How can I send you "a sketch of anything I see," when I haven't
seen anything for the last twenty-four hours. Impossible! utterly
impossible! You simply want me to do impossibilities, and I am only
mortal. _Voilà_! I don't complain; I only say I can't draw what
I don't see; and as to sending funny sketches when it's raining
in torrents, and been doing so for the last forty-eight hours
three minutes and twenty-one and a-half seconds, I'm--well, I
can't--_simplement_. Torrents of rain. Anyone can draw water--but draw
rain! Yes, when on horseback, I can draw rein. Good that, "when you
come to think of it,"--considering that I'm 1900 miles from an English
joke, so that this you may say is far-fetched, only 'tisn't fetched
at all, as I send it. Think I've left out an "0," and it's 19,000. _It
seems like it_. Here we are in Petersburg. Mist's cleared off. We're
anchored close to Winter Palace, and I've just seen a droschki-driver,
whom I sketch. Not unlike old toy Noah's-Ark man, eh? Something
humorous at last, thank Heaven! But did I come 1900 miles to see this?
Well, "Neva no more!"
[Illustration: Droschki-Driver.]
Mister Skipper says I ought to go to the _Petershoff_. All very well
to say so, but where is _Peter_, and now far is he "hoff"? That's
humorous, I think, eh? You told me to go and "pick up bits of Russian
life," and so I'm going to do it at the risk of my own, I feel sure,
for I never saw such chaps as these soldiers, six feet three at the
least, every man Jackski of 'em, and broad out of all proportion.
However, I'll go on shore, and try to get some fun out of the
Russians, if there's any _in_ them. If I'm caught making fun of
these soldiers, _I shouldn't have a word to say for myself_! The
Skipper says that he's heard that the persecution of the Jews has
just begun again. Cruel shame, but I daren't say this aloud, _in
case_ anyone should understand just that amount of English, and
_then_--whoopski!--the knout and Siberia! So I'll say "_nowt_." Really
humorous _that_, I'm sure, and 19,000 miles from England.
To-day--I don't know what to-day is, having lost all count of time--is
a great day with the Russians. I don't understand one word they
say, and as to reading their letters--I mean the letters of their
alphabet--that is if they've got one, which I very much doubt,--why I
might as well be a blind man for all I can make out. Somehow I rather
think that it's the Emperor's birthday. Guns and bells all over the
place. Guns going off, bells going on. Tremendous crowds everywhere.
"I am never so lonely," as somebody said, "as when I'm in a
crowd." That's just what I feel, especially when the crowd doesn't
talk a single word of English. The Russians are not ill-favoured
but ill-flavoured, that is, in a crowd. I cheered with them,
"Hiphiphurrahski! Hipski! Hurrah-ski!" What I was cheering at I
don't know, but I like to be in it, and when at Petersburg do as the
Petersburgians do.
Having strayed away from our yachting party, or yachting party having
strayed away from me, I found myself (_they_ didn't find me though;
they _have_ been finding me in wittles and drink during the whole
of the voyage,--humorous again, eh? It's _in_ me, only there's a
depression in the Baltic. Why call it Baltic? Nobody on board knows)
outside the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul. I daresay there's
some legend about their having built it, but, as I remarked before,
my knowledge of the Russian tongue is limited to what I get _dried
for breakfast_, and that doesn't go far when there are many more
than myself alongside the festive board--and so I couldn't get
any explanation. But I managed to sneak inside the fortress--and
then,--_lost my way_!!! Couldn't get out. "If you want to know
your way, ask a Policeman" in London, and, in St. Petersburg, ask a
Bobbiski. Here's one with a sword--at least, I think he's one. I said,
"Please, Sir, which way?" Then I tried him with French--"_Où est_,"
says I, "_le chemin pour aller_ out of (I couldn't remember the French
for 'out of') _cette_ confounded fortress?" He wouldn't understand
me. I tipped him a wink--I tipped him a two-shilling piece. It wasn't
enough I suppose, as he called another fellow. The other chap came
up,--what _he_ was I don't know--but suddenly, from their awful
manner, their frowns, and violent expressions, it occurred to me,
"Hang it all! they take me for a Jew!" Never was so alarmed. With
great presence of mind I pointed to my nose--they saw the point at
once. Then the pair of them marched me off ("to Siberia," thinks I!
and I wondered how far we should have to walk!) to the courtyard,
where I had entered, and then passed me through the gate on to the
road again. Then I fled to the yacht!! Away! Away!
[Illustration: Policeman.]
Never will I venture out of the yacht again, until I can do so safely.
Expect me back soon. Ah, what an escape!--to think I might have
languished for the best of my days in irons or in the mines out in
Siberia, like _Rip Van Winkle_, or the Prisoner of Chillon, who dug
himself out with his nails (when I was a boy I remember it, and tried
to do it in the garden), and came up with a long beard when everyone
was dead and gone. I may return as a stowaway, but anyhow expect me,
and prepare the fatted outlet. That's humorous, isn't it, eh?
[Illustration: "Suddenly from their awful manner, their frowns, and
violent expressions, it occurred to me, 'Hang it all! They take me for
a Jew!"'--_Extract from Letter from Our Yotting Yorick_.]
Yours, JETSAM, THE Y.Y.
19,000 miles away too! Just imagine!
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