Yonder is a poor man’s funeral—how sad! There is not a single mourner to follow him to his final place of rest; perhaps he was a common soldier or a convict, for here one is almost as much respected as the other. The coffin is nothing but a long, roughly-made deal box stuffed with straw (a few pieces of which escape from under the lid), and is dragged along on a peasant’s sledge with as much unconcern as if it contained the body of a dog. How different from the magnificent funeral cortège I saw only yesterday! it was that of the Prince L. The road was strewn with branches of fir; numbers of men preceded the procession with flaming torches in their hands: the bishop in his mitre, the priests in their silver-bordered robes; the choristers chanting the funeral service in solemn tones; the splendid coffin with its rich and beautiful mountings; the glittering pall of cloth of gold; the magnificent canopy of crimson velvet with white ostrich-feathers waving in the wind, as if they mocked the lifeless corse beneath them; the footmen in their white-bordered coats, cocked hats, and long streamers of red, blue, and white ribbons. The innumerable carriages and sledges, marshalled in a long line by the gensdarmes, closed the procession; the soldiers presented arms to the dead. Yet all his riches and nobility could not free the proud Prince L. from Nature’s heavy debt, nor prevent him from treading the same dreary path as yon poor friendless wretch.
St. Petersburg never looks so beautiful as on a summer’s night; the buildings are then seen to great advantage. The peculiar twilight of these latitudes casts a softness yet a clearness over them, of which those who have not seen it can have no idea: the utter silence of a great city in what seems broad daylight gives a mysterious feeling to the heart, and subdues the thoughts. I was never more struck with the beauty of St. Petersburg than once when, on returning from a party at a late hour, I was crossing the upper bridge from Kamanoi Oustroff: the long line of palaces fading away in the distance, the magnificent quays, the calm river, the unbroken stillness, all produced the effect of a fairy-scene, as if they were fabrics of a vision too lovely to be real, erected on the enchanting shores of a lake of liquid silver.
But, see! yonder is a strange group. They are prisoners being escorted out of the town by soldiers. There is a Cossack of the Black Sea among them. What a savage look he casts around! The long hairs of his shaggy white cap almost fall into his eyes, and make him look even more ferocious than he otherwise would; his legs are heavily chained, so are those of his companions. The man next to him is a Cossack of the Ural; his rough sheepskin cap, like those of the soldiers, and wild-looking dress, mark him as a complete barbarian. It would be difficult to decide which has the more villanous countenance of the two. We need scarcely ask what their crimes are. That young girl cannot be more than sixteen, yet she has been knouted, and is now sufficiently recovered to be able to accompany the gang to Siberia; her crime was that of striking her mistress: she will not be reclaimed by the wicked wretches with whom she is marching. The charitable are bestowing alms on them, kindly wishing to alleviate their sufferings as much as possible, and the money will enable them to buy some trifling comforts on their journey. One of the convicts seems to be the treasurer of the party, for everything is handed over to him. There is kindness in that poor peasant who is running after them to give them the little he can afford. The Russians are, generally speaking, a good-hearted people, and would eventually become a noble nation under a freer and better government. Many of their vices and crimes proceed from ignorance and fear.
That fine carriage with six horses, the two first bearing postilions in long frock-coats and prodigious cocked hats, putting us in mind of our respected friend Punch on horseback, the two footmen behind in the same becoming costume, and the coachman holding the reins à la Russe with outstretched arms, contains the Metropolitan of St. Petersburg. He is a venerable-looking old man, with a long snowy beard and straight head-dress like a brimless hat, covered with white cashmere falling down behind: his forehead surmounted by a diamond cross; his long loose robe hanging in rich folds; his breast covered with crosses and stars, for every profession has a military rank in Russia, give him a most imposing appearance; if not exactly like that of an apostle, he may remind us of the high-priest of Rome, when Rome was mistress of the world. The people salute him, and uncover their heads with much reverence; he raises his hand, and seems as if he were bestowing his benediction on them. But let us stand on one side, for the Emperor’s sledge is coming; he is dressed in a gray military cloak and leather helmet ornamented with gold, precisely similar to that of any other officer. He has a fine face; his fair complexion and the general cast of his features show his German descent, but there is something peculiarly disagreeable about his eyes. His noble figure amply fills the sledge, which drives at a rapid rate past us. His majesty looks much older than he did a few months ago; his hair is grayer and his shoulders rounder, yet he is a fine man still. He acknowledges the low bows of his people by a military salute, and leaves behind him as he advances many open mouths and wide-staring eyes among the sheepskin gentry, who perhaps have but just come into St. Petersburg with the “winter-loads,” and can scarcely gaze their fill at the Czar, who, in their ignorance, they imagine a kind of God upon the earth. Look! the Emperor is giving a military salute to some ladies in a blue carriage, with two Cossacks in scarlet behind; it his her Majesty the Empress and her daughter. The red uniform of the Cossacks is the distinctive mark between her livery and that of the wife of the heir-apparent, which is blue.
It must not be imagined that all the respect with which the Czar is greeted is quite spontaneous. A Polish gentleman told me once an anecdote of an acquaintance of his. He had recently arrived in the capital from some out-of-the-way place in Poland, and, as the Emperor does not wear his crown in the street, he of course did not know him from Adam; he therefore committed the crime of not taking off his hat when the Emperor passed. On his return home he had a notification that he must uncover on meeting his Majesty. He did not fail to do it the next time, and saluted him with two or three low bows quite down to the ground. He soon had another visit from the authorities, ordering him out of the city, which made him practically to understand that the Czar could have too much respect paid him as well as too little. I need scarcely add that the Pole did not delay his departure, and thought himself fortunate in being able to return in safety to his obscure village in his own country.
Mais allons! Let us continue our walk down the Nevsky Perspective. The carriages with scarlet liveries and lined with wolfskin are those of families belonging to the court, of which there are plenty in St. Petersburg. The shops, or magazines as they are called here to distinguish them from the common Russian warehouses in the Gostinoi Dwor, all have signboards with the articles their proprietors sell painted thereon—a proof of the general ignorance, for, if the people could read, such signs would not be necessary. Opposite, you see is a hairdresser’s; he himself is represented on his signboard as exercising his skill on the head of a very sentimental young gentleman dressed for a ball; he unites phlebotomy with his other accomplishments, for vis-à-vis is represented a very fine lady in a blue dress and pink bows looking very so-so, whose arm is at the mercy of the operator, while a boy in a white shirt is holding the basin.
Next door to the hairdresser lives a milliner, whose gay caps and bonnets are duly delineated on her board. Yonder is a toy-shop, with a fine painting containing the most artistic grouping of rocking-horses with happy little boys on them for ever smiling, and Punch reclining wearily on a drum, mixed up with swords and guns that will never kill Turks, and helmets, shakoes, Cossack-caps, &c., destined to raise ambitious hopes in many a childish breast. But we have reached the Anitchkin bridge, which crosses the Fontanka. These four equestrian statues in bronze have a fine effect; the human figures endeavouring to restrain the fiery steeds are full of life and animation. There are some fine buildings near; that large handsome mansion on the right hand belongs to Prince Wasiliwitch; the long range that you see yonder to the left is the Catherine Institution; it contains some hundreds of young ladies belonging to noble families, and, like most establishments of education here, is a government one. It is of no use going further than the Amitchkin bridge, because there is absolutely nothing to see; the houses beyond it degenerate greatly, so we will return. That large white mansion is the palace of the Archduchess Olga, which she inhabits when she visits the capital. Leaving the Gostinoi Dwor on the left, we look down a street, facing which we see at a distance the Michael Palace, a handsome edifice. Soon afterwards we reach the Kazane church; it is built on the model of St. Peter’s in Rome, only on a diminutive scale. We will finish our morning’s ramble by entering it for a few minutes and examining the interior. It is large, and the space, unobstructed by pews, appears even greater than it is; the fine marble pillars supporting the roof are surmounted by gilt capitals; the pavement is tesselated; the walls are covered with pictures, before which silver lamps are suspended, and stands are placed, in which are stuck innumerable thin wax tapers, reminding us of the joss-sticks of the Chinese. That portrait, before which the ignorant lower class are performing their devotions, and bowing so low that their foreheads touch the ground, is the likeness of the Emperor’s daughter Alexandrine, who died some years ago. Alas! and are the days of heathen apotheosis not yet passed away? Must we, in the nineteenth century of the Christian era, see anything so shocking as this? What difference is there between the adoration of Romulus by the ancient Romans and this idolatry? Before that shrine opposite are kneeling two nuns; one of them is only a novice, as shown by her black velvet cone-shaped head-dress and gauze veil hanging down behind; the other has a straight head-dress covered with black cloth; they are both habited in gowns of black serge, and carry rosaries. A face, however beautiful, could never look so in this unbecoming costume. Near them is a poor woman decently clad, whose repeated prostrations, and the tears coursing each other rapidly down her cheeks, show that true devotion, and perhaps repentance for sin, can be felt even by one so humble and ignorant as a Russian peasant-girl. The massive balustrade round the altar, the gate of the Holy of Holies, and the candelabra are of real silver, made, as they say, from the spoils of the “grande armée,” when the French invaded the country; but who can believe all the Russians say? We have often heard them boast, among other incredible triumphs of their arms, that they took Paris in 1814, and they even had the assurance to deny that any one else had aught to do with their entry into that city. The large filagree silver doors that enclose the Holy of Holies are shown to advantage by the crimson velvet curtains behind them. We ladies are not allowed to enter the “sanctum,” so we must content ourselves with the knowledge that there is nothing worth seeing inside, and with admiring the portraits of the saints inserted in the gates; they are really well executed, but “saint-painting” is a profession in Russia, something like that of the artificers of brass who worked for the great temple of Ephesus. This royal-looking lady is St. Olga, whose only claim to merit was that of introducing the Greek religion into Muscovy. Her horrid cruelty and detestable immorality would lead us to think that she deserved any other abode but that of heaven. These people, just coming up the steps as we are leaving, are a party of pilgrims come on a devotional journey to St. Petersburg; they have no cockle-shells or gourds, no staves nor sandal shoon, as we generally see on the stage. They have all the appearance of common mendicants, with a stout stick in their hands and a wallet on their back; and such indeed they generally are, for under the pretence of a pilgrimage they manage to make a very profitable begging tour through the country.