When the month of May comes to St. Petersburg there is no evidence of spring flowers embalming the air, nor of the nightingale's song, celebrated so much by the poets. The ground is covered with half-melted snow. The Doga brings into the Neva ice blocks as large as enormous rocks, heaped on top of each other, and these ice blocks renew the cold which has diminished with the breaking of the Neva. This dissolution might be called a splendid horror; the noise of it is fearful. Close to the exchange the Neva is three times as wide as the Seine at the Pont Royal, and one may imagine the effect of this sea of ice cracking in all its parts. In spite of the officials posted all along the quays to prohibit the people from jumping from floe to floe, the boldest venture upon the moving ice for the purpose of crossing the river. Before undertaking their dangerous expedition they make the sign of the cross, and then rush on, fully persuaded that if they perish it must be because they were predestined to it. The first who crosses the Neva in a boat at the hour of the breaking up presents a silver cup, full of river water, to the Emperor, who in turn fills it with gold.
The windows are still left stuffed up at this season. Russia has no spring, but the vegetation hastens to make up for lost time. One may say with literal truth that the leaves sprout while you watch them. One day at the end of May I went with my daughter for a walk in the Summer Garden, and, wishing to assure ourselves as to the truth of all we had heard concerning the rapidity of vegetable growth, we took note of some shrub-leaves that were only in bud. We took a long turn in the avenue, then coming back to the spot we had started from, we found the buds open and the leaves completely unrolled.
The Russians take advantage of all phases of their climate to enjoy themselves. In the severest cold they indulge in sledging parties, either by day or with torches at night. In some places they throw up mountains of snow, down which they slide at a stupendous rate of speed without any danger. Men versed in their business push you off from the top of the mountain, and others catch you at the bottom.
One of the most interesting ceremonies to be seen is the blessing of the Neva. It occurs once a year, and it is the Archimandrite who bestows the benediction in presence of the Emperor, the imperial family, and all the dignitaries. As at this season the ice of the Neva is at least three feet thick, a hole is made through which, after the ceremony, everybody draws up some of the holy water. Frequently women are seen to dip their little children in, and sometimes the unfortunate mothers let loose their hold of the poor victims of superstition. But instead of mourning the loss of her child, the mother then gives thanks for the happiness of the angel who has gone to pray for her. The Emperor is obliged to drink the first glass of water, it being tendered him by the Archimandrite.
I have already said that in St. Petersburg you must go out into the street to find out how cold it is. And it is likewise true that the Russians are not content with giving their houses a springlike temperature; some of their rooms are lined with windowed screens, behind which are arranged boxes and pots containing the lovely flowers that the month of May gives to France. In winter the rooms are lighted most elaborately. They are also scented with hot vinegar into which bits of mint have been thrown and which yields a very agreeable and healthy smell. All apartments are furnished with long, broad divans for men and women to sit on. I became so used to them that after a time I could not sit on a chair.
The Russian lady's salute is a bow, seeming to me more dignified and graceful than our courtesy. They do not ring for their servants, but signal to them by clapping their hands together, as sultanas are said to do in the harems. Every Russian lady has a man in full livery at the door of her drawing-room; he is always there to open the door for visitors, whom it was at that time the custom not to announce by name. But what seemed stranger still to me was that some of these ladies made a female serf sleep under their bed.
Of an evening I went out into society. There were innumerable balls, concerts and theatrical performances, and I thoroughly enjoyed these gatherings, where I found all the urbanity, all the grace of French company. It seemed as though good taste had made a jump with both feet from Paris to St. Petersburg. Nor was there a lack of open houses, and in all of them one was welcomed with the greatest hospitality. One met at about eight and supped at ten. In the meantime tea was drunk, like everywhere else. But the Russian tea is so excellent that I—with whom it does not agree, and who must abstain from it—was glad to inhale its aroma. Instead of tea I drank hydromel. This tasty beverage is made with good honey and a small fruit picked in the Russian woods; it is left in the cellar for a certain length of time before bottling. I found it far preferable to cider, beer, or even lemonade.
CHAPTER IX
Catherine II.
SURROUNDINGS OF ST. PETERSBURG — PATRIARCHAL UNCONVENTIONALITIES — AN ARTILLERY REPAST — THE GREATNESS OF THE SECOND CATHERINE — WHO LIT HER OWN FIRE AND MADE HER OWN COFFEE — AND WAS SWORN AT BY A CHIMNEY SWEEPER — OTHER DOMESTIC AMENITIES IN THE CAREER OF AN EMPRESS — THE SUIT OF GUSTAVUS IV. — CATHERINE'S DEATH — HUMILIATING FUNERAL INCIDENTS.
I experienced a great joy when, after breathing frosty air outdoors and air heated by stoves indoors for several months, I witnessed the arrival of summer. I took a great delight in the walks, and hastened to enjoy the beautiful surroundings of St. Petersburg. I very often went to the Lake of Pergola alone with my Russian man-servant to take what I called an air-bath. I enjoyed the contemplation of its limpid water, which vividly reflected the trees on its banks. And then I would mount to the heights adjacent. On one side the horizon was bounded by the sea and I could distinguish the sails lit up by the sun. Here a silence reigned that was disturbed only by the song of a thousand birds, or sometimes by the sound of a distant bell. The pure air and the wild, picturesque place enchanted me. My faithful Peter, who warmed up my little dinner or picked flowers of the field for me, made me think of Robinson on his island with Friday.