CHAPTER XX. THE FIRST DROSCHKY-RIDE—SUNSET AT THE ISLANDS—EARLY MORNING VIEWS OF THE NEVSKOI PROSPEKT.
“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 that fact 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; 9 P. 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 the ishvoshtnik if 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 such occasions 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 a feeling 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 are poshoi (go ahead) and stoi (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 had produced something totally unlike any of the equipages of Western Europe. There was fascination in the risks of it. The ishvoshtnik (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.
The ishvoshtnik has 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 yell poshoi at the driver. A voice at my side says, “How lucky you remembered the word!” The man hears me, and he calls out poshoi to 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 out stoi! 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 to the 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 looking at 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 said poshoi and off we started. As we 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 to my 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 4.30 A. 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 above it 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 the dvornik, or concierge, 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 wake the dvornik to 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, the dvornik gives 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-grounds near 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.