The zigzag road, with short curves, was driven over more rapidly than within my experience, the horses on full trot, or galloping down the mountain. I could hold my seat with difficulty, but said nothing. I timed my watch at the foot of the mountain, and found we had made fifteen wersts in three-quarters of an hour. The Russian youth turned towards me for a look of approbation, pocketed his Navodki, and was soon off for Alupka, the palace of prince Woranzow, the most magnificent private affair; perhaps, in Europe. The grounds, gardens, and vineyards occupy miles, beautifully situated on the Black Sea, sheltered from the cold by a southern exposure. The palace, or castle, is of Gothic architecture, and was finished in 1852 by an English architect. It has been building many years, and is of Crimean granite. Six noble lions, of Carrara marble, in Canova style, standing, crouching, and sleeping, guard the staircase on the water side. Pavilions, a Greek church, a mosque, flowers, fruit trees, and miles of drives, comprise the beauties. Such an outlay as three millions of roubles in this remote country, can only be expected of a Russian noble with two hundred thousand serfs, or more, besides immense wealth differently invested. He lived to accomplish this work, and died, leaving an only son, who resides in Paris.
My next point was Orianda, the new palace and grounds of the ex-empress of Russia, who has never seen it, but is expected this summer. The palace cost only half a million of roubles, or four hundred thousand dollars. It is neat, substantial, well arranged, and is furnished richly, but in good taste. Several of the rooms and fountains are after the Pompeian style.
This is the resort of Russian nobility for the autumn months, during the grape season. Many have estates and splendid residences, but are seldom here. I have chosen the best season for visiting this region.
The little village from which I write is in the midst of lovely gardens, the trees now in full bloom. The grape vines are putting forth their leaves. The mountain side is dotted with occasional Tartar villages of rude cottages, the peaks in the distance contrasting with the green sea, whose waves are breaking upon the gravelly beach, with no sign of shells. The water is saltish, without smell from sea weed.
The only decent hotel I have yet found in the Crimea, is the little one here upon the seaside, kept by a Frenchman and his English wife, both of whom were servants in a Russian noble family. It is a luxury, indeed, with its neatness and comfort; and meals are served up in one’s one room, according to European taste. I am the only guest at present. The lulling sound of the waves induces repose, which I much needed, and I am quite unwilling to leave the spot.
The only person in the town who speaks English, except the landlady, is her little boy, who converses also in French with his father, and Russian besides. I find the German more useful than the French for the traveller in this region who does not know Turkish or Russian, as there are several colonies of Germans.
This country being new and sparsely settled, money has less value, and the luxuries of life are difficult to obtain without great expenditure, which will prevent visitors or permanent residents from coming here.
The valleys abound with pasturage, and cattle may be raised in quantities; but the Tartar race is lethargic, and works only when necessity compels. They tell me fresh butter cannot be had at even a rouble, or eighty cents, per pound. Their wants are few, and the pipe is their only solace.
This being the fast of forty days my Fourgon driver, to whom I offered refreshments, refused, but watched the waning sun, procured a bottle of boza, a sort of acid drink made from flour, and bought a wheaten cake, and the moment the last rays disappeared the poor fellow swallowed his morsel, and drained his draught with a good relish. If the land could be relieved from this race by sending them to Turkey, and their places occupied by German colonists, it might be made a flourishing country.
I attended yesterday a village interment. The corpse of the defunct was in an uncovered coffin, draped with crimson plush, and supported by bearers by means of cords two or three feet from the ground. After the ceremonies in the pretty little Russian chapel on the top of a hill, with its stained glass windows, tiny turrets and spire, surrounded by flowers and plants, the body of the man, preceded by the noble-looking Greek priests in full robes, with long flowing hair and beard, crucifix in hand, chanting a funeral hymn, and friends carrying burning candles, was borne to the neat cemetery, where further ceremonies were performed. When the crimson lid, with the white figures of the cross upon it, was nailed on and lowered in the grave, the despair of the women, as they were called upon to throw stones and earth upon it, was frightful, and brought to mind that command of scripture, “Weep with those that weep.” Home, with near, and dear, and departed friends, came suddenly in the memory.