Good as some of the police regulations are, others are very absurd. If a person is wounded or otherwise injured, no one may go near him; for, if the wounded man should die, the person who went to help him would be carried off to prison, and certainly be tried for the murder. An acquaintance told us that one day in winter he saw from the window of a hotel, where he was standing with a friend, an English lady driving in a sledge; at that moment a heavy sledge drove against it, upsetting it, and severely injuring her. A policeman was on the point of seizing her sledge, and would have taken it and herself to the police office, where, to a certainty, she would have died. There was not a moment for thought. His friend knocked down the policeman and then ran off, while he jumped into the sledge and drove off to a hotel, whence he sent for the lady’s husband. The lady was ill for many weeks. He never heard anything more of the knocked-down policeman, who probably, after picking himself up, was content with the capture of the heavy sledge which had committed the mischief.
We find that by going to Saint Petersburg we have lost two hours of time, but, as we hope to return home, we shall get it back again. The Russians, it must be remembered, in their love for Conservatism, keep the old style of time, which is about ten days behind the new. This rather puzzled us at first.
Skating is not in vogue in Russia; indeed, the ice so soon becomes covered with snow, that there is very little opportunity afforded to indulge in the pastime. The Montagne-Russe is the great out-of-door pastime. Huge hills are formed of ice and snow, and placed in a line, one beyond the other. People climb up to the top of the first with little sledges. A gentleman sits in front and guides the sledge, a lady holds on behind, and away they go down one hill, the impetus carrying them up the other, or a considerable way up it, and thus the whole line is traversed. So fond are the Russians of the amusement, that they have, even in summer, wooden mountains with greased roads, which answer the purpose of ice.
Chapter Seven.
Journey to Moscow—Russian Railway—Passengers—Mr Evergreen and his Hat-box—Refreshment Rooms—Scenes on the Road—Polite Spy—First View of Moscow—Unromantic Mode of Entering it—Hotel Chollet—The Chinese City—The Kremlin—The Great Bazaar—Cathedral of Saint Basil—The Holy Gate—Great Bell of Moscow—Tower of Ivan Veleki—Wonderful View from the Summit—The Tulip City.
“And now, my boys, we may pack up and be off for Moscow,” exclaimed Cousin Giles as they reached the Gostiniza Benson, after settling all the preliminary passport business, without which no one, either of high or low degree, subject or foreigner, can move from one city to another in the empire of the Czar. There is no great difficulty in this passport business, and no great annoyance; but still it is apt to ruffle the temper of the most mild and patient men, to have to spend the whole of one day, during their stay in each place, in performing a task which might well be dispensed with, not to speak of having to disburse several roubles on each occasion; it is not, therefore, surprising that everybody who writes about Russia should grumble at the system, and occupy many pages in abusing it.
The Moscow railroad station is at the end of the Nevsky Prospect. The travellers reached it soon after ten o’clock. Only one train started in the day, so that to miss it was to lose a day. The building is a fine one. It is entirely under Government superintendence, and the stationmaster, and ticket-clerks, and porters, and policemen, and guards are all in military uniform; it makes a person very much inclined to behave himself. A passenger must get to the station in good time, for there are all sorts of preliminaries to be gone through. One cannot jump out of a cab, rush to the ticket-office, sing out, “Porter, bring along my luggage!” jump into a carriage, and away to Edinburgh or Holyhead without a question being asked;—oh no! People do not go ahead quite so fast in the kingdom of the Czar. Before a ticket can be got, the passport must be shown at one office, where it is stamped; then one goes over to another office, where it is examined and the ticket granted,—all in the most deliberate way, rather trying to a person who fancies that he is late. Then the luggage must be taken to another place, and a ticket bought for it, and paid for according to the number of articles; then it must be delivered over the counter at another place; and lastly, the perplexed traveller is allowed to go on the platform and select his seat. The carriages are very long, the entrance, after the American model, being at each end, where there is a platform, a passage running down the whole length of the carriage, so that people can pass from one end of the train to the other. The second-class have seats arranged in rows like those in a church, and are not very comfortable for a long journey; but the first-class are more luxurious: at each end there is a small ante-room, then a saloon with ottomans round it, and the centre compartment is full of large, luxurious arm-chairs, far enough apart to allow long-legged men to stretch their legs to the full. The windows are large, and of plate glass, which, as Harry observed, would be very convenient if there was anything to look at out of them. Our friends had arranged themselves in one of the centre compartments, and the lime of departure was at hand, when Mr Evergreen made his appearance on the platform in a state of great agitation, first turning to one moustached fierce-looking official, then to another, appealing in vain to know, as it appeared, what had become of parts of his luggage.
“Does any one know the Russian for hat-box?” he exclaimed. “Hatboxichoff! Hatboxichoff!” he cried in piteous accents. “Dear me, dear me—there are all my writing things in it, and my letters, and my money, and my best hat, and my gloves; and I shall be sent to prison as an impostor, and not be able to appear decent at the coronation, and have no means of paying my bills, and be starved, and—”