We first visited the palace properly so called. Its exterior displays the usual irregularity of Eastern dwellings; but its want of symmetry is more than compensated for by its wide galleries, its bright decorations, its pavilions so lightly fashioned that they seem scarcely attached to the body of the building, and by a profusion of large trees that shade it on all sides. These all invest it with a charm, that in my opinion greatly surpasses the systematic regularity of our princely abodes. The interior is an embodied page out of the Arabian Nights. The first hall we entered contains the celebrated Fountain of Tears, the theme of Pushkin's beautiful verses. It derives its melancholy name from the sweet sad murmur of its slender jets as they fall on the marble of the basin. The sombre and mysterious aspect of the hall, further augments the tendency of the spectator's mind to forget reality for the dreams of the imagination. The foot falls noiselessly on fine Egyptian mats; the walls are inscribed with sentences from the Koran, written in gold on a black ground in those odd-looking Turkish characters, that seem more the caprices of an idle fancy than vehicles of thought. From the hall we entered a large reception-room with a double row of windows of stained glass, representing all sorts of rural scenes. The ceiling and doors are richly gilded, and the workmanship of the latter is very fine. Broad divans covered with crimson velvet run all round the room. In the middle there is a fountain playing in a large porphyry basin. Every thing is magnificent in this room, except the whimsical manner in which the walls are painted. All that the most fertile imagination could conceive in the shape of isles, villages, harbours, fabulous castles, and so forth, is huddled together promiscuously on the walls, without any more regard for perspective than for geography. Nor is this all: there are niches over the doors in which are collected all sorts of children's toys, such as wooden houses a few inches high, fruit trees, models of ships, little figures of men twisted into a thousand contortions, &c. These singular curiosities are arranged on receding shelves for the greater facility of inspection, and are carefully protected by glass cases. One of the last khans, we were assured, used to shut himself up in this room every day to admire these interesting objects. Such childishness, common among the Orientals, would lead us to form a very unfavourable opinion of their intelligence, if it was not redeemed by their instinctive love of beauty, and the poetic feeling which they possess in a high degree. For my part I heartily forgave the khans for having painted their walls so queerly, in consideration of the charming fountain that plashed on the marble, and the little garden filled with rare flowers adjoining the saloon.
The hall of the divan is of royal magnificence; the mouldings of the ceiling, in particular, are of exquisite delicacy. We passed through other rooms adorned with fountains and glowing colours, but that which most interested us was the apartment of the beautiful Countess Potocki. It was her strange fortune to inspire with a violent passion one of the last khans of the Crimea, who carried her off and made her absolute mistress of his palace, in which she lived ten years, her heart divided between her love for an infidel, and the remorse that brought her prematurely to the grave. The thought of her romantic fate gave a magic charm to every thing we beheld. The Russian officer who acted as our cicerone pointed out to us a cross carved on the chimney of the bed-room. The mystic symbol, placed above a crescent, eloquently interpreted the emotions of a life of love and grief. What tears, what inward struggles, and bitter recollections had it not witnessed!
We passed through I know not how many gardens and inner yards, surrounded with high walls, to visit the various pavilions, kiosks, and buildings of all sorts comprised within the limits of the palace. The part occupied by the harem contains such a profusion of rose-trees and fountains as to merit the pleasing name of The Little Valley of Roses. Nothing can be more charming than this Tatar building, surrounded by blossoming trees. I felt a secret pleasure in pressing the divans on which had rested the fair forms of Mussulman beauties, as they breathed the fresh air from the fountains in voluptuous repose. No sound from without can reach this enchanted retreat, where nothing is heard but the rippling of the waters, and the song of the nightingales. We counted more than twenty fountains in the courts and gardens; they all derive their supply from the mountains, and the water is of extreme coolness.
A tower of considerable height, with a terrace fronted with gratings that can be raised or lowered at pleasure, overlooks the principal court. It was erected to enable the khan's wives to witness, unseen, the martial exercises practised in the court. The prospect from the terrace is admirable; immediately below it you have a bird's-eye view of the labyrinth of buildings, gardens, and other enclosures. Further on the town of Bagtche Serai rises gradually on a sloping amphitheatre of hills. The sounds of the whole town, concentrated and reverberated within the narrow space, reach you distinctly. The panorama is peculiarly pleasing at the close of the day, when the voices of the muezzins, calling to prayer from the minarets, mingle with the bleating of the flocks returning from pasture, and the cries of the shepherds.
After seeing the palace we repaired to the mosque and to the cemetery in which are the tombs of all the khans who have reigned in the Crimea. There as at Constantinople, I admired the wonderful art with which the Orientals disguise the gloomy idea of death under fresh and gladsome images. Who can yield to dismal thoughts as he breathes a perfumed air, listens to the waters of a sparkling fountain, and follows the little paths, edged with violets, that lead to lilac groves bending their flagrant blossoms over tombs adorned with rich carpets and gorgeous inscriptions?
The Tatar who has charge of this smiling abode of death, prompted by the poetic feeling that is lodged in the bosom of every Oriental, brought me a nosegay plucked from the tomb of a Georgian, the beloved wife of the last khan. Was it not a touching thing to see this humble guardian of the cemetery comprehend instinctively that flowers, associated with the memory of a young woman, could not be indifferent to another of her sex and age?
Some isolated pavilions contain the tombs of khans of most eminent renown. They are much more ornate than the others, and the care with which they are kept up testifies the pious veneration of the Tatars. Carpets, cashmeres, lamps burning continually, and inscriptions in letters of gold, combine to give grandeur to these monuments, which yet are intended to commemorate only names almost forgotten.
Such is a brief sketch of this ancient abode of the khans, which was carefully repaired by the Emperor Alexander. He found it in such a state of disorder and neglect, that it was probable nothing would remain in a few years of a dwelling with which is associated almost the whole past history of the Crimea. But Alexander, whose temperament was so well adapted to appreciate the melancholy beauty of the spot, immediately on his return to St. Petersburg sent a very able man to Bagtche Serai, with orders to restore the palace to the state in which it had been in the time of the khans. Since then the imperial family has sometimes exchanged the dreary magnificence of the St. Petersburg palaces for the rosy bowers and sunny clime of the Tatar Serai.
In speaking of this Tatar town, I must not forget to mention a man known throughout the Crimea for his eccentricity. It is about twelve years since a Dutchman of the name of Vanderschbrug, a retired civil engineer in the imperial service, arrived in the Tatar capital with the intention of settling there. His motive for this act of misanthropy has never been ascertained; all that is known is, that his resolution has remained unshaken. Since his installation among the Tatars, Major Vanderschbrug has never set his foot outside the town, though his family reside in Simpheropol. His retiring pension, amounting to some hundred rubles, allows him to lead a life, which to many persons would seem very uninviting, but which is not devoid of a certain charm. The complete independence he has secured for himself, makes up to him, in some sort, for the void he must feel in the loss of family affection. He lives like a philosopher in his little cottage, with his cow, his poultry, his pencils, some books, and an old housekeeper. He speaks the language of the Tatars like one of themselves, and his thorough knowledge of the country, and the originality of his mind render his conversation very agreeable. All over the country he is known only by the name of the hermit of Bagtche Serai. The Tatars hold him in great respect, often refer their disputes to his decision, and implicitly follow his advice.
We breakfasted with him, and seeing him apparently so contented with his lot, we thought how little is sufficient to make a man happy when his desires are limited. Major Vanderschbrug beguiles his solitude with reading and the arts, for which he has preserved a taste. He showed us some fine water-coloured drawings he had made, and an old volume of Jean Jacques Rousseau, which he has kept for many years as a precious treasure. To all the objections we raised against the strange exile to which he condemned himself, he replied that ennui had not yet invaded his humble dwelling.