DEAR EDITOR,
How can I send you "a sketch of anything I see," when I haven't seen anything for the last twenty-four hours. Impossible! utterly impossible! You simply want me to do impossibilities, and I am only mortal. Voilà! I don't complain; I only say I can't draw what I don't see; and as to sending funny sketches when it's raining in torrents, and been doing so for the last forty-eight hours three minutes and twenty-one and a-half seconds, I'm—well, I can't—simplement. Torrents of rain. Anyone can draw water—but draw rain! Yes, when on horseback, I can draw rein. Good that, "when you come to think of it,"—considering that I'm 1900 miles from an English joke, so that this you may say is far-fetched, only 'tisn't fetched at all, as I send it. Think I've left out an "0," and it's 19,000. It seems like it. Here we are in Petersburg. Mist's cleared off. We're anchored close to Winter Palace, and I've just seen a droschki-driver, whom I sketch. Not unlike old toy Noah's-Ark man, eh? Something humorous at last, thank Heaven! But did I come 1900 miles to see this? Well, "Neva no more!"
Mister Skipper says I ought to go to the Petershoff. All very well to say so, but where is Peter, and now far is he "hoff"? That's humorous, I think, eh? You told me to go and "pick up bits of Russian life," and so I'm going to do it at the risk of my own, I feel sure, for I never saw such chaps as these soldiers, six feet three at the least, every man Jackski of 'em, and broad out of all proportion. However, I'll go on shore, and try to get some fun out of the Russians, if there's any in them. If I'm caught making fun of these soldiers, I shouldn't have a word to say for myself! The Skipper says that he's heard that the persecution of the Jews has just begun again. Cruel shame, but I daren't say this aloud, in case anyone should understand just that amount of English, and then—whoopski!—the knout and Siberia! So I'll say "nowt." Really humorous that, I'm sure, and 19,000 miles from England.
To-day—I don't know what to-day is, having lost all count of time—is a great day with the Russians. I don't understand one word they say, and as to reading their letters—I mean the letters of their alphabet—that is if they've got one, which I very much doubt,—why I might as well be a blind man for all I can make out. Somehow I rather think that it's the Emperor's birthday. Guns and bells all over the place. Guns going off, bells going on. Tremendous crowds everywhere. "I am never so lonely," as somebody said, "as when I'm in a crowd." That's just what I feel, especially when the crowd doesn't talk a single word of English. The Russians are not ill-favoured but ill-flavoured, that is, in a crowd. I cheered with them, "Hiphiphurrahski! Hipski! Hurrah-ski!" What I was cheering at I don't know, but I like to be in it, and when at Petersburg do as the Petersburgians do.
Having strayed away from our yachting party, or yachting party having strayed away from me, I found myself (they didn't find me though; they have been finding me in wittles and drink during the whole of the voyage,—humorous again, eh? It's in me, only there's a depression in the Baltic. Why call it Baltic? Nobody on board knows) outside the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul. I daresay there's some legend about their having built it, but, as I remarked before, my knowledge of the Russian tongue is limited to what I get dried for breakfast, and that doesn't go far when there are many more than myself alongside the festive board—and so I couldn't get any explanation. But I managed to sneak inside the fortress—and then,—lost my way!!! Couldn't get out. "If you want to know your way, ask a Policeman" in London, and, in St. Petersburg, ask a Bobbiski. Here's one with a sword—at least, I think he's one. I said, "Please, Sir, which way?" Then I tried him with French—"Où est," says I, "le chemin pour aller out of (I couldn't remember the French for 'out of') cette confounded fortress?" He wouldn't understand me. I tipped him a wink—I tipped him a two-shilling piece. It wasn't enough I suppose, as he called another fellow. The other chap came up,—what he was I don't know—but suddenly, from their awful manner, their frowns, and violent expressions, it occurred to me, "Hang it all! they take me for a Jew!" Never was so alarmed. With great presence of mind I pointed to my nose—they saw the point at once. Then the pair of them marched me off ("to Siberia," thinks I! and I wondered how far we should have to walk!) to the courtyard, where I had entered, and then passed me through the gate on to the road again. Then I fled to the yacht!! Away! Away!
Never will I venture out of the yacht again, until I can do so safely. Expect me back soon. Ah, what an escape!—to think I might have languished for the best of my days in irons or in the mines out in Siberia, like Rip Van Winkle, or the Prisoner of Chillon, who dug himself out with his nails (when I was a boy I remember it, and tried to do it in the garden), and came up with a long beard when everyone was dead and gone. I may return as a stowaway, but anyhow expect me, and prepare the fatted outlet. That's humorous, isn't it, eh?
Yours, JETSAM, THE Y.Y.