his stagnating faculties and perceptions and furnish new
matter for thought; and the most commonplace scenery and circumstances
afford him gratification and delight. For this reason one is apt, upon
arriving after a long voyage in a strange country, to form a more
favourable opinion of its people and scenery than his subsequent
experience will sustain. But it seems to me particularly fortunate
that our first impressions of a new country, which are most clear and
vivid and therefore most lasting, are also most pleasant, so that in
future years a retrospective glance over our past wanderings will show
the most cheerful pictures drawn in the brightest and most enduring
colours. I am sure that the recollection of my first view of the
mountains of Kamchatka, the delight with which my eye drank in their
bright aërial tints, and the romance with which my ardent fancy
invested them, will long outlive the memory of the hardships I have
endured among them, the snow-storms that have pelted me on their
summits, and the rains that have drenched me in their valleys.
Fanciful perhaps, but I believe true.
The longing for land which one feels after having been five or six
weeks at sea is sometimes so strong as to be almost a passion. I
verily believe that if the first land we saw had been one of those
immense barren moss steppes which I afterward came to hold in such
detestation, I should have regarded it as nothing less than the
original site of the Garden of Eden. Not all the charms which nature
has lavished upon the Vale of Tempe could have given me more pleasure
than did the little green valley in which nestled the red-roofed and
bark-covered log houses of Petropavlovsk.
The arrival of a ship in that remote and unfrequented part of the
world is an event of no little importance; and the rattling of our
chain cable through the hawse-holes created a very perceptible
sensation in the quiet village. Little children ran bareheaded out of
doors, looked at us for a moment, and then ran hastily back to call
the rest of the household; dark-haired natives and Russian peasants,
in blue shirts and leather trousers, gathered in a group at the
landing; and seventy-five or a hundred half-wild dogs broke out
suddenly into a terrific chorus of howls in honour of our arrival.
It was already late in the afternoon, but we could not restrain
our impatience to step once more upon dry land; and as soon as the
captain's boat could be lowered, Bush, Mahood, and I went ashore to
look at the town.
[Illustration]
Petropavlovsk is laid out in a style that is very irregular, without
being at all picturesque. The idea of a street never seems to
have suggested itself either to the original settlers or to their
descendants; and the paths, such as they are, wander around aimlessly
among the scattered houses, like erratic sheepwalks. It is impossible
to go for a hundred yards in a straight line, in any direction,
without either bringing up against the side of a house or trespassing
upon somebody's backyard; and in the night one falls over a slumbering
cow, upon a fair average, once every fifty feet. In other respects it
is rather a pretty village, surrounded as it is by high green hills,
and affording a fine view of the beautiful snowy peak of Avacha, which
rises to a height of 11,000 feet directly behind the town.
Mr. Fluger, a German merchant of Petropavlovsk who had boarded us in a
small boat outside the harbour, now constituted himself our guide; and
after a short walk around the village, invited us to his house, where
we sat in a cloud of fragrant cigar-smoke, talking over American war
news, and the latest _on dit_ of Kamchatkan society, until it finally
began to grow dark. I noticed, among other books lying upon Mr.
Fluger's table, _Life Thoughts_, by Beecher, and _The Schönberg-Cotta
Family,_ and wondered that the latter had already found its way to the
distant shores of Kamchatka.
As new-comers, it was our first duty to pay our respects to the
Russian authorities; and, accompanied by Mr. Fluger and Mr. Bollman,
we called upon Captain Sutkovoi (soot-ko-voi'), the resident "Captain
of the port." His house, with its bright-red tin roof, was almost
hidden by a large grove of thrifty oaks, through which tumbled, in
a succession of little cascades, a clear, cold mountain stream. We
entered the gate, walked up a broad travelled path under the shade of
the interlocking branches, and, without knocking, entered the house.
Captain Sutkovoi welcomed us cordially, and notwithstanding our
inability to speak any language but our own, soon made us feel quite
at home. Conversation however languished, as every remark had to be
translated through two languages before it could be understood by the
person to whom it was addressed; and brilliant as it might have been
in the first place, it lost its freshness in being passed around
through Russian, German, and English to us.
I was surprised to see so many evidences of cultivated and refined
taste in this remote corner of the world, where I had expected barely
the absolute necessaries of life, or at best a few of the most common
comforts. A large piano of Russian manufacture occupied one corner of
the room, and a choice assortment of Russian, German, and American
music testified to the musical taste of its owner. A few choice
paintings and lithographs adorned the walls, and on the centre-table
rested a stereoscope with a large collection of photographic views,
and an unfinished game of chess, from which Captain and Madame
Sutkovoi had risen at our entrance.
After a pleasant visit of an hour we took our leave, receiving an
invitation to dinner on the following day.
It was not yet decided whether we should continue our voyage to the
Amur River, or remain in Petropavlovsk and begin our northern journey
from there, so we still regarded the brig as our home and returned,
every night to our little cabin. The first night in port was strangely
calm, peaceful, and quiet, accustomed as we had become to the rolling,
pitching, and creaking of the vessel, the swash of water, and the
whistling of the wind. There was not a zephyr abroad, and the surface
of the miniature bay lay like a dark mirror, in which were obscurely
reflected the high hills which formed its setting. A few scattered
lights from the village threw long streams of radiance across the dark
water, and from the black hillside on our right was heard at intervals
the faint lonely tinkle of a cow-bell or the long melancholy howl of
a wolf-like dog. I tried hard to sleep; but the novelty of our
surroundings, the thought that we were now in Asia, and hundreds
of conjectures and forecastings as to our future prospects and
adventures, put sleep for a long time at defiance.
The hamlet of Petropavlovsk, which, although not the largest, is one
of the most important settlements in the Kamchatkan peninsula, has
a population of perhaps two or three hundred natives and Russian
peasants, together with a few German and American merchants, drawn
thither by the trade in sables. It is not fairly a representative
Kamchatkan village, for it has felt in no inconsiderable degree the
civilising influences of foreign intercourse, and shows in its manners
and modes of life and thought some evidences of modern enterprise and
enlightenment. It has existed since the early part of the eighteenth
century, and is old enough to have acquired some civilisation of its
own; but age in a Siberian settlement is no criterion of development,
and Petropavlovsk either has not attained the enlightenment of
maturity, or has passed into its second childhood, for it is still in
a benighted condition. Why it was and is called Petropavlovsk--the
village of St. Peter and St. Paul--I failed, after diligent inquiry,
to learn. The sacred canon does not contain any epistle to the
Kamchatkans, much as they need it, nor is there any other evidence to
show that the ground on which the village stands was ever visited by
either of the eminent saints whose names it bears. The conclusion to
which we are driven therefore is, that its inhabitants, not being
distinguished for apostolic virtues, and feeling their need of saintly
intercession, called the settlement after St. Peter and St. Paul, with
the hope that those Apostles would feel a sort of proprietary interest
in the place, and secure its final salvation without any unnecessary
inquiries into its merits. Whether that was the idea of its original
founders or not I cannot say; but such a plan would be eminently
adapted to the state of society, in most of the Siberian settlements,
where faith is strong, but where works are few in number and
questionable in tendency.
The sights of Petropavlovsk, speaking after the manner of tourists,
are few and uninteresting. It has two monuments erected to the memory
of the distinguished navigators Bering and La Perouse, and there are
traces on its hills of the fortifications built during the Crimean War
to repel the attack of the allied French and English squadrons; but
aside from these, the town can boast of no objects or places of
historical interest. To us, however, who had been shut up nearly two
months in a close dark cabin, the village was attractive enough of
itself, and early on the following morning we went ashore for a ramble
on the wooded peninsula which separates the small harbour from Avacha
Bay. The sky was cloudless, but a dense fog drifted low over the
hilltops and veiled the surrounding mountains from sight. The whole
landscape was green as emerald and dripping with moisture, but the
sunshine struggled occasionally through the grey cloud of vapour, and
patches of light swept swiftly across the wet hillsides, like sunny
smiles upon a tearful face. The ground everywhere was covered with
flowers. Marsh violets, dotted the grass here and there with blue;
columbine swung its purple spurred corollas over the grey mossy rocks;
and wild roses appeared everywhere in dense thickets, with their
delicate pink petals strewn over the ground beneath them like a
coloured shadow.
Climbing up the slope of the steep hill between the harbour and the
bay, shaking down little showers of water from every bush, we touched,
and treading under foot hundreds of dewy flowers, we came suddenly
upon the monument of La Perouse. I hope his countrymen, the French,
have erected to his memory some more tasteful and enduring token of
their esteem than this. It is simply a wooden frame, covered with
sheet iron, and painted black. It bears no date or inscription
whatever, and looks more like the tombstone over the grave of a
criminal, than a monument to keep fresh the memory of a distinguished
navigator.
Bush sat down on a little grassy knoll to make a sketch of the scene,
while Mahood and I wandered on up the hill toward the old Russian
batteries. They are several in number, situated along the crest of
the ridge which divides the inner from the outer bay, and command the
approaches to the town from the west. They are now almost overgrown
with grass and flowers, and only the form of the embrasures
distinguishes them from shapeless mounds of earth. It would be thought
that the remote situation and inhospitable climate of Kamchatka would
have secured to its inhabitants an immunity from the desolating
ravages of war. But even this country has its ruined forts and
grass-grown battle-fields; and its now silent hills echoed not long
ago to the thunder of opposing cannon. Leaving Mahood to make a
critical survey of the entrenchments--an occupation which his tastes
and pursuits rendered more interesting to him than to me--I strolled
on up the hill to the edge of the cliff from which the storming party
of the Allies was thrown by the Russian gunners. No traces now remain
of the bloody struggle which took place upon the brink of this
precipice. Moss covers with its green carpet the ground which was torn
up in the death grapple; and the nodding bluebell, as it bends to the
fresh sea-breeze, tells no story of the last desperate rally, the hand
to hand conflict, and the shrieks of the overpowered as they were
thrown from the Russian bayonets upon the rocky beach a hundred feet
below.
It seems to me that it was little better than wanton cruelty in the
Allies to attack this unimportant and isolated post, so far from the
real centre of conflict. Could its capture have lessened in any way
the power or resources of the Russian Government, or, by creating a
diversion, have attracted attention from the decisive struggle in
the Crimea, it would perhaps have been justifiable; but it could not
possibly have any direct or indirect influence upon the ultimate
result, and only brought misery upon a few inoffensive Kamchadals who
had never heard of Turkey or the Eastern Question and whose first
intimation of a war probably was the thunder of the enemy's cannon and
the bursting of shells at their very doors. The attack of the Allied
fleet, however, was signally repulsed, and its admiral, stung with
mortification at being foiled by a mere handful of Cossacks and
peasants, committed suicide. On the anniversary of the battle it is
still customary for all the inhabitants, headed by the priests, to
march in solemn procession round the village and over the hill from
which the storming party was thrown, chanting hymns of joy and praise
for the victory.
After botanising a while upon the battle-field, I was joined by Bush,
who had completed his sketch, and we all returned, tired and wet,
to the village. Our appearance anywhere on shore always created a
sensation among the inhabitants. The Russian and native peasants whom
we met removed their caps, and held them respectfully in their hands
while we passed; the windows of the houses were crowded with heads
intent upon getting a sight of the "Amerikanski chinóvniki" (American
officers); and even the dogs broke into furious barks and howls at
our approach. Bush declared that he could not remember a time in his
history when he had been of so much consequence and attracted
such general attention as now; and he attributed it all to the
discrimination and intelligence of Kamchatkan society. Prompt and
instinctive recognition of superior genius he affirmed to be a
characteristic of that people, and he expressed deep regret that it
was not equally so of some other people whom he could mention. "No
reference to an allusion intended!"