IV ST. PETERSBURG
A hymn of praise to the Russian railroad! The Russian tracks begin at Warsaw to have a considerably broader bed. This for a strategical purpose, to render difficult the invasion by European armies. It is also a benefit to the traveller, for the Russian coaches are wider and more comfortable than the European, and the side-passages along the coupé are very convenient for little walks during the journey. A separate heating compartment and buffet, with the indispensable samovar, where one may secure a glass of tea at any time, are situated in the centre of the long car. The trains do not jolt, although they are almost as fast as ours. The smoke and soot do not drive through the tightly closed double windows. A twenty-four hour trip here tires one less than a six-hour trip with us. Certainly there is more need of preparation for a comfortable journey in Russia than in the West. The distances are immense, a twenty-four hour journey creating no comments. The Warsaw-Petersburg train was as well filled as the ordinary express-train between Frankfort and Cologne.
The run, which lasts from one morning to the next, is naturally not very entertaining. The broad expanse of snowy plain, relieved only by snow-breaks and frozen swamps, at every two miles a few wretched half-Asiatic huts, and occasionally the dark profile of a forest, no more to be seen, and a sea of unintelligible Slavic sounds, no more to be heard. The feeling of loneliness grows upon one, and the impression becomes constantly stronger that Russia is a world for itself.
But there is an end to everything, even to a railroad journey without books, without papers, and without conversation. At the dawn of the clear, wintry day one may already distinguish the signs of a great city. A station with magnificent buildings and a well-cared-for park stretching almost to the tracks claims our attention after the many unimpressive sights of the long road. We decipher the name "Gatschina," and understand why there is such a strong police force on the platform. This is the Winter Palace. Scarcely an hour later the gilded cupolas stand out bright above the snow; the brakes are put on; we are in St. Petersburg.
It cannot be said that the city appears in a favorable light when viewed from the railroad. The not over-elegant two-horse vehicle which takes us and our baggage rattles over miserable pavements, dirty from the melting snow, through broad, endless suburban streets. The houses on either side are of only one story, built mostly of wood, their poverty-stricken appearance being intensified here and there by three-storied barracks. Liquor-shops, little second-hand stores, wooden huts, with putrid garbage, follow one another in a variety by no means pleasing. The passers-by, ill-clad, with the inevitable rubber shoes, shuffle along the slushy sidewalks; trucks with two or sometimes three horses, their necks bent under the brightly painted Russian "duga" (wooden yoke), a truly Gorki atmosphere in its entirety. One can scarcely believe that he is entering one of the most brilliant cities of the continent. The endless rows of stores with their two-storied sheds, which one passes on the way to the centre of the city, but slightly improve one's first impression, for even they are far removed from the splendor of the capital.
We finally reach the hotel to which our mail has been addressed. It is an enormous structure, more than two hundred metres long. Yet it has no room for us. It is filled to overflowing. It is impossible to crowd in one more soul. We again take our carriage. We drive from one hotel to another, growing constantly more modest in our demands for lodging. But our efforts are vain. Everything is occupied to the very gables.
We were careless in coming to St. Petersburg in January. This is the time of congresses, of business, of carnivals. All the provincial officials are here to render their annual reports to their ministries. Naturally, they bring with them their families, who wish to make their important purchases here and to taste of the social season. Congresses and conferences are held here not in the summer and vacation months as with us, but shortly before the "butter-week," really a carnival, the pleasure of which one may wish to take this opportunity to test. Medical, teachers', and insurance congresses are held here at the same time. Foreign merchants come here to complete their transactions. But the great city of St. Petersburg is not adapted for foreign guests.
The instincts of self-defence awake at the time of need. We do not intend to camp to-night under the bridge arch. We make great efforts and by the evening have secured a room, in spite of the "absolute impossibility," in that large and only comfortable hotel in St. Petersburg, which we shared with a friendly mouse, but which was free from other objectionable tenants. Even the little mouse was deprived in a base manner of its life and liberty the very next night. Once provided with board and lodging, we decided to become acquainted with the better side of St. Petersburg. What does a stranger usually do in the evening when he visits a strange city? He goes to some theatre.
There are plenty of hotel porters and agents to provide for the wishes of the guests. "Hello, agent; get me tickets for the Imperial Theatre"—where a ballet of Tschaikowski's is to be presented to-night by first-class talent. The theatre programme, obligingly provided with a French translation, informs us that among others, Kscheschinska will do herself the honor to play the leading rôle. "But, honored sir, that is quite impossible; first, because this is the carnival time; second, because most of the seats are already subscribed for; and third, because Kscheschinska dances to-night"—a sly closing of the left eye accompanies the mention of the name—"and neither the Emperor nor the court will be absent from the theatre. Unless you pay twenty to thirty rubles to a speculator you will hardly get into the theatre."
Since my passion for the ballet or for Kscheschinska does not attain the proportions of a twenty-ruble investment, I find it preferable to devote the evening to the always interesting and fruitful hotel studies. What seething life in the numberless corridors, dining-halls, and vestibules of the fashionable St. Petersburg Hotel! Governors in generals' gold-braided uniforms, covered with so many orders and medals that it makes one curious to find out about all the deeds of heroism for which they were bestowed; chamberlains with refined elegance in their gala dress, hiding the "beau restes" of the one-sided Adonis; tall, agile, dark-eyed Circassians with the indispensable cartridge-pouch on the breast region of their long coats, with the dagger hanging in its massive gold sheath from the tightly drawn belt; Cossacks with fur caps a foot high, made of white or black Angora skins, placed on their bristly heads; a nimble Chinese man, or maid, servant, with long pigtail, whose sex it is impossible to distinguish; a whole troop of dark-eyed Khivanese squatting on their prayer-rugs before the apartment of their khan, passing the nargile from hand to hand, and exchanging witticisms about the passing Europeans; beardless Tatar waiters shuffling by in their flat-soled shoes—a mixture of Europe and Asia such as may hardly be seen at once in any other part of the world. The west European merchants and other travellers, who throng the hotel, are scarcely noted among the exotic appearances. In this hotel, as elsewhere throughout St. Petersburg, the European, the civilian, is seemingly merely tolerated. The city belongs to the functionaries, soldiers, officials, and chamberlains, to the Cossacks, Circassians, and, above all others, to the police. More intimate acquaintance reveals that a goodly portion of the uniformed persons in St. Petersburg are ordinary students, technologists, professors, etc., and that these uniformed persons do not equally represent the state. On the contrary, the fight of the state, or, to be more precise, of the police, against the free professions, would not be so bitter if the members of the latter were not entitled to wear uniforms. As it is, they also may appear to the common people as representatives of the Czar's authority.
We slept through the night. Kind fate had decreed for us snow and cold in succession to the disagreeable thaw, and we availed ourselves of the clear weather to become acquainted with the bright side of St. Petersburg. And, first of all, the snow! It changes the entire appearance of the city as if by a magic wand. The narrow, open carriages where two persons can accommodate themselves only with difficulty, especially when wrapped in fur coats, have disappeared. Their places have been taken by small, low sleighs without backs. The "izwozchik" (driver) in his blue, plaited Tatar fur coat and multicolored sash, with fur-trimmed plush cap on his head, sits almost in the passenger's lap. Yet there is compensation for the meagre dimensions of the sleigh. The small, rugged horses speed along like arrows through the straight streets, hastened on by the caressing words or the exclamations of the bearded driver. Horse, driver, and sleigh are very essential figures in the St. Petersburg street scenes. We at home cannot at all realize how much driving is done in St. Petersburg. The distances are enormous; streets five or six kilometres long are not unusual. There are almost no streetcar lines, thanks to the selfishness of the town representatives, composed of St. Petersburg house-owners, who do not care to see a reduction in rents in the central portion of the town. The average city inhabitant readily parts with the thirty, forty, or fifty kopeks demanded by the "izwozchik," and thus everything is rushed along in an unending race. The "pravo" (right) or "hei beregis!" (look out!), which the drivers bawl to one another or to the pedestrians, resounds through the streets, but they are not very effectual. One must open his eyes more than his ears if he wishes to escape injury in the streets of St. Petersburg. The constant racing often results in four or five rows of speeding conveyances attempting to pass one another. The drivers with their bearded, apostle faces, which appear lamblike when they good-naturedly invite you to enter their conveyances, are like wild men when they let loose. Their Cossack nature then asserts itself. On and always on, and let the poor pedestrian take care of his bones. And however much the little horse may pant and the flakes of foam may fly from its sides, "his excellency," "the count," "his highness" (the izwozchik is extremely generous with his titles), will surely add a few kopeks when the driver has been very smart; and so the little horse must run until the passenger, unaccustomed to such driving, loses his breath.
But the Russian barbarian conception of wealth and fashion is to have his driver race even when out for a pleasure drive, as if it were a question of life or death. The numberless private turnouts, distinguished by their greater elegance, their splendid horses, harness, liveries, and carriages, have no less speed than the hackney-coachman, but the reverse, at a still greater speed, thanks to the elasticity of their high-stepping Arab trotters. And now imagine twenty-five thousand such vehicles simultaneously in racing motion, with here and there a jingling "troika," its two outer horses galloping madly and the middle horse trotting furiously; imagine, at the same time, the bright colors of the four-cornered plush caps on the heads of the stylish drivers, the gay-colored rugs on the "troikas," the blue and green nets on the galloping horses of the private sleighs, the glitter of the gold and silver harness, the scarlet coats of the court coachmen and lackeys, everything rushing along on a crisp winter day, over the glimmering, freshly fallen snow, between the mighty façades of imposing structures, flanked by an almost unbroken chain of tall policeman and gendarmes, and you have the picture of the heart of St. Petersburg at the time of social activity. Splendor, riches, wildness are all caricatured into magnificence as if calculated to impress and to frighten. Woe to him here who is not of the masters!
V ST. PETERSBURG—CONTINUED
St. Petersburg is an act of violence. I have never received in any city such an impression of the forced and the unnatural as in this colossal prison or fortress of the Russia's mighty rule. The Neva, around whose islands the city is clustered, is really not a stream. It comes from nowhere and leads nowhere. It is the efflux of the Heaven-forsaken Ladoga Lake, where no one has occasion to search for anything; and it leads into the Bay of Finland, which is frozen throughout half of the year. No commercial considerations, not even strategical reasons, can justify the establishment of this capital at the mouth of the Neva. The fact that St. Petersburg has none the less become a city of millions of inhabitants is due entirely to the barbaric energy of its founder, Peter the Great, an energy which still works in the plastic medium of Russian national character. On the bank of the Neva stands the equestrian statue of Peter, raised on a mighty block of granite, a notable work of the Frenchman Falconet. The face of the Emperor as he ascends the rock is turned to the northwest, where his most dangerous rival, the Swedish Charles, lived. And just as his whole attitude expresses defiance and self-conscious power, so his city, St. Petersburg, is only a monument of the defiance and the iron will of its founder. The historians relate that Peter intended, by removing his residence to St. Petersburg, to facilitate the access of European civilization to the Russian people. If this be true, Peter utterly failed in his purpose. The old commercial city, Riga, would have answered the purpose much better. To be sure, Riga did not come into Russian possession until eighteen years after the founding of St. Petersburg. Yet what was there to prevent the despot from abandoning the work that he had begun? But no, St. Petersburg was to bid defiance to the contemporary might of Sweden, and so forty thousand men had to work for years in the swamps of the Neva to build the mighty tyrant's castles, the Peter-and-Paul fortress, an immense stone block on the banks of the icy stream. Malarial fevers carried off most of them; but the Russian people supplied more men, for such was the will of the Czar. The drinking-water of St. Petersburg to-day is still a yellow, filthy fluid, consumption of which is sure to bring on typhoid fever; but the will of Peter still works, and St. Petersburg remains the capital.
Peter, with his peculiar blending of political supremacy and democratic fancifulness, built for himself a little house on the fortress island, where the furniture made by himself is still preserved by the side of the miracle-working image of the Redeemer which the despot always carried with him. His spirit soars over this city and this land. What he did not entirely trust to his unscrupulous fist he left in honest bigotry to the bones of the holy Alexander Nevski, which he had brought to his capital soon after its establishment. Autocracy and popocracy still reign in the Russian empire. The Peter-and-Paul fortress, in the subterranean vaults of which many of the noblest hearts and heads of Russia have found their grave, the Isaac cathedral, with its barbarian pomp of gold and precious stones, and the mighty monoliths—these are the symbols of the city of St. Petersburg and of its régime. If there is in Russia, even among the enlightened minds, something like a fanatical hatred of civilization and of the West, it is due to the manner in which the half-barbarian Peter imposed Western ideas and civilization on a harmless and good-natured people.
What brutal power of will may do in defiance of unfriendly nature has been done on the banks of the Neva. Indeed, its green waters are now hidden by an ice-crust three feet thick, over which the sleighs run a race with the little cars of the electrical railway. Yet even without the restless shimmer of the water the view of the river-bank is still very impressive. The golden glitter of the great cupolas of the Isaac cathedral, the long red front of the Winter Palace, the pale yellow columns of the admiralty, between Renaissance structures, stand out from among the rest.
Palaces and palaces stretch along the stream right up to the Field of Mars. The gilded spire of the Peter-and-Paul cathedral pierces the white-blue sky and greets, with its angel balanced on the extreme spire, the equally grotesque high spire of the admiralty. Great stone and iron bridges span the broad stream, its opposite shore almost faded in the light mist of the wintry day. Walking towards the middle of the bridge, whence a splendid view may be obtained, one sees the long row of buildings on the farther islands standing out of the mist. One row of columns is followed by another—the Academy of Arts, the Academy of Sciences, the house of Menschikov, which Catherine built for her favorite, come into view. Towards the west the hulls of vessels stand out from among the docks. Still farther out the mist hides the shoals of the Neva, together with those of the Gulf of Finland, in an impenetrable gray. Towards the north stretch the endless lanes with their bare branches which lead to the islands. This is the Bois de Boulogne of St. Petersburg, where the gilded youth race in brightly decorated "troikas," and hasten to squander in champagne, at cards, and in gypsy entertainments, the wages of the starved muzhik. It is a magnificent picture of power, of self-conscious riches, the better part of which is furnished by the mighty stream itself.
It is easy now to realize that St. Petersburg was originally planned for a seaport, and that it therefore presents its glittering front to the sea. The railroads which conduct the traffic to-day could no longer penetrate with their stations into the city proper; hence the visitors must first pass through the broad, melancholy suburban girdle which gives one the impression of a giant village. When access to the city was still by boat from the Gulf of Finland, the landing at the "English quay," with its view of all these colossal structures, golden domes and spires, must have created a powerful impression. Nothing less was contemplated by this massing of palaces. The capital and residence city was not intended to facilitate the access of the West but rather to inspire it with awe.
The splendor of the city naturally becomes gradually diminished from the banks of the Neva towards the vast periphery. The main artery of traffic in St. Petersburg, the "Nevski Prospect," and its continuation, the "Bolshaya Morskaya," remain stately and impressive to their very end. A peculiar feature of St. Petersburg is the numerous canals which begin and end at the Neva, and which once served to drain the swampy soil of the city. They are now to be filled, for they do not answer the purpose. Nevertheless, they offer meanwhile an opportunity for pretty bridge structures, as, for instance, the one leading over the Fontanka, ornamented with the four groups of the horse-tamers by Baron Klodt. A comparison with the lagoon city, Venice, would really be a flattering hyperbole, for one does not get the impression here of being on the sea, as in the case of the "Canal-Grande." The city rather reminds one of the models that were nearer to its founder, the canal-furrowed cities of Holland. Still, these canals are a pleasant diversion in the otherwise monotonous pictures of the city streets.
Should it be mentioned here that St. Petersburg has its "millionnaya" (millionaire's street)? It is well known that hither and towards Moscow flow the treasures of a country squeezed dry. The great wealth of the one almost presupposes the nameless misery of the other. The indifference with which the shocking famine conditions of entire provinces and the threatening economic collapse of the whole empire are regarded here finds its explanation only in the bearing of these boyar-millionaires, who consider themselves Europeans because their valets are shaved in the English fashion.
The eye of the stranger who wishes to understand, and not merely to gaze, will rather turn to other phenomena more characteristic than splendid buildings of the country and its people.
There is, in the first place, the pope (priest), and then the policeman.
The priests and the policemen are the handsomest persons in St. Petersburg. Although the flowing hair of the bearded priest, reaching to his shoulders, is not to be regarded as a characteristic peculiarity, since every third man in Russia displays long hair or profuse locks that would undoubtedly draw to their fortunate possessor in our land the attention of the street boys, still they are carefully chosen human material, tall, graceful men with handsome heads and proud mien. Notwithstanding this they are accorded but little reverence even among the bigoted Russians, for no matter how often and copiously these may cross themselves before every sacred image, they quite often experience, behind the priest, a sort of salvation which compels them suddenly to empty their mouths in a very demonstrative manner. This may be due to various kinds of superstition, which regard the meeting with a priest as very undesirable, but it finds its explanation also in the not always exemplary life of this servant of the Lord. He is especially accredited with a decided predilection for various distilled liquors that at times exert a doubtful influence on a man's behavior. One may see in St. Petersburg men wrapped in costly sable furs make the acquaintance of the street pavements, especially during the "butter-week," yet for spiritual garments the gutter is even less a place of legitimate rest, and, at any rate, it is difficult to acknowledge as the appointed interpreter of God's will a man whose mouth savors of an entirely different spirit than the "spiritus sanctus."
For all this, however, the Russian is filled, outwardly at least, and during divine services, with a devotion which, to us, is scarcely comprehensible. With fanatical fervor he kisses in church the hand of the same priest behind whose back he spat at the church door. His body never rests. As with the orthodox Jew and the howling dervish, his praying consists in an almost unceasing bowing, and a not at all inconsiderable application of gymnastics. He is perpetually crossing himself. Particularly fervent suppliants, of the female gender especially, can hardly satisfy themselves by kissing again and again the stone flags of the floor, the hem of the priest's coat, the sacred images, and the numberless relics. But how effective and mind-ensnaring is the orthodox church service. The glimmer of the innumerable small and large wax candles brought by most of the congregants fills the golden mist of the place with an unearthly light. Rubies, emeralds, and diamonds shine from the silver and gold crowns on the sacred images. The gigantic priest in his gold-embroidered vestments lets sound his deep, powerful, bass voice, and wonderful choirs answer him from both sides of the "ikonostas." Clouds of incense float through the high nave. The faithful, ranged one after another, intoxicate and carry one another by their devotion—a huge general hypnosis in which education and priestly art are equally concerned. The orthodox cult is not to be compared, at least in my opinion, with that of the Roman Catholics in the depth and nobility of the music and in the artistic arrangement of the service. But in its archaic monotony, in its use of the coarsest material stimuli, it is perhaps even more suggestive for the Eastern masses than is the other for the civilized peoples of the West. The quantity of gold, silver, and precious stones offered up, especially in the Isaac cathedral and in the Kazan cathedral—fashioned after that of St. Peter's in Rome—to give the faithful a conception of the just claims of Heaven on treasure and reverence, is beyond the belief of Europeans. The artistically excellent silver ornaments of the Isaac cathedral weigh not less than eleven thousand kilograms. A single copy of the New Testament is bound in twenty kilograms of gold. The sacred image made in commemoration of the catastrophe of Borki is almost entirely covered with diamonds. These endowments came, for the most part, from members of the imperial house. The union of church and state is more intimate here than elsewhere, and, apparently, even more profitable for the guardians of the altar. Among all the sacred relics and trophies of the St. Petersburg church, one impresses the foreigner above the others. It is a collection of silver gifts from the French, ranged along the wall of the Peter-and-Paul cathedral. By the side of the coffins of the Russian emperors and empresses, from Peter the Great to Alexander III., which one cannot pass without a peculiar feeling of historical respect, under innumerable flags and war trophies, there stand, as the greatest triumph that the despotic barbarian state has won from civilized Europe, the silver crowns and the shields of honor which Félix Faure, Casimir-Périer, the senate, the chamber, and the Parisian press presented to the Russian ally of France.
"You see here the greatest misfortune that has befallen us in this century," said my companion, an orthodox Russian of nothing less than radical views. "Until then, until this alliance, with all our boastfulness we still felt some shame before Europe for our barbarous and shameful rule. But since the most distinguished men and corporations of the most enlightened republic have begun prostrating themselves before us, the knout despotism has received the consecration of Europe and has thrown all shame to the winds."
"But the French have lent you eight milliards for it," I replied.
"A part of which has gone into Heaven knows whose pockets; the other supports our police against us, and the remainder was sunk in a worthless railroad, while we, in order to provide the interest, must take the horse from our peasant's plough and the cow from its stable, until even that shall come to an end, for nothing else will be left for the executor."
"A Jesuit trick," I said. "You owe the alliance to the diplomacy of Rampolla."
"The sword and the holy-water sprinkler," answered the Russian, as he pointed his hand in a circle from the war trophies to the "ikonostas," "they go everywhere hand-in-hand and enslave and plunder the nations."
The leaden, snowy skies looked down on us oppressively as with a deep shudder at the prison gratings of the Peter-and-Paul fortress we hastened back to the city. I heard in my mind the notes of the "Marseillaise," and before my eyes there stood the gifts of honor from the French nation brought to the despot of the fortress. They are very near each other, cathedral and prison. In the still of the night the watchman of the French offerings may often hear the groans and the despairing cries of the poor souls who had dreamed of freedom and brotherhood and had paid for their dreams behind the heavy iron bars, deep under the mirror-like surface of the Neva, in the dungeons of the Peter-and-Paul fortress.