YALTA, _Crimea, May 20, 1858_.
A few miles down the coast from Sebastopol, are to be seen the remains
of the ancient city of Chersones, and the little bay and port upon
which it was situated. It is most interesting to the Russians, as being
the spot where the first Bishop Vladimir was converted to Christianity
from Paganism, which was the means of establishing the Greek Church,
the prevailing religion in Russia.
A chapel is now found upon the spot, where resides a venerable priest,
with his colleagues. A new and large church is to be erected upon the
site of the ancient temple. During the war, the French, in cutting
entrenchments, made discoveries of some valuable relics of marble and
sculpture, which are now visible. Under the Tartar dynasty the old city
was deserted, and went to decay.
On my way to Balaklava I made a detour to look at the Kamisch camp
grounds, and to visit one of the wildest and most romantically situated
monasteries to be found. It is called St. George, and with its church,
convent, outbuildings, and hanging fruit gardens, on the south side of
the craggy cliffs, is well calculated to attract attention, and was
known and respected by the army of invasion.
Balaklava is now a miserable village, but when its little basin was
occupied by the English and French vessels it must have produced a
lively effect. The streets and roads approaching it are well paved as
left by the troops. The track of the railroad is still discernible.
The black coal depositories show where the iron horse was stalled.
The heaps of broken bottles show the consumption of the troops, and
reminded me of the Ranchos on the Isthmus of Panama after the passage
of an army of gold diggers. The high rocks at the narrow entrance bear
the white letters painted by the English--“Powell Point,” “Castle Bay,”
“Cossack Point,” &c.
We have had blustering winds and an unusually boisterous sea, so say
the residents, giving an opportunity of judging of the fierce waves of
the Black Sea along the iron bound coast, which shipwrecked so many of
the vessels of the combined squadron.
I here left my horses and droski, and took the post, the usual mode
of quick travel in Russia. I had taken out a Padorozna from the
authorities for horses from Balaklava to Alushta and then to this
place, in order to take the steamer for Theodosie and Kertch, upon the
straits of Azof. In this manner I can visit the whole length of the
south coast of the Crimea of any interest. The distance to the place
named is one hundred and fifty-two wersts, of three-fourths of a mile
each, for which one pays six kopecks per werst; the greasing of the
wheels at each post station is twelve kopecks, and a gratuity to the
driver in addition. Your vehicle is changed at every station. It is a
rude wagon, without springs, built in the form of a scow boat cut off
at both ends, and about eight feet long, with low wheels. The seat is a
net of ropes from the hind stakes, with quantities of hay or straw. The
same for the driver in front. Two bony nags are attached, and you are
now at his mercy. The horses are kept on the run, the extreme distances
in Russia making it necessary, but woe to the traveller who is not
accustomed to it. It is wild and furious travelling.
The post houses are furnished by the crown, and are known by the high,
square, box-like posts of white and black colors, with distances
marked thereon; for instance, on the main line, to St. Petersburgh two
thousand two hundred wersts, and in like manner on the side roads. A
sitting room is furnished with a sofa, chair, and table, and in case of
bad weather, or no inn, one is under shelter, and sometimes something
may be found to eat.
The Russian nobility travel in their own carriages, and carry their tea
machines for preparing tea, heavy fur cloaks for sleeping, &c. The best
and largest hotel in Odessa, for example, gives you a plainly furnished
room, with an ofen for heating purposes, if required, and a bed without
linen, for from six to ten francs, say from one dollar and twenty cents
to two dollars, per day. Bed covering, towels, and lights are charged
extra. You take your meals in your own room, or at the restaurant, for
which you pay _à la carte_, at the time, or it is put in your
bill. You will thus perceive a wide difference from our American plan.
At my first station from Balaklava, I found the Tartar village of
Bidar, quite deserted during the war. The occupants of this beautiful
valley, filled with pear, apricot, and other trees, had left for
Constantinople, and their return is not permitted. In the hands of an
industrious people, it would be very valuable.
My next relay crossed the mountain pass, where the sea, valleys,
deep precipices, and vineyards presented themselves instantly on the
passage of a tunnel, very like a mountain road from Genoa to Spezzia,
celebrated for its beauty.
The zigzag road, with short curves, was driven over more rapidly
than within my experience, the horses on full trot, or galloping
down the mountain. I could hold my seat with difficulty, but said
nothing. I timed my watch at the foot of the mountain, and found we
had made fifteen wersts in three-quarters of an hour. The Russian
youth turned towards me for a look of approbation, pocketed his
Navodki, and was soon off for Alupka, the palace of prince Woranzow,
the most magnificent private affair; perhaps, in Europe. The grounds,
gardens, and vineyards occupy miles, beautifully situated on the Black
Sea, sheltered from the cold by a southern exposure. The palace, or
castle, is of Gothic architecture, and was finished in 1852 by an
English architect. It has been building many years, and is of Crimean
granite. Six noble lions, of Carrara marble, in Canova style, standing,
crouching, and sleeping, guard the staircase on the water side.
Pavilions, a Greek church, a mosque, flowers, fruit trees, and miles
of drives, comprise the beauties. Such an outlay as three millions
of roubles in this remote country, can only be expected of a Russian
noble with two hundred thousand serfs, or more, besides immense wealth
differently invested. He lived to accomplish this work, and died,
leaving an only son, who resides in Paris.
My next point was Orianda, the new palace and grounds of the ex-empress
of Russia, who has never seen it, but is expected this summer. The
palace cost only half a million of roubles, or four hundred thousand
dollars. It is neat, substantial, well arranged, and is furnished
richly, but in good taste. Several of the rooms and fountains are after
the Pompeian style.
This is the resort of Russian nobility for the autumn months, during
the grape season. Many have estates and splendid residences, but are
seldom here. I have chosen the best season for visiting this region.
The little village from which I write is in the midst of lovely
gardens, the trees now in full bloom. The grape vines are putting
forth their leaves. The mountain side is dotted with occasional Tartar
villages of rude cottages, the peaks in the distance contrasting with
the green sea, whose waves are breaking upon the gravelly beach, with
no sign of shells. The water is saltish, without smell from sea weed.
The only decent hotel I have yet found in the Crimea, is the little
one here upon the seaside, kept by a Frenchman and his English wife,
both of whom were servants in a Russian noble family. It is a luxury,
indeed, with its neatness and comfort; and meals are served up in one’s
one room, according to European taste. I am the only guest at present.
The lulling sound of the waves induces repose, which I much needed, and
I am quite unwilling to leave the spot.
The only person in the town who speaks English, except the landlady,
is her little boy, who converses also in French with his father, and
Russian besides. I find the German more useful than the French for the
traveller in this region who does not know Turkish or Russian, as there
are several colonies of Germans.
This country being new and sparsely settled, money has less value, and
the luxuries of life are difficult to obtain without great expenditure,
which will prevent visitors or permanent residents from coming here.
The valleys abound with pasturage, and cattle may be raised in
quantities; but the Tartar race is lethargic, and works only when
necessity compels. They tell me fresh butter cannot be had at even a
rouble, or eighty cents, per pound. Their wants are few, and the pipe
is their only solace.
This being the fast of forty days my Fourgon driver, to whom I offered
refreshments, refused, but watched the waning sun, procured a bottle of
boza, a sort of acid drink made from flour, and bought a wheaten cake,
and the moment the last rays disappeared the poor fellow swallowed his
morsel, and drained his draught with a good relish. If the land could
be relieved from this race by sending them to Turkey, and their places
occupied by German colonists, it might be made a flourishing country.
I attended yesterday a village interment. The corpse of the defunct was
in an uncovered coffin, draped with crimson plush, and supported by
bearers by means of cords two or three feet from the ground. After the
ceremonies in the pretty little Russian chapel on the top of a hill,
with its stained glass windows, tiny turrets and spire, surrounded by
flowers and plants, the body of the man, preceded by the noble-looking
Greek priests in full robes, with long flowing hair and beard, crucifix
in hand, chanting a funeral hymn, and friends carrying burning
candles, was borne to the neat cemetery, where further ceremonies were
performed. When the crimson lid, with the white figures of the cross
upon it, was nailed on and lowered in the grave, the despair of the
women, as they were called upon to throw stones and earth upon it, was
frightful, and brought to mind that command of scripture, “Weep with
those that weep.” Home, with near, and dear, and departed friends, came
suddenly in the memory.
The service over, a large dish of rice, covered with raisins and sugar,
is passed to the priest, who applies the spoon, and it then goes the
rounds, the boys and idlers coming in for the balance.