Perhaps, when New York has doubled her supply of Croton, she will provide a fountain worthy of the name. Nothing seems to captivate a crowd quite as effectually as a big jet of water. It must be fired into the air straight and high. It makes little difference whether the stream is thick or thin at the nozzle. At the Interlaken Casino there is a slender fountain of this kind. Its topmost drops tremble some hundreds of feet above the ground. No one dreams of quitting the scene till the water ceases to play, and I believe the spectators would stay there all night if it were not turned off. At Dresden, behind the Zwinger, there is a jet of far less pretensions. But, while it is playing, everybody from far and near flocks around to see it. Visiting the park of Sans Souci, not far from Berlin, I found the great fountain just as irresistible as all of its kind have proved everywhere else. The by-standers never tired of watching the sparkling column as it shot aloft. They would hardly move out of the way, even when its spray drenched them as the wind swayed the flashing summit to and fro. Nature and art have combined to makethe old pleasure-ground of Potsdam lovely. But there is nothing in it as beautiful as its fountain.
The linden-trees in the great street upon which I look as I write, have shed almost all their blossoms. The wind brings with it the faintest trace of a perfume which is delicious when not too strong. The renowned Unter den Linden must be the paradise of thoroughfares when its long double lines of trees are in their full flower. Its noble palaces, museums, universities, and other public buildings make it attractive at all times. But its wealth of lindens is its unique charm in the summer. Only I am a little disappointed not to find among the leafy rows a single specimen of the tree as high as that which is so common in Southern Germany. But, in years, perhaps, they will grow to be as lofty as their predecessors in the same street which were cut down in their old age and decrepitude.
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 himMr. 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 paperrubles 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 andMoscow, 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 otherattachésof 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 9A. 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 gaitof 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 thesamovar, 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. Thedroschkiesburned 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—theProspekts, 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 somany 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 ortwelve 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 thatspoke 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 acoupéof 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 thecoupéis 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 hismurderers 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.
“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 thatfact 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; 9P. 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 theishvoshtnikif 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 suchoccasions 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 afeeling 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 areposhoi(go ahead) andstoi(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 hadproduced something totally unlike any of the equipages of Western Europe. There was fascination in the risks of it. Theishvoshtnik(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.
Theishvoshtnikhas 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 yellposhoiat the driver. A voice at my side says, “How lucky you remembered the word!” The man hears me, and he calls outposhoito 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 outstoi! 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 tothe 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 lookingat 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 saidposhoiand off we started. Aswe 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 tomy 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 4.30A. 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 aboveit 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 thedvornik, orconcierge, 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 wakethedvornikto 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, thedvornikgives 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-groundsnear 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.
As I was shuffling some card-photographs at Daziaro’s (print-shop on the Nevskoi Prospekt), I noticed three or four costume-portraits of the same fine-looking man. They were all full-lengths and very effective. The intelligent face seemed familiar to me; but in vain I tried to recall its owner. Neither the front nor the back of the photograph gave any clew to his name. Where had I seen that open brow with the curling hair, and those large, expressive eyes? I sought light from Daziaro. “The Grand-Duke Alexis,” said he.
That sent my memory back over quite a gap of years to the time when a youthful scion of the house of Romanoff visited America and carried the hearts of my countrywomen by storm. They unanimously declared that he perfectly realizedtheir ideal of a prince. That ideal was a most exacting one; for it was founded on fairy-stories, and the Arthurian legends. They knew nothing of princes in real life, or they would never have made their standard so impossibly high. But here at last was a prince who came up to it, with his stature of six feet two inches, his winning face, and his dignified yet cordial manner. I have heard that there are American ladies who sacredly preserve to this day the gloves they wore when they danced in the same quadrille with the Grand-Duke Alexis.
With my countrymen he also made himself a great favorite by his desire to please and readiness to be pleased. For these reasons—and because of the sincere friendship which has always existed between the United States and Russia—the Grand-Duke Alexis, wherever he went in America, had a heartier popular reception than any other prince of any stock who ever visited us.
I could not help feeling a desire to see him again in the flesh, after noticing how like his former self (except for the lapsed years) he looked in the pictures. The Grand-Duke Alexis had become the admiral of the Russian navy. I thought how fine he must look in the full-dress uniform of his rank. I had more curiosity to see him than the Tsar himself, who is the rarest spectacle now vouchsafed to the eyes of the stranger, as he sticks close to hispalaces and private shooting-grounds. I found myself unconsciously on the watch for the sailor-prince as I rode about the city. Sometimes I would see an officer of commanding stature approaching us in a barouche at a dashing gait, and would say, on the impulse, “I do believe that’s our friend.” “Who? Who?” “Why, Alexis, to be sure!” “Oh, no, it’s somebody else.” This happened very often, for showy officers in stylish turnouts are not uncommon sights on the Nevskoi Prospekt.
One day while standing in the spacious vestibule of the Hôtel d’Europe, I noticed the people about me taking off their hats. Looking up, I observed before me the Grand-Duke Alexis himself. The well-remembered features were there, minus the high, open brow which was concealed by a great cocked hat loftily plumed with green. Tall as he was in America, he seemed to be two or three inches taller now. His dark-green uniform—probably an admiral’s—fitted him well. He looked more princely than ever. I took off my hat to him, but he did not notice it, and, in fact, he returned nobody’s salute as far as I could see. “He used to be more democratic in America,” I said to myself. “But that was to please us. He is in Russia now, and the case is different.”
At that moment the excellent head-porter, whowas always rendering these delicate attentions to the guests, whispered in my ear—“Voilà l’embassadeur Américain!”
Never was pleasing illusion more rudely dispelled to make room for profound wonderment. So this resplendent being was the American minister to Russia. What was his name? Oh, yes, I remember—Lothrop, of Michigan. And that magnificent uniform? He must have been a general of volunteers at home, and so is entitled by act of Congress to wear it on ceremonial occasions abroad. A good idea, though some Americans who have no uniforms to wear may ridicule it as pompous and fussy. I have no doubt that the Russians are a great deal more impressed by all those buttons, feathers, and gold lace, than they would be by the plain black suit which I had supposed that Mr. Lothrop always wore. By-the-way, I wonder to what arm of the service Mr. Lothrop belonged? I don’t remember about that dark-green and that particular shape of hat.
Just then a gentleman in complete black who had been following the American minister, drew up alongside of him, and I could contrast the two styles of dress to great advantage. Prejudice apart, there could be no doubt that Mr. Lothrop looked more like a Minister Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary of the United States ofAmerica in his military garb than he would have done in civilian’s clothes.
Can I believe my eyes? The minister is actually taking off his hat and bowing very respectfully to the somber-coated person by his side. Do my ears deceive me? He calls him “Your Excellency,” and seems to be receiving an order from him like a servant. The next instant a gentleman approaches the less conspicuous of the two figures and says to him with a Chicago accent, “The American minister, I believe?”
“Yes, sir! What can I do for you?” he kindly asks.
And then I know that this gorgeous person is attached to our quiet American minister aschasseur, and that it is his business to herald the approach of that functionary. It is a practice found to be very useful by our highest grade of representatives abroad; and that American must be a ferociously uncompromising republican who would object to this inexpensive but effective display of rank and dignity on their part.
One afternoon while sitting in the reading-room of the Hôtel d’Europe, looking over the last number of “Punch,” and trying to extract a laugh from it, I became aware that a gentleman near me was desirous to open conversation. Out of my side-eyeI could see a monocle glaring at me, with suppressed feeling behind it, and I knew by the fidgety motion of a pair of hands, holding a newspaper aloft, that the owner had something to say if I would lend him an ear. I laid down “Punch,” and turning toward the stranger saw at once what was the matter. He was exposing to my gaze a newspaper—the London “Saturday Review,” I think it was—several pages of which had been badly mutilated by scissors. Bits of various lengths had been snipped out of its reading-columns. I immediately recognized the work of the Russian censor, specimens of which I had seen before. The man who displayed this mangled “Saturday Review” for my inspection was English. Seeing that he was somewhat excited, I resolved to tease him a little for fun, though the indignation which blazed from his face was honest, and certainly not without cause.
“I know that this is a land of tyranny,” said he, “but I’m an Englishman and not afraid to speak my mind. Isn’t that an outrage?”
“I beg your pardon,” said I; “what is the trouble?”
“This paper sent me by a friend; see the holes in it!”
“Ah! yes, he has picked out the plums for his scrap-book, and sent you the leavings.”
“My dear sir,” said the Englishman, dropping his single eye-glass in his emotion, “you don’t understand; this is the beastly work of the Russian Government. See!” and he handed me the paper. I glanced at the damaged pages, and observed that the cuttings had been made in articles about Russia. The job had been neatly done. The censor had evidently read everything in the paper concerning Russia, and had scissored out all the passages that were uncomplimentary. The rest of the context was allowed to stand.
“And, to make it worse,” said the Englishman, “the paper was detained in the post-office here five days at least. There’s the original wrapper with the London post-mark.”
“Yes, I see. The censor wanted to do his work thoroughly. He is more conscientious than most public officials, I should say.”
“Conscientious, indeed! It was done for the express purpose of annoying an Englishman.”
I was about to reply that perhaps the parts of the articles cut away had been written for the express purpose of annoying the Russians, but I forbore.
“And here is another style of mutilation,” he continued, handing me a copy of another London paper. “What do you say to that?”
He opened a sheet which showed at intervalslarge square or oblong patches, apparently a mixture of lampblack and oil applied by a coarse handstamp. The reading-matter beneath was effectually obliterated. These daubs looked like woodcuts badly printed.
“An illustrated paper?” I said, playfully. “Anyhow, this kind of cuts is better than the other; you get your paper whole, you see,” and I smiled.
The Englishman felt hurt by my frivolous treatment of his grievance. “It doesn’t seem to strike you exactly as it does me,” said he; “and yet, I should think that, being an American, you—”
“I know what you are about to say,” I interrupted. “Of course, I uphold the liberty of the press as much as you do, and equally detest this tampering with the mails; but then I don’t expect to find the same measure of freedom here that I find in the United States or England. The Russian Government maintains a strict censorship of the Russian press. And, in order to be consistent, the Government alsopretendsto take great pains to keep out of the country all printed matter that it does not like.”
“Pretends, my good sir?” cried my English friend. “But itdoeskeep out all such matter—as you have seen from these two specimens.”
“How about this?” said I, taking up the cleanand whole copy of “Punch” from the table. “This contains two or three jokes at the expense of Russia. And there are the ‘Illustrated News’ and ‘Graphic,’ ‘Figaro,’ ‘Charivari,’ ‘Indépendance Belge,’ ‘Fliegende Blätter,’ ‘Kladderdatsch,’ and—can I believe my eyes?—the great London ‘Times’ itself! All regularly taken here and filed. You will find plenty of hits at Russia in these papers, and not one of them has been cut or blackened with a stamp. I can swear to that, as I have been looking all through them.”
“Yes, I know,” he answered. “But these all come that way, because they are addressed to the Russian proprietor of the Hôtel d’Europe. The outrage—for so I must still call it—is inflicted on me because I am an Englishman.”
It still gave him so much pleasure to imagine that he was a martyr because of his race that I hesitated to undeceive him. But I thought it better to correct his erroneous opinion by saying that, if he would ask the head-porter, through whose hands all the mail-matter came, he would find out that the newspapers addressed to all the transient guests of every nationality at the hotel were treated in exactly the same way. The letters, he would ascertain, came through straight enough, and showed no signs of tampering.
“That last is true,” said he.
“And, as for the papers,” I continued, “I am told that a line from your embassador or your consul-general addressed to the Russian Post-Office Department, or even a call at headquarters from yourself, will cause their prompt delivery undisturbed. Why not try it?”
“I would not condescend to ask the favor!” was the haughty reply.
“Well, then,” said I, shrugging my shoulders to imply a desire of closing the somewhat unprofitable conversation—“then I am afraid you will be obliged to put up with it. For my own part, I am free to say that, while I am in a foreign country, I will not hurriedly condemn laws and usages which happen to be unlike those in America. When I don’t like it, I will leave it.”
“I fancy you Americans think better of Russia than we Englishmen do.”
“Perhaps so,” was my reply, as I buried myself once more in the pages of “Punch,” and resumed silence.
Our English friends can not at least complain that they are denied freedom of speech in Russia. On the railroad-trains, in shops, in the hotels, and in the public streets, I have heard them talk as boldly and freely against the Tsar and his system as if they were at home. I have sometimes thought it would be only becoming in them to speak a littlelower, or else tone down the severity of their criticisms while experiencing in their own persons the actual toleration of the government they so fiercely denounce.
Before entering Russia, I had stuffed myself—my mind, not pockets—with books, magazine articles, and newspaper letters about the Nihilists. From such sources of information I had learned that the Nihilists represent all classes of Russian society—peasants, priests, soldiers and officers, noblemen, and even the imperial family. It was said that ladies of rank, wealth, and refinement were among the most active propagandists of Nihilism. These reports had taken so strong a hold of me that, on striking Russian soil, I began at once to look about for some signs of the presence of this widely spread and terrible doctrine.
Among our fellow-passengers from Berlin to St. Petersburg was a lady accompanied by her maid. She had acoupé litfor her exclusive use, through the window of which I could see her from the platform of stations where we alighted for refreshments. She always shrank into a corner of her carriage, as if to escape scrutiny. I noticed that her chin was disproportionately large, and that her lips were firmly pressed together. Some one told me that she was of high rank inRussia. Whereupon the whimsical thought possessed me that here, perhaps, was one of those aristocratic female Nihilists of whom I had read so much. The absurdity of the idea did not prevent me from keeping an eye on her.
At the frontier station this lady’s actions were so strange that I watched her with a “fearful joy.” She was profoundly agitated. Her face was pale—even her resolute lips sharing in the ashen hue—and she strode up and down thesalle d’attenteunceasingly, as if to walk off her nervousness. She had three large, black, strongly bound trunks, marked with Russian initials in white paint. I knew they were her trunks by the anxious glances which she threw at them from time to time. Once, when the porter let the corner of one of them fall heavily to the floor, I observed her start. “Perhaps it contains dynamite,” I said to myself, half-laughingly.
When her turn came for the formalities of thedouane, she stepped forward with a boldness which was well assumed. She and her maid assisted the Government officers in unlocking, unstrapping, and unpacking. Her apparent anxiety to have the search made thorough did not deceive me. The men went to the bottom of two of the trunks—either removing the contents or probing them with their long arms, or peering among them withtrained eyes and smelling hard for tobacco and spirits all the time. They found nothing contraband. When they proceeded to explore the third trunk, the lady made a strong visible effort to conceal her emotion. “Now for bombs,” I thought, “or Nihilists’ tracts at the very least!”
It was fortunate for her that the custom-house myrmidons had not noticed her feverish anxiety. But they were busy at their work, not over-suspicious, and glad to be through with a midnight job which paid them nothing. So they slighted number three, simply removing and putting back a top layer of clothes. Then they closed the lid, and chalked all the trunks. I could see the mysterious lady heave a sigh of relief, which I could not help sharing with her, though it left unanswered the interesting question, What did she have in that third trunk?
Was it dynamite? Or revolutionary pamphlets and circulars? Or some innocent but dutiable stuff which the lady carried into her country free? I have seen the sex equally agitated on the docks of New York, when the goods which had been hid away were nothing more dangerous than smoking-jackets or meerschaum pipes or uncut velvet. So let us give the fair unknown Russian the benefit of the doubt, and imagine that the extent of her offense, if any, was smuggling in a costly Frenchdinner-dress orarticles de Parisdear to the female heart.
Perhaps there never was a more harmless fellow than themujikwho made our beds and blacked our shoes on the Russian sleeping-car which bore us to St. Petersburg. But that man had the high cheek bones, the long, unkempt hair, and the generally wild look which I had once noticed in the portrait of a notorious Nihilist printed in the “Illustrated London News.” I did not then know that these were the characteristic Tartar features, seen all over Russia. On account of his resemblance to that portrait I found myself suspecting themujikof Nihilistic tendencies. I once came upon him suddenly while he was sitting on a stool in a little recess, at the rear end of the car. He was muttering to himself, and pounding his knee with his brawny fist. How could I help thinking that he was heaping curses on the existing order of things universal, and that that self-inflicted blow of his clinched hand expressed, in a feeble way, his long-pent hatred of all human society? And yet it is possible that the poor man was only cursing his ill-luck in taking a counterfeit ruble for good money.
During our visit to Tsarkoé Selo, while making the tour of the palace, I noticed from a window agentleman in uniform walking slowly through the grounds. He had in his hand a letter which he was anxiously scanning. Attracted by his soldierly bearing, I asked the guide who he was. “Le Prince” (something unintelligible ending in sky), “monsieur,” was the response. Now, here was a prince at home, in the private garden of an imperial palace, his hair white, his port manly, his breast bearing decorations—the man of all men, one would say, least likely to risk the assured good things of this life by linking his fortunate self to the Nihilists. And yet the book-writers and the newspaper correspondents had told me that the head and front of the awful conspiracy was to be found among the palaces of the empire. I owe an apology to a presumably loyal and devoted subject of the Tsar for permitting myself to suppose, for one second, that the prince, whose name I deeply regret my inability to spell, was perhaps “boss” of the Nihilists, and that the letter in his hand was written by some fellow-conspirator in Warsaw or Moscow. Thus unjustly suspicious does one become, after reading so many real or pretended revelations about high-life Nihilists in Russia.
Next day at the Hôtel d’Europe, while I was looking over the bill of fare for luncheon, I observed that my waiter—a typical Russian in aspect—hovered near me more closely than usual, and hisappearance indicated that he had something to say to me privately, in the French which he spoke with some difficulty. He had heard us talk about America, and he doubtless knew my nationality. Now, it is to Americans that the revolutionists in all parts of Europe turn with full confidence for sympathy. They make no mystery of their hatred of kings and emperors when they get hold of an American ear. I have thus become the repository of several confidential opinions about crowned heads, which, if they had been known to the police, would have caused the arrest and punishment of the speakers. Therefore, when I saw this quiet-looking Russian waiter edging up, I said to myself: “He is going to whisper his longings for republican institutions. It will do him good to relieve his feelings. I am afraid he is a Nihilist. He looks like one. I must condemn him for that, of course, but I will not deny my sympathy for the oppressed, even in the heart of Russia.”
As these thoughts floated through my brain, the waiter stooped down to make his mysterious communication. I cocked up my ear to hear him more distinctly. He said, in a half-whisper, “Monsieur, il y a desfish-ballsaujourdhui.” And that was the whole of his tremendous secret. Well, I was glad it was nothing more serious and laughed heartily at my groundless misgivings.
It seems that the accomplished manager of the restaurant had lately added “fish-balls” to the extensive list of his special dishes for particular days. It was a flattering concession to American tastes, made, I presume, at the original suggestion of some Bostonian visiting St. Petersburg. In due time, probably pork and beans and brown bread will be introduced there through the same reforming agency. Supposing that I was an American, the waiter illogically inferred that I was fond of fish-balls. His hesitation in making the announcement arose from his imperfect acquaintance with French, and his still deeper uncertainty as to the exact pronunciation of “fish-balls.”
This amusing incident cured me of my propensity for surmising that this or that Russian man or woman might possibly be a disciple of Nihilism. There may be a great many Nihilists in Russia, and they may belong to all classes of society; but, if the secret police can not find them out, we may be sure that strangers making hasty visits to the country are not likely to be more successful in the search.