Frontispiece. A Review. Charge of 10,000 Cavalry.

[See page 323.]

THE
ENGLISHWOMAN IN RUSSIA;
IMPRESSIONS OF THE SOCIETY AND MANNERS
OF THE
RUSSIANS AT HOME.

BY A LADY,
TEN YEARS RESIDENT IN THAT COUNTRY.

Peter the Great’s Statue, and the Office of the Senate.

With Illustrations.

LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.
1855.

The Proprietor of the Copyright of this Work reserves to himself the right
of Translation in Foreign Countries.

TO
HER BROTHER,
THESE PAGES ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY
THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE.

Without troubling the reader with any account of a sea voyage from England to Archangel, as all travels on the “vasty deep” present pretty much the same features which have been so frequently and so well described by others, I will only observe that circumstances induced me to reside for more than ten years in Russia, which I have only recently quitted.

The following pages contain a simple account of the manners, customs, and genre de vie chez eux of a people whose domestic habits are comparatively but little known to the English nation.

Of the truth of many of the anecdotes I can assure the reader; others I have had from good authority, and I have every reason to believe that they are veracious.

The names of persons that are inserted in the text are not those of Russian families: the Russians, like the ancient Greeks, have a termination denoting parentage; the syllables vitch for the masculine, and ovna for the feminine, are merely equivalent to the classic ides. Thus, Dmitri Ivanovitch, means Demetrius the son of Ivan; Cleopatra Ivanovna, Cleopatra the daughter of Ivan, &c. I have therefore betrayed none, because the surname is omitted; I have also taken the further precaution to change one of the names in every instance, lest my friends should incur any evil consequences from their government, which is at the present time so exceedingly suspicious, that, for the most harmless expression, the offender who made use of it would be liable to be banished to Siberia.

I trust that I have done full justice to all the amiable and social excellences of the Russians. Of their other qualities I beg the reader to form his own judgment. “Une nation de barbares polis,” said a French gentleman, in speaking of them; but one cannot deny that they possess the good qualities of savages, as well as their bad ones. Perhaps the Muscovite character is the most difficult of any to understand; and after living for years in Russia, it is very possible not to know the Russians. They seem indeed to possess two characters, each distinguished by traits diametrically opposed to those of the other. One may be considered as their private, and the other as their public character; and I cannot pretend to the power of defining them. I have seen a Russian colonel, known for his excessive severity, who would witness unmoved the terrible infliction of the knout, perfectly unable to control his tears at the mimic sorrows of a French actress. He that is mean and despicable in public life, is often kind, amiable, and liberal at home. He who would be merciless and oppressive to his inferiors, is frequently affectionate to his family and sincere to his friend. The lady who would be shocked to say a petulant word to an acquaintance, would not hesitate to strike her maid; and though she would be overwhelmed with grief at the distress she could see, she would, by her reckless extravagance, cause the severest sufferings to her serfs, and reduce them to the extremity of want, without feeling remorse.

This slight sketch of Muscovite manners having no pretension whatever to literary excellence, the writer trusts that its manner of delineation will escape criticism, and that its truthfulness will counterbalance the many faults it undoubtedly contains.

The interest at present excited by a nation with whom the English are at war has induced her to listen to several friends who have recommended her to present these written observations to the public.

London, October, 1854.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

THE ENGLISHWOMAN IN RUSSIA.

CHAPTER I.

Aspect of the Dwina—Crosses erected by the peasants—Sunset in the North—Russian boats and barks—Boatmen—Their cargoes—Solombol—Shallowness of the river—Archangel—Samoïdes—Their mode of living—A visit to their Tchume, or encampment—Reindeer and sledges—Samoïde bridegroom—A wedding-feast—The Samoïde costume—Their ideas of the Supreme Being—A keepsake—Catching a reindeer—Manner of eating—Strange custom.

“By the quarter seven” sang out the musical voice of the sailor who was engaged in heaving the lead. I hastened on deck, and found we were crossing the bar at the mouth of the Dwina. I looked around on the banks of the broad but shallow river; they were flat and marshy, abounding in brushwood and stunted firs, small birch-trees, with here and there an ash, the coral berries of which served to enliven the mass of green foliage. There were some cleared spaces, which, at a distance, with the setting sun shining full upon them, appeared like verdant lawns, but were, in fact, only sheets of morass, of which, indeed, the whole province of Archangel mainly consists. Here and there, amongst the sombre and interminable forests, I descried, far distant from every human habitation, a solitary Greek cross, erected by some pious peasant or grateful fisherman, on his escape from danger. Contrary as such are to our more spiritual creed, yet I confess that I never could gaze unmoved on the holy symbol of our faith, thus made an offering from a simple and devoted heart. Many and many a time, during my long journeys through hundreds of versts[1] of the forest-land and sandy plains of Russia, have I felt cheered by this sign of a belief and church that we (because we are happily more enlightened) are too apt to condemn; yet our ancestors, to whom the Russians, in their present state, may be compared, did not find it an useless symbol to awaken sentiments of religion in their breasts.

The evening was beautiful, and the sunset magnificent! the sky and river, the forest, the distant ocean, and the whole landscape, seemed wrapped in a flood of crimson light; every object was as perfectly distinct as in broad day, the only difference being that there was no shadow. The native barks glided calmly past us, strange-looking things, gaudily painted with red, black, and yellow designs, on the rough wood. Their clumsy vanes resembled those on Chinese junks; some were in the form of a serpent, others in that of a fish, a griffin, or some fabulous creature or other, and decorated with streamers of scarlet, all fluttering in the slight breeze that swept down the stream. The heavy one-masted vessels, with their large square sails, reminded me of the old pictures of the Saxon boats some thousand years ago. The boatmen are fine-looking men, of the real and pure Russian race, uncontaminated by a mixture with the Tartar blood, of which there are so many traces in the middle provinces. Their dress is picturesque, and serves greatly to enliven the landscape; their gaily-coloured shirts show off to much advantage their sturdy forms; their costume, their manly beards, fair complexions, and light flaxen hair, might cause us almost to imagine that we were gazing on the men of Hengist and Horsa, who lived years and years ago; they were singing a monotonous and sad yet pleasing air, as they walked to and fro the whole length of their bark, propelling it with their long poles through the shallow part of the river. Their cargoes consist of articles of which the odour is not savoury, such as tallow, sheepskins, and hides in the raw state: evil awaits the nose of him who stands to leeward.

I landed at Solombol, which is the port of Archangel, as vessels of any considerable burthen cannot proceed so far up the river as the city, on account of the shallowness of the water.

Archangel, although the capital of the province, and the chief port in the north of Russia, by no means answers the expectations of a foreigner who has seen it only in the large letters printed on the map: it was (for it has since been burnt down) a long straggling street of dismal-looking wooden houses, mostly painted dark gray or black, with the window-frames and doors of a staring white; the only buildings that were tolerable were (as is commonly the case in Russian provincial towns) the government offices, the gymnasium, and the churches. A more wretched place dignified by the name of city it is impossible to conceive; but we comforted ourselves with the reflection that we should not remain long in it, a few months at the utmost, when we calculated upon bidding adieu to it for ever; we therefore determined upon philosophically bearing all the désagrémens which we might be condemned to meet with. It contained, at the time of which I am writing, about twenty-five thousand inhabitants, including the foreigners (mostly Germans) and the government authorities, but it was a miserably dull place. In the winter, which lasts about eight months of the year, we lived almost entirely by candle-light, our monotonous existence only varied by a drive in the sledge, or a stiff formal ball at the governor’s of the province, in which our sole amusement was staring at the uniforms, bowing to his excellency, and eating bonbons. I do not know how we should have got through the dreary winter, had we not been cheered by the consolation that summer would come some time or other, though it appeared distant enough in the prospect as we walked out during the short hour of daylight, or rather twilight, in the middle of the day; when we made ourselves still more miserable by continually conversing of the daisied meadows and shady lanes, the forest glades and pretty flowers of “merry England.” Not only did we suffer terribly from mal de pays, that extreme longing for home that amounts to a malady, but the heaviness of the sky seemed to affect the mind, as if the excessive cold had frozen all one’s energies. It appeared of no use struggling against our misfortunes, so we resigned ourselves to our fate, and made ourselves as miserable as possible. There was only one circumstance that afforded us amusement, and that was the visits that some savages, a tribe of Samoïdes, occasionally paid to the town; they came from their desolate country to avoid the rigour of their cold climate, by passing a few months in the more genial south; indeed, comparatively speaking, Archangel was a Naples for them, since here the mercury freezes only sometimes. These poor people, who belong to the Esquimaux race, as some suppose, are natives of a wild, inhospitable land, stretching far away to the north: little is known of their manners and customs chez eux; but when they descend from their high latitudes, and make the neighbourhood of the Russian towns their asylum for the winter, they seem to live in much the same way as the gipsies do, pitching their tents wherever they may find it most convenient to do so, and obtaining their subsistence either by the sale of reindeer, of coats made of their skins, and of curious dolls dressed in their own fashion, or by begging.

We determined to pay our uncivilized friends a visit. There were but 18° of Réaumur; the sky was beautifully blue; the sun was so kind as to cast a few odd rays upon the wide plains of snow, stretching like the waves of the ocean towards the utmost verge of the horizon; there had been foggy weather during several preceding days, and the particles had frozen so thickly on the trees, that the branches, hanging pendant with the weight, had an indescribably beautiful effect, like gigantic white ostrich-feathers, or as if the forest had been transformed by sudden enchantment into glittering crystals; in fact, it was the very beau idéal of an hyperborean landscape.

Above a dozen sledges, each drawn by four reindeer, with either a male or female Samoïde acting as coachman, were waiting in the yard. After making a good provision wherewith to treat our new friends, and taking every precaution against the severity of the cold, by wrapping ourselves well up in warm fur cloaks and skins, we each took possession of the particular equipage allotted to us. These little reindeer sledges are very slightly constructed to enable them to pass lightly and swiftly over the deep snow; in form they are something like a small boat, supported by a frail-looking frame; they are not meant apparently for a social people, for there is only sufficient space for one person in each, besides the driver, who sits sideways in front, and who guides his pretty-looking team by means of a long pole. The men and women are so much alike among this people, that we were obliged to ask which were masculine and which feminine. A lady-driver fell to my share, who beat the deer rather more than the others, and seemed in a particularly bad humour; perhaps, as the Samoïde wives are really and truly subjected to their husbands in all things, being treated like slaves and drudges, her good man might have caused her to feel his power and physical strength before setting out, for, when he spoke to her, it seemed very much as if he were swearing; so in turn SHE was unmerciful to the weaker creatures in her power. Our road lay across the river; the “Tchume,” or encampment, being at about eighteen versts on the further side; the country was covered with snow, so that nothing but an immense white plain, varied here and there by a dark stunted fir, formed the landscape in whichever direction we turned our eyes; to strangers the novelty of such a scene is agreeable, but one soon wearies of its monotony. The sun had not long risen, it being nearly noon; so we had the advantage of daylight, a rather scarce commodity in the dreary north; and as we were all inclined to be unusually gay, we made the desolate wilderness quite re-echo with our laughter, to which the clicking of the reindeer’s hoofs formed a kind of castanet accompaniment. Nature has provided them with widely-spreading feet, which prevent them from sinking in the snow, and which open and shut with a smart snapping noise at every step they take. In about an hour and a half we reached the Tchume, to which we had been guided by the long wreaths of gray smoke ascending from the midst of the pine forest. Here we found a little colony encamped; there were four tents constructed in a very simple fashion, in form very like a sugar-loaf; the frame was composed of fir-poles joined by some means at the top, the whole being thickly covered and lined with reindeer-skins. We peeped into one of the tents: in a space of about eight feet in diameter were huddled together men, women, babies, and dogs, somewhat in the mode of herrings in a cask: at first the smoke was so thick that I could discern nothing distinctly; but I soon perceived that the inmates were well wrapped up in furs; their greatest enjoyment seemed to consist in getting as warm as circumstances permitted. In a small sledge filled with the softest skins was a diminutive baby; I should think it could not have been more than a few weeks old; its pretty face (for it was pretty although a Samoïde) was half covered with its fur wrappings; its bright black eyes and Lilliputian features made it look like an Indian doll. The rigour of their climate does not, it seems, congeal the tender sympathies of the human heart, for its mother fondled it with the greatest affection and pride; she was much delighted with the notice her infant attracted, and, although she did not understand a word we uttered, yet she gathered from smiles and signs, the freemasonry of nature, that we admired her baby, and she was pleased and grateful. We made her a little present for its sake, and then went to visit the other tents; we found them all constructed exactly on the same plan.

There were a great many men and women belonging to the tribe; their dress was curious; the men’s was composed of a long gown, called a militza, furnished with a hood lined with fur; the whole consisted of prepared reindeer-skins sewed together with the tendons and sinews of the animal; the leg-coverings were a kind of boot, which, being much lengthened, served for other garments as well; they were striped white and brown, the former being the under fur of the deer, the latter the upper; they were neatly stitched together, and formed, I should imagine, a very effective protection from the climate. The ladies’ dress differed in many respects from that of their lords and masters, inasmuch as it was much finer, which may cause the malicious to remark that the same vanity reigns in the female heart in every race and clime alike: it consisted in a kind of gown very much ornamented; across the shoulders there were alternate brown and white stripes; from the waist downwards it was further decorated with pieces of black and red cloth, so arranged that at a distance it had in some measure the appearance of a plaid petticoat; indeed, an odd idea struck me, that perhaps the tartan was derived from the originally savage dress of the ancient Scotch and other Celtic nations: the whole garment was finished by a deep fringe formed of the long hair of the reindeer’s beard; the hood was separate from the dress, and furnished with lappets to cover the poll of the neck. As for the rest of their attire, it was precisely similar to that of the men. In regard to their persons, the descriptions that have been given of the Esquimaux are equally applicable to the Samoïdes; indeed they are apparently of the same family. They have a language peculiar to themselves, but many speak Russian, and some of our party got up quite an agreeable conversation with them. They informed us, amongst other things, that they had been to a grand wedding some time previous: the bridegroom, it appears, was, according to their ideas, the richest man they had ever heard of; he had countless herds of reindeer, and militzas without number; but, as the most convincing proof of his boundless wealth, we were assured that he gave so much strong waters on the occasion, that everybody became so drunk that they could not move. I do not recollect this happy man’s name, or whether the bride was young and beautiful; doubtless they will both be celebrated in the ballads of their native land, and be the theme of wonder and admiration to their countrymen for future generations.

Most of these nomads have been baptized into the Russian Church; but a gentleman assured me that they paid very little respect to its forms and ceremonies; and he mentioned a circumstance that would seem to indicate that they had a much higher sense of the Supreme Being than the besotted serfs of Russia possess. It appears that he and another gentleman had paid one of the tribes a visit, when one of the men asked him if he were a Russian? On being answered in the negative, he showed him some pictures of saints, hidden under some skins in the tent, and, pointing to them with disdain, he exclaimed, “See! these are Russian gods, but ours (raising his hand towards heaven) is greater; He lives up there.”

These savages can also feel, and deeply too, much gratitude for kindness. I remember, when I had the pleasure of meeting, in Petersburg, M. M——, of the Académie des Sciences, who was sent some years ago to explore the northern regions of Asia, he showed me some little figures carved out of a mammoth-bone; they represented the chief of a tribe and his wife in their national dress, and had been given to him by the former as a token of his gratitude and esteem. He had heard that amongst other people it was frequently the custom to give your own portrait to a friend, and therefore he had begged M. M—— to accept his. M. M—— also related to us the extreme kindness he had experienced from some of these uncivilized races. He was attacked with a severe fever, owing to the great privations and fatigue he was obliged to undergo in his long and trackless journey across almost endless forests and morasses, sometimes floundering through stagnant water up to his horse’s saddle-girths, at others pursuing his dreary path with dog-sledges in intensely cold weather, without provisions or places of shelter. At last he was so very ill that he did not expect to live, and begged to remain behind. His companions dug a kind of cave for him out of the snow, and left him to his fate; he remained unconscious he knew not how long. When he recovered his senses, the fever had left him, but his hunger drove him almost mad; there seemed nothing but death before him, and, after having in his extremity devoured his gloves and other articles of clothing, he gave up all hope, and resigned himself to the terrible fate of perishing of starvation in the wilderness; but when all chance seemed lost, he suddenly heard a dog bark; he crawled out of the cave; a tribe of these Samoïdes was passing by, they caught sight of him and stopped; some of them advanced and gazed on him with astonishment; his famished state filled them with compassion; they placed him in a sledge, and conveyed him to their tents, where they tended him with the greatest care and kindness until he was enabled to rejoin the “expedition,” to which they conducted him. He rewarded them with various trinkets highly prized among these people; but such actions are above recompence. We had not come unprovided with refreshments suited to their taste, and we produced sundry bottles of strong brandy, at the sight of which their eyes sparkled with unwonted fires; each of them was regaled with a tumblerful, which both ladies and gentlemen tossed off as if it were water, and which had no other effect than that of rendering them in infinite good humour with us and each other. Even my sulky driver and her husband felt its power, and drank a loving-cup together, whilst they began to chatter much faster, and became very obliging. The daylight was disappearing, so we began to think of returning home. Being desirous of tasting what a haunch of reindeer was like (which, by the by, we afterwards found to be extremely tough), we resolved upon purchasing a fine young animal, which, “all unconscious of his fate,” was quietly grazing amid the numerous herd scattered around. At our request the proprietor seized a lasso, and with unerring aim caught the poor little creature by the horns, and, gradually hauling in the rope, sailor’s fashion, soon brought it near enough for another Samoïde to lay it dead at his feet with a blow on its forehead. This gave us an opportunity of witnessing a truly savage feast; for, no sooner were they given to understand that we only required the haunches, than they tore out the heart and liver, and immediately devoured them warm and raw! I remarked that they had a very peculiar manner of eating; they held the meat with their teeth, and, like the Abyssinians, cut off each mouthful with their knife so close to their nose, that we were in constant fear lest its tip would be sliced off at the same time. I was assured that amongst these people, when the father becomes too old to follow his usual pursuits, it is the duty of the eldest son to kill and bury him! Just before I quitted Russia I met a chief and chieftainess of the Samoïdes, wearing an ornamental head-dress of gold, and was told that they were staying at the winter-palace, but for what purpose I could not learn; perhaps the government means to make use of them in the present war; if so, it can only be in America against the Indians of the British territories.

The cold greatly increased; before we reached home the snow fell so thickly that we could scarcely see; indeed it seemed more like cutting particles of ice than aught else, so that we were glad to find ourselves again under a warm roof.

CHAPTER II.

Wedding of a Starosta’s daughter—Politeness of the host—The guests—The bride—Bridal etiquette—Description of the bride’s dress—The bridegroom—The hospitality shown—The amusements of the guests—Improvised songs—The bridegroom’s riches—Demeanour of the company—Dance of the peasant women—Dance of the men—National songs.

There was but little to vary the monotony of our life in Archangel, as we had but few opportunities of seeing much of the Russians. In the spring we decided upon paying a visit to Vologda, having received an invitation to pass a few weeks at the house of the governor of the province. In the midst of our busy preparations for the journey, the Starosta or head man of a neighbouring village came to beg the honour of our company at a festival which he proposed giving the next day to celebrate his daughter’s marriage. We accepted the invitation, and the following morning hired a boat to take us across the Dwina, for the village was situated on the opposite bank at the distance of about eight versts. We had no sooner landed than the bride’s father, the Starosta himself, came out to welcome us, and to conduct us to his house. A great number of people were assembled in front of it; they all seemed very merry, and were gaily dressed in their best attire: we passed through the crowd and followed our host, who ushered us with many profound bows into the best apartment, where we found a numerous company already arrived. There were at the least thirty women, all in their national dress, seated in straight rows round the room; most of them had their arms crossed, and remained almost motionless; their gaily coloured silks and showy head-dresses had a very striking effect. The bride herself, a pretty-looking girl of about seventeen, was seated at the upper end of the room with the bridegroom at her right hand. A table, covered with a white cloth and tastefully ornamented with festoons of artificial flowers and bows of pink ribbon, was before them, on which was placed the wedding-cake made of flour and honey, with almonds on the top; several dishes of sweetmeats, preserves, and dried fruits were arranged around it. It was, as I was told, the etiquette for the bride not to speak even to the bridegroom; but we went up to her, and offered our congratulations, which they both acknowledged by a graceful inclination. The Starosta ordered chairs to be placed just opposite the table, and begged us to be seated, so we had a good opportunity of examining and admiring the bride’s dress. It was composed of a coiffure nearly a foot high, somewhat resembling a brimless hat; it was of gold, enriched with pearls and fastened on by a knot of gold tissue behind, which was edged with lace; her ears were decorated with handsome rings, and round her neck were innumerable rows of pearls. I expressed a doubt as to whether they were real; but I was assured they were so, only they were defective in form. Her casackan or jacket was of gold cloth, with a border of pearl embroidery, the sleeves of cambric, short and very full, tied up with blue ribbon and finished by a lace trimming; the skirt of her dress was of crimson flowered silk, having a gold border nearly a foot deep, with gold buttons up the front. This is the national costume, but it varies in different provinces, and is not equally rich. But then the Starosta was well to do; he was not only the head man of the village, but he had shops of his own in Moscow and in St. Petersburg. I noticed that the bride’s fingers were loaded with rings; indeed she seemed to have on all the finery the whole family could muster. As for the bridegroom, he was a good-looking young man of twenty-two or so, and very respectably dressed in the costume of a shopkeeper, which consists of a long blue coat called a caftan, closely buttoned up to the throat. We were presented with tea, coffee, wine, bonbons, cakes, fruit, &c., in succession, all of which we were expected to partake of, or the hosts would think themselves slighted, and their hospitality insulted. The spoons I remarked were of Tula work, and had the appearance of being of gold, but were in reality of silver-gilt, with arabesque flowers all over them, which they say are done with some kind of acid: I believe the secret is not known out of Russia. All the Russian women assembled at this festival were of the upper class of petty shopkeepers or farmers, and they were dressed in the same costume as the bride, with perhaps fewer ornaments. During the whole time we were in the room their amusement consisted in singing, one after the other, in a low kind of chant, songs improvised in honour of the occasion, all the rest of the company sitting silent and motionless as statues. As soon as one had exhausted all her available talent on the subject, another took it up and gave us her ideas upon it. According to one, the bride was too young to be married: she wondered how her mother could part with her, and thought she ought to have kept her at home for a long time yet. Another seemed to think she was doing perfectly right to marry her daughter, after bringing her up so prudently, and making her so clever in household affairs. A third wished to settle the matter entirely by praising the bridegroom; “he was so gay of heart, he loved his bride so well.” His possessions, it appears, were worth having, and enough to tempt a village-maid; for “he had plenty of cows, pigs, and horses;” and as the climax to all these advantages of estates real and personal, she assured us, “that he could take his wife to church in a droshsky!” The whole of the guests remained quite silent, listening with a serious face to the songs; there was no laughing or chatting; each kept her seat and preserved such an intense gravity all the time, that they evidently considered matrimony as no joke after all, and not in the least amusing. Were I malicious, I would remark that they had every one of them been married themselves. After we had remained a reasonable time in the company of the young couple, we went outside to see the guests assembled in the front of the house; there we found several women dancing a wearisome kind of dance, if such it might be called, which consisted in merely walking to and fro in pairs placed one behind the other in a long line. They moved forwards and then backwards to a monotonous singsong kind of air; on advancing, the first two changed places with the last couple, and so on in succession. The amusement seemed to afford them intense delight, and so fond are they of it that they keep it up for hours together. On the opposite side of the yard the men were having a ball amongst themselves; their performance was more entertaining, and we laughed heartily at a comic pas de deux by a couple of young men, who capered about in a very diverting manner. Another peasant danced a solo in very good style. After the dancing the men sang us some national airs; each took the hand or leant on the shoulder of his neighbour, “in order to unite the tones,” as they said. We thanked them for their entertainment, and re-entered the house to take our leave of the good Starosta and his family, when we again expressed our wishes for their happiness, but we were not allowed to depart until we had drunk their health in a glass of champagne, a wine which the Russians give upon all extraordinary occasions. As we were stepping into the boat the peasants gave us a parting cheer, and far away, when the village was quite lost to our view in the distance, we heard their wild voices still singing in chorus their beautiful national airs in honour of the young Russian bride.

CHAPTER III.

Travellers in Russia—False impressions—Civilization in the Czar’s dominions—Public roads—Morasses and forests—The Vologda road—Wretched horses—Rough roads—The crown peasants—Aspect of the villages—Civilization of the people—Vanity of the Russians—Provincial towns—The churches—The postmasters—The yemstchicks, or drivers—Personal appearance of the peasantry—Their costumes—Crossing the Dwina—Pleasing scene—Village burying-ground.

The generality of travellers in Russia, at least of those tourists who have obliged the world with ‘Winters in St. Petersburg’ and ‘Journeys to Moscow,’ containing the most flourishing accounts of the state of the roads, the high civilization, the rapid strides to excellence, &c., of the Czar’s dominions, are unfortunately limited to a class who, having a few months’ leisure, and being desirous of change, take the voyage to Russia as one promising more novelty than the hackneyed roads of France and Switzerland. Their ordinary plan is, to take the steamer to St. Petersburg, and after a stay of a short time take a “run” to Moscow, whence they return in time for the “boat,” and hasten back at the rate of ten or twelve knots an hour, carrying away with them the most erroneous and false ideas of the real state of things, the mere surface of which they have scarcely had time to skim. Had they remained a few years among the Russians, not living, as the most part of the English do, in little colonies by themselves, but mixing with the people, and had they travelled a few thousand miles over the cross-country roads, they would soon have had “the gilding taken off the gingerbread” of Muscovite civilization. In fact, the excessive exterior polish always reminded me of a woman with her face painted, who hopes by factitious bloom on her cheeks to hide her ugliness. Moscow and St. Petersburg are certainly fine cities; the former may be regarded as the true Russian capital, the latter is merely a handsome imitation of other European great towns. Having seen them, the stranger has seen all that is civilized in the empire. In illustration of what I have said, I may remark that, excepting the chaussée from the western to the inland capital, and from the former to Warsaw, there are really no roads; those fine macadamised highways so much lauded by travellers, and deservedly so, extend but a few miles beyond the towns: farther on the route lies through immense plains of sand, endless morasses, and interminable forests in the north, and steppes in the south, across which the post-road has been cut; but this post-road scarcely deserves the name, for, generally, it is merely a cleared space cut through the woods, with boughs of trees laid down here and there where there are spots that would be otherwise impassable. There is little enough to vary the monotony of the journey; the miserable villages with their wretched inhabitants scarcely serve to enliven the scene.

The whole of the distance between Archangel and Vologda, comprising several hundred miles, with the exception of the two pretty towns Vycavajai and Velsk, is composed of those desolate features which, indeed, characterise nearly all the north of Russia. Sometimes we had to be dragged through sand so deep that our carriage-wheels sank a foot or two, and the eight ragged-looking brutes—they were scarcely worthy of the name of horses—would suddenly stand stock still, and thus confess their utter inability to fulfil their engagement of taking us to the next post-station. Whenever this happened, there was nothing for it but to descend from the carriage in order to lighten the weight, and to stand patiently until some peasants had been procured from a neighbouring village, who, by the aid of poles inserted between the spokes of the wheels, and by loud barbarous cries, aroused the energies of our gallant team to make further efforts and extricate us from this dilemma. After the usual number of Slavo Bogens (thank God) had been uttered by the wild-looking, long-bearded boors, and after being again seated comfortably, with every reason for congratulating ourselves that we were progressing, although at a snail’s pace, perhaps I would be tempted to take a little nap, being convinced that I should lose nothing of the prospect, for I might be pretty sure of seeing the same endless forests of fir if I were to awake the next day. With this assurance I begin to nod, and, perhaps, by some unaccountable delusion am dreaming of the smooth highways and green hedges of merry England, when bump we come against something, the shock giving me such a rap on the head that it effectually dispels all visions and fantasies. I look out and find we are splashing gaily through a morass which hides in its bosom sly stones and stocks, and which seems as interminable as the sandy plains from which we have just escaped, and of which we shall have many repetitions before the journey is over. Of course, as every one knows, there are no inns on the cross-roads, and places whereat to rest at night are altogether unknown. Even on the great chaussées it is better to travel day and night and remain in the carriage, for he must be a bold man who would be willing to face the vermin of all kinds, even for a single night, in a wayside hotel. The better class of Russian travellers know well how they are peopled, and avoid them accordingly. As for the lower class, they are too much accustomed to such company to care in the least. A Russian lady whom I know once spoke to her peasants on the subject of cleanliness, and especially concerning the vermin. Their reply would have done honour to a Gentoo: “Ah, Sudarina, it is a sin to kill them, because God has given them to us!”

The post-station is generally kept by a government official: a samovar or tea-urn can be obtained from him, for the use of which he expects a few copecks; and this, with the addition of black bread and salt, is all that can be procured during the whole route: it is therefore absolutely necessary to provide oneself with everything that is needful, such as bread, meat, tea, &c., and in very long journeys a cooking apparatus. If the traveller does not take spoons, cups, and plates, let him be very careful to wash those he finds at the station, or he may swallow some little animal and transgress the Gentoo laws, besides which entire confidence cannot be placed in the mode of their being purified. I remember taking tea at a certain monastery. There were many ladies and gentlemen at the abbot’s party; and, to make it more pleasant, his reverence proposed our adjourning to a summerhouse in the garden to eat ices. The young monks or novices were to act as servitors, and they stood behind some bushes near the place where we sat. I confess my relish for the refreshment was somewhat taken away when I saw them lick the spoons and wipe them: I could not warn my friends, but I took good care not to make use of them myself. But in regard to travelling in Russia, I am sure that those who have done so in the summer time will well remember the miserable nights passed en route, the myriads of mosquitoes, rising like a brown cloud from the marshy grounds, allowing no rest, to which the excessive heat formed no agreeable addition. In Archangel the English sailors suffered so dreadfully from the bites of these insects that they were frequently obliged to go to the hospital: they used to declare that “it was worse than in the West Indies.” The winter journeys, notwithstanding the extreme cold, are infinitely more pleasant.

The people at the post-stations are generally civil, and are much obliged for a small gratuity. As for the poor yemstchicks or drivers, they are overcome with gratitude at a trifling present of a few copecks at the end of each post.

I remarked that the inhabitants of the villages belonging to the crown, through which we passed, appeared more comfortably lodged and far more at their ease than those who were the property of private landowners: perhaps their less degraded look was owing to their enjoying upon the whole more freedom than those who are ground down to the dust by the tyranny of the petty noblesse. The crown peasants pay a poll-tax to the Emperor.

Some of the villages were in a most wretched condition, the houses dirty and dilapidated, without windows, and having only a little trap-door just large enough for a man to peep through, which shuts at pleasure to exclude the cold. Indeed the log-huts of the Russian peasants are very little better than the wigwams of the Red Indians, although sometimes the exterior is more ornamented. The inhabitants live in much the same manner as they did centuries before Peter the Great’s reign. The people have not made a single forward step in the march of intellect, of which the admirers of Russia so madly rave. Scores of the Russians of the upper classes, I have heard, say the same thing, notwithstanding their own vanity, which so blinds their eyes that they imagine that by imitating the exterior polish of the French—although omitting the solid enlightenment of that nation—they have really become civilized, and many, I verily believe, think that they have even surpassed them. Perhaps the Czar would have done more towards the advancement of his people, and have benefited the cause of civilization more, had he spent his money in forming roads throughout his empire, and made the means of communication easier between the various towns, instead of playing the game of chess in Turkey, and sinking such enormous sums in the marshes of the Danube.

A short time since the Grand-Duke Alexander, the heir apparent to the throne, was at a banquet, when some one was remarking on the great advantage it would be to the country when the railway was finished between St. Petersburg and Warsaw. His Imperial Highness replied that it would be so indeed, but that his Majesty, being engaged in war with the Turks, was obliged to employ the money intended for its construction in defraying the expenses of the army. When we were passing through Poland I noticed that the works had been entirely suspended. A propos of this subject I may mention that, when the railway between St. Petersburg and Moscow was nearly finished, orders came that it was to be ready on a certain day, as the Imperial family were to visit the latter city, and proposed going thither by train. There were several miles of it entirely unconstructed, but, to obey orders, they patched them up in the best way they could, and laid the rails down so that the waggons might pass over them. The most wonderful thing was that some fatal accident did not happen. The Emperor, of course, knew nothing about it, or perhaps he would not exactly have liked to risk his own life and those of his court on the Moscow railroad. We were staying near the spot at the time. So badly arranged was this road at first, that, when we went to St. Petersburg by it, we were kept thirty-six hours in the midst of the Valdai hills, in twenty-eight degrees of cold (Réaumur), without anything to eat or drink. Some of the third-class passengers were obliged to be brought into the first-class waggons, lest they should be frozen to death; and a poor peasant-woman’s child died in her arms from the dreadful severity of the weather. Some of the passengers (one of them an officer in the army) fainted; and all this was through the negligence of the authorities. So many complaints were made that it is now well managed and the conductors are very civil.

The description of one provincial town in Russia is applicable to almost every other. The most remarkable buildings are the churches and monasteries, the domes and cupolas of which are painted green, gilt, or of dark blue with golden stars sprinkled over them, each dome and minaret being surmounted by a glittering cross standing on a crescent; the gymnasium, or government school for young gentlemen; barracks (a sine quâ non), and a post-office: these, with a few good houses, and many mere wooden huts similar to those in the villages, make the substance of a country town, up to the very barriers of which the interminable forests form the suburbs. We changed horses and driver at every station; the postmasters are bound to have horses in readiness for all travellers furnished with a padarosjnai or government feuille de route. They very often make a little money by suddenly losing their memory regarding the horses at their disposal, as they only recover it again at the sight of a small piece of silver, which serves wonderfully to recall to their mind’s eye the vision of sundry rough nags in the field at the back. It is but just to them to say that the apparition of a military uniform possesses the same magic influence.

The life the poor yemstchicks lead must be miserable in the extreme: any complaint lodged against them is pretty sure of procuring them a good beating; and I have seen the conductors or guards of the mail-coach thrash them most unmercifully with the sword, or give them such blows on the ears with their post-horn as to make one feel sick at heart to think that any human being was obliged to endure so great an indignity, and that without the hope of redress. The mode in which they live I can compare to nothing but to that of dogs. Wherever we stopped at night on our summer’s journeys we were almost in danger of stumbling over the sleeping bodies of these poor people; for all the space in front of the station was crowded with what at the first sight I really thought were heaps of brown skins on the bare ground, but which I soon perceived were yemstchicks, all in readiness to be hired by the next travellers who might be passing. When a carriage arrived, they would suddenly start into life and draw lots amongst themselves as to who should take the turn: he on whom the lot fell immediately fetched the horses and mounted; the rest threw themselves again on the ground and instantly returned to their slumber, so exactly like a number of animals that it was painful to see them. In the winter-time they sleep in cribs something like a horse’s manger, with a little hay or straw. “Our peasants,” said a Russian to me, “are nothing but brutes; the only argument with them is blows, for that is all they can understand.” Is this, then, the land in which civilization has made her abode, and whose wonderful advance in the path of wisdom is to form an era in the records of the human race? Surely those who are under this delusion can have but very little idea how small an amount of civilization exists beyond Moscow and St. Petersburg, or they must have been too ready to believe the boastings of the Russians and the flourishing accounts of superficial travellers.

A Russian village is generally composed of a long row of wooden houses on each side of the post-road, with usually a line of birch-trees in front. Some of the well-to-do peasants, or those amongst them who are the most ingenious, have the eaves of their cottages ornamented in a very pretty manner with a kind of border of so light and elegant a description that it may be compared to wooden lace; the windows, where there are any, are decorated in the same manner. At the entrance of the villages we generally saw painted on the same board the number of men and of cows contained in each; the fair sex were not thought worth the trouble of being enumerated.

As to the inhabitants, they are true children of the soil; the men have something fine in their appearance; they wear a loose shirt fastened round the waist. In some of the villages through which we passed a few of the men had boots on, but the greater part had only leggings bound round with thongs, sandal-fashion; their feet were furnished with shoes of a kind of basket-work, made of strips of the birch-tree. The women had on a coarse chemise with full sleeves, and over that the national dress, the sarafane, which was generally of common blue or red cotton, having no boddice, but kept on the shoulder by a band of the same. The married ones wore a handkerchief tied round the head in a peculiar manner; most of the girls had their hair formed into a long plait hanging down their back: the children ran about at play almost in a state of nature, having on only a short shirt with open sleeves. Nearly every house in the villages was furnished with a kind of settee outside, where in the evening we frequently saw groups of the peasants sitting to have a chat or to sing together their national airs, of which they are very fond. During our journey we had to pass several rivers on rafts, which were dragged to the opposite bank by means of ropes. We had to cross a very rapid branch of the northern Dwina, which had been much increased by the melting of the snow. Here we were very nearly drowned, for, the carriage being too heavy for the raft, it began to sink when in the middle of the stream; but fortunately, through the great exertions used by the peasants, we at last reached the shore. We continued to follow the course of the Dwina for more than fifty miles. I do not know anything that gives a more dreary idea of a country than the sight of a broad and silent river, whose unbroken surface reflects no human habitation as far as the eye can reach, not a single bark to ruffle the mysterious stillness of the waters, nor any living thing to awaken the echoes of those dismal forests of pine which stretch far away to the verge of the horizon, and seem an impenetrable bar to the advance of civilization.

Such is the aspect of the Dwina and its dark, untrodden shores; yet, in coming to a very broad part of the river we were greatly delighted by a scene which, like many others—we know not why or wherefore—become indelibly impressed on the mind, a pleasing and vivid picture of the past. The scene of which I speak may seem in description not to be worthy of remark, nor perhaps would it have appeared remarkable to us had we not previously passed so many monotonous days. In a bend of the river, at the confluence of several smaller streams that empty themselves into the Dwina, we suddenly came to a considerable elevation rising abruptly from the water. The sun had just set, but his parting rays still illumined the beautiful gilt cross surmounting a small church which crowned the height above us; the lamps were already lighted and gleamed through its long narrow windows, and borne on the calm summer breeze came the voices of the monks and choristers singing the magnificent responses of the Greco-Russian Church. It was a saint’s-day, and the people from the neighbouring village, dressed in their gayest and best attire, were hastening up the path in groups of twos and threes; others were crossing the stream in boats; but all were intent upon worshiping the heavenly Father of All in his holy place.

A little farther on we passed the burying-ground of the village. Most of the graves were marked by a rudely-constructed cross in wood, but some of these were so old and broken that little of their original form remained.

CHAPTER IV.

Vologda: its inhabitants—A Polish lady—Treatment of the Poles—Russian ladies: their politeness—Peter the Great’s civilization—Slavery: its effects on the character—Conversation—Card-playing—A princess—Poverty—Filthy households—Equal division of property—Cause of poverty—An old gambler.

Vologda is a pretty town, but we did not prolong our stay in it beyond a few weeks, being desirous of returning to Archangel to make our preparations for proceeding to St. Petersburg. There is nothing very remarkable in the place. We made several acquaintances among the Germans, Russians, and Poles, of whom the inhabitants chiefly consist; among the latter was a most amiable Polish lady, who, together with her husband, had been banished thither for some political offence. I shall never forget the pride and exultation with which she presented her son, a lad of about ten years old, saying “that he could not speak a word of Russian,” and that she took every care to prevent him from learning the hated accents of the Muscovite. It was then that I learnt that it was a general custom of the government to banish into the interior of Russia those Poles who wore suspected or convicted of minor political faults, the more grave crimes being punished by an exile into Siberia. I have since met with those Polish offenders in many places, and I must say that, as far as it has been in my power to ascertain the fact, they have been well and kindly received even at the Governor’s table, nor would any one imagine that their stay in the place was compulsory. It is now ten years since I first went to Russia, and I have resided there until the last three months, not living like a stranger in the land, but in the closest intimacy with Russian families, and I willingly bear witness to their general hospitality and kindness of heart, not towards the rich alone, for a well-educated person, let his circumstances be what they may, is always well received. The ladies are most amiable and polite; they are, however, often accused of want of sincerity, but, in my opinion, unjustly so. We are too apt to judge foreigners by ourselves, and think that they ought not to utter sentiments that they do not feel; but the fact is, what they mean only as expressions of every-day civility, we translate literally into those of regard, and hence our false estimate of their character. A Russian lady will say, on your being introduced, “that she is delighted at having the advantage of your acquaintance,” “that she has much esteem for you,” and so on; all of which is only very kindly meant to put you at your ease, and prevent you from being gênée in her house; but, in regard to real worth and goodness of heart, she is by no means deficient. In a thousand instances I have remarked acts of benevolence and charity that would do honour to the name of Russian, and serve to counterbalance grave faults and errors with which unfortunately they are mingled. Such must be expected in a nation on whom civilization was thrust at the sword’s point, and perhaps Peter the Great did his country more harm than good by obliging them to adopt the similitude of a state that ought gradually to be acquired. No civilization can be truly solid unless it be reached step by step through the weary road of experience. Gilt frames have all the appearance of gold, but scrape off the exterior, and nothing but worthless wood is underneath. One does not build a house without first laying the foundation, nor does a child run before it learns to walk! The people of Russia would very likely have been more advanced in the real essentials of a civilized state if Peter had never obliged them to wear short-skirted coats, and their wives to appear in public unveiled. In the summer gardens in St. Petersburg a walk is still shown, up and down which the half-savage Czar obliged the Russian ladies to promenade with their faces uncovered, whilst a regiment of soldiers was drawn up on each side. To do them justice, they soon learned to profit by the lesson, and have gone infinitely further than their instructor could have intended them to do. The immoral conduct and the inconceivable want of delicacy of many of the ladies of rank cannot fail to have a very unfavourable influence on others below them, especially as the court is regarded as the criterion of what is right. Were I to relate the almost incredible actions of many of the titled dames, I fear I should be accused of falsehood, but I am happy to say there are some noble exceptions; indeed, I have had the pleasure of knowing many who are an ornament and a pattern to their sex. The state of slavery, which is so disgraceful to an European nation, must also greatly influence the domestic character of the ladies, for, being surrounded by so many menials always at hand, it must induce habits of indolence; and “idleness,” as is well known, “is the parent of many vices.” Many of the ladies never do any work, and are almost ignorant of the use of the needle. “Why should I sew, when I have others to do it for me?” is a common question. The absence of the necessity of being employed, and the want of mental resources, drive them to pass their existence in reclining on the sofa and reading some silly French romance when alone, or to the card-table when in company. There is really no conversation in Russia, unless the ridiculous compliments and inanities of a drawing-room be dignified as such; the ladies generally discuss the price and quality of their acquaintances’ dress. “Where did you get that charming mantle?” “From France.” “O, indeed; ah! now I see it could only be made in Paris.” “How much did you give an arsheen for your dress?” &c. Such are the efforts of the Russian ladies’ ideas. The remainder of the evening is made up of flirting, eating bonbons, and jouant aux petits jeux for the unmarried. As for the married, they sit down to cards and play the coquette with some friend near, or make remarks on the personal appearance of their acquaintances:—“I saw Madame Vasiliwitch yesterday—how old she is looking!” “It is your turn to deal, madame.” “How much the princess paints! she puts on so much white! I think an old lady ought to rouge, but really she uses too much.” “You have made a miss-deal.” “Madame Beck is separated from her husband; she is going to sue for a divorce.” “Well, it is lucky she and her husband are Germans, for if he had been a Russian she would never get it.” “How old is she?” “O, she must be forty at the least.” Such is a sample of the conversation at a soirée; nor are the subjects on which the gentlemen converse one whit more intellectual. “Que voulez-vous?” said a nobleman one evening—“que voulez-vous? on ne peut parler la politique, et il n’y a rien à faire que de jouer aux cartes;” and it is certain that the dread of being everywhere within hearing of some government spy must be a disagreeable check on conversation. It is astonishing how much the absence of political discussion influences the amount of information current in society, or how much freedom of speech contributes to intelligence; any one who has lived in Russia can bear witness to this fact. When we were near the frontiers of Prussia, some French and German gentlemen got into the railway carriage, and began conversing on the present state of Europe. One of the latter remained quiet for a few minutes, and then said, “My friends, listen: we shall in less than an hour have quitted the territories of Russia; until we do so, let us be silent, for how do we know who may be within hearing?” The others acquiesced in the justice of the proposition, and not until we reached Myslowitz did they give any further expression to their thoughts.

But to return to the Russian ladies. I remember I once went to call on the Princess O——ff: she was of very good family, but extremely poor, yet of course she could not do without a carriage, horses, a footman, and maid-servants, but the state of dirt and misery in which she lived would disgust almost a beggar amongst us. A very filthy lacquey, in livery the facings of which were scarcely visible, so discoloured were they with long use, ushered me through a room quite as dirty as himself to a second apartment, in which was seated the princess. She was at breakfast, it being twelve o’clock. The abominably filthy room, her equally disgusting attire, and the super-dirtiness of a miserable little maid who brought her some rusks, made me almost afraid to take a seat on the chair placed for me. She very politely requested me to partake of her refreshment, which I, as politely, declined: but imagine, gentle reader, how infinitely I was disgusted when she took up a piece of paper from the table, spat in it, and then replaced it near the bread she was eating! She begged me to come and see her again, as she assured me she was very fond of the English: I need not say that I did not repeat my visit. Candidly speaking, this was the only instance I met of such an extremely filthy ménage, therefore I hope it formed a rare exception. I must, however, say that in St. Petersburg I once called at a house where the footman who opened the door presented so dirty an appearance that I would not enter it, and therefore cannot say whether it was his own fault or that of his master. In order to give an example of the state of moral feeling in the country, I will narrate a little incident that occurred one evening at the house of a lady of very high rank: a Madame ——, the wife of a governor of a large province, was present; and Prince T——koi, who had been ordered to join his regiment, had come to take leave of his friends: to my astonishment, Madame —— burst into a violent flood of tears, and “refused to be comforted,” when she bid him adieu. On my inquiring why she was so affected, the prince being no relation of hers, I was informed that, “poor thing! she was so deeply in love with him that she was unable maîtriser son émotion.” I ventured to remark that it was rather disagreeable to her husband that she should make so public a display of her preference for another. For my pains I was told that I had no heart, and that, like all the English, I was quite destitute of feeling. I do believe that not a lady was there present who did not regard her as quite a martyr of sensibility.

Many of the noblesse are extremely poor; indeed, it is almost a wonder how they can exist. A great cause of their indigence is the equal division of the family estates among all the children. M. M——ff, a gentleman belonging to one of the most ancient houses in Russia—indeed, he used to boast of his descent from Rurick, the founder of the empire—often bitterly lamented the subdivision of the property. “My father,” said he, “had eight children; he was possessed of a fortune of four thousand slaves, a very handsome estate; when he died we each had five hundred as our share; I have four sons and a daughter, among whom my patrimony must be again subdivided; if they marry, they must be very poor, and, if they have families, still more so; by this means my descendants will eventually become mere beggars.” Another common cause of their poverty is their propensity for gambling, which ruins many. One day an old gentleman called on Madame P——ska, a lady with whom I was well acquainted in St. Petersburg; he came to borrow a few rubles, which she kindly gave him. On his leaving the room I begged to know what had thus reduced him. “Ah! poor man,” said my friend, “think how unfortunate he has been; he once possessed fourteen thousand slaves, and he lost them all at cards.” I said I was sorry that a man of his years should have rendered himself miserable by such a vice. “How old do you think him?” asked my friend. “Oh, sixty at the least.” “Sixty!” answered she, “he is past eighty, only he wears a wig, paints his eyebrows, and rouges to make himself look younger.” Wretched old man! he died soon after I saw him, on his return from a card-party; he was found lifeless on his bed, and did not leave a single ruble to defray the expenses of his interment.

CHAPTER V.

Our journey—Kabitkas—Russian custom—Endless forests and morasses—Desolation of the country—Musical yemstchick—Scarcity of inhabitants—Criminals: their aspect—A bad mother—Monastery of Seea—Visit to the abbot—The church—A saint’s shrine—Peasants—Change in the scenery—Accidents—The driver—A contented veteran—Love of country—Soldiers’ songs—Russian melodies—Yemstchick’s gratitude—Another driver: his prospects in life—Beautiful effect—Ladinapol—Schlusselberg—A village inn in Russia.

After our return to Archangel we had to wait there some weeks, until the winter roads had become sufficiently hard to render sledge-travelling pleasant. We procured a kabitka—a kind of Russian vehicle much resembling a large cradle on slides—bought a mattress to fit into it, and provided ourselves with enough provisions for our long journey, such as frozen fowls, soups, &c., which we were to thaw at the different stations. As it was quite unsafe to traverse roads so unfrequented alone, we agreed to join a party of Russians and Germans who were going to visit the capital. It was arranged that our kabitka was to precede those of our acquaintances, as we were strangers to the country. On the morning of our departure we assembled at a house belonging to one of our acquaintances: a great many friends had met there in order to see us set out, and to bid us God speed on the journey. We seated ourselves, conformably to the Russian custom, a few moments in silence: champagne was handed round to drink to our success; the whole company then arose, and assembled at the gate to see us comfortably seated in our sledges; some of them even escorted us beyond the barriers of the town before they would bid us adieu; nor was it without regret on our side that we took leave of those kind-hearted people, whom in all probability we should never see again.

Once fairly on our journey, we found ourselves surrounded by those dreary forests and boundless morasses (now hidden by the deep snow) of which we had so recently had so much experience. I do not know whether this wild region is not more agreeable in the winter-season, as then its barrenness is concealed. It is not an exaggeration to say that four-fifths of the northern portions of Russia consist of the sandy plains and marshy forest-land I have already described, but, in the winter, it matters little what lies underneath the frozen snow.

From Archangel to St. Petersburg we passed hundreds of versts of this description of country. In these districts utter desolation reigns, scarcely a living thing is seen; even the birds have deserted them, and have flown to the neighbourhood of the towns, to find there the food their native woods can no longer afford them. A solitary wolf or fox may occasionally be descried, either skulking among the bushes or sitting watchfully by the wayside, in faint hopes, perhaps, of some weary horse being left on the road to die and to become the victim of the hungry droves now lying perdus in the forest depths, and only scared from the traveller’s path by the tinkling of the bell attached to the sledge. No other sound breaks the weary silence but the yell of the yemstchick inciting his team to greater speed, or his wild voice chanting forth the songs of the people, which echo far away through those melancholy forests, and only serve to awaken the heart to a still greater sense of the utter desolation around. Yet Nature is always grand, and perhaps never more so than in the wilderness!

No inhabitants dwell in these tracts, with the exception of the few poor peasants whose huts surround the government post-stations; it is a rare occurrence indeed to meet a human being, and for hours one travels on, and the only sign of being in a civilized country is the wooden cross, gray with age, placed here and there by the wayside. Several times on the journey we met gangs of wretched criminals, heavily chained, and escorted by soldiers, whose duty it is to conduct them from station to station. Along the roads in Russia the traveller may remark small brick houses, placed at intervals of about twenty or twenty-five versts; these are the places at which these gangs rest on their way to Siberia. One of these miserable escorts was standing still as we were changing horses, which gave us the opportunity of examining their countenances. Features more debased or expressions more frightful it is impossible to conceive. Crime and every evil thought seemed to have deprived them almost of even the traces of human beings; I shuddered as I gazed on them. Among the convicts was a woman with a face, if possible, more horrible than that of the men; she had a child with her, a poor little thing of scarcely five years old, that was suffering dreadfully from the hooping-cough; instead of treating it with kindness and compassion, its wicked mother was treating it unmercifully, until even the men, her companions in crime, brutalized though they were, called out shame on her, and begged her to desist. I never felt so convinced that punishment was justly deserved as in the case of this wretched woman.

At the distance of about fifty-five or sixty versts from Archangel we came to a monastery at a place called Seea; it was surrounded by woods and lakes, which, in the summer-time, must have a very pretty effect. For a Russian building, it was quite an ancient one, and was erected before Peter the Great’s reign: it was the sanctuary to which that monarch often retired to perform his devotions. Like most monasteries in the empire, it was surrounded by a wall, having a curiously dovetailed top with towers at each corner pierced with loopholes. One of the gentlemen, who was acquainted with the abbot, proposed to us to pay him a visit; we all of course willingly assented, and turned out of the post-road for the purpose. Half a verst brought us to the gates: on ringing a bell, one of the holy brothers appeared, who to our disappointment informed us that the Father (for such they designate their superior) was ill and asleep, but offered to awake him if we wished; we thanked him, but begged that the abbot’s slumbers should not be disturbed on our account, and requested the monk to express our great regret at his superior’s indisposition, with good wishes for his recovery. The monk, seeing us about to depart, entreated us to take some little refreshment in the refectory: on our declining, he asked us if we would not like to see the shrine of their patron, Saint Anthony, whose body was interred in their church. We accepted his offer, and followed him into the cathedral, which, like all Greek places of worship, was filled with pictures of the innumerable saints of their calendar, and wretchedly-painted scripture-pieces. Having walked round the interior of the building and examined the very curious lamps hung before several of the images, we were led to a shrine quite brilliant with lighted tapers and oil, and here our guide pointed with evident pride to a full-length likeness of the saint placed on the top of a long box that covered his mortal remains. Above it was a wretched daub of a Virgin and Child, which he triumphantly informed us was the holy man’s own work. Although there was nothing to admire in it, we saw that it would give him pleasure to express our satisfaction, and therefore did not fail to do so: we also made the offering of a piece of silver to the church, which seemed to raise us immensely in the good monk’s estimation. After thanking him for the trouble, we left the monastery of St. Anthony just as a party of the peasantry from a village close by, dressed in their best clothes, with smooth hair and well-combed beards, were reverently ascending the steps, bent on asking the prayers of the respected superior for the success of the ensuing harvest.

Having traversed about four hundred versts, we came to the town of Kargapol; it contains nothing remarkable, and is composed of wooden houses, as usual. From this place the scenery began to show a little variety. We had no longer to complain of those monotonous plains of which we were so thoroughly weary: the country now became diversified by hills and valleys; sometimes we were rapidly galloping up a declivity (for the Russians drive at the top of the horse’s speed up hill), at others we were gliding along the edge of a precipice. One of the horses slipped aside, and by so doing broke his thighbone; the poor yemstchick cried most bitterly, saying that his master would beat him almost to death. We were so grieved at his misfortune that we made up a little subscription for him, which afforded him some consolation, and I dare say served to comfort him under the correction. As for our unlucky steed, we were obliged to leave him behind on the snow, and doubtless in a few hours his carcase had furnished an unwonted feast to the prowling wolves with which the forests around were infested. During the next post we were doomed to meet with more misfortunes, for our yemstchick drove us so near to the edge of the road that he turned us both out into the midst of an enormous snow-drift I really thought we should be smothered, for the kabitka rolled right over upon us; being half-buried in the snow was disagreeable enough, but to have pillows, mattress, portmanteaux, and a whole shower of small etcetera with which our sledge was filled, upon our backs, rendering it impossible for us to move, was even worse. The other kabitkas had by this time come up, and great inquiries were made for our yemstchick, who had unaccountably disappeared; presently a voice was heard whose smothered tones seemed to come somewhere from under ground, and to our horror we found that he was just under us, and that the kabitka had jammed him deeply into the snow, so that he could not get out. To raise the sledge was the first thing to be done, and with the aid of the other yemstchicks we were extricated from our dilemma; our coachman was pulled out of the snow. We expected to find him half-dead, or at the least with some bones broken; he, however, merely shook himself, just as a dog does on coming out of the water, and jumped upon his seat as if nothing had happened. Our friends, finding that we were neither of us hurt, enjoyed a hearty laugh at our expense: I make no doubt that we cut a sorry figure. As for our yemstchick, he was ready to go down on his knees to ask our forgiveness. He begged to know if we were bruised at all; being answered in the negative, he repeatedly crossed himself, and thanked God for our sakes, and perhaps for his own too. We were glad enough to get into the sledge again and drive on, to escape the jokes with which our friends assailed us. Our yemstchick had been a soldier, he said, and boasted of having served the Czar in every government in his dominions; but now that his time was out, he had turned post-driver. He told us that the last province he had been in was Podolia, of which he gave the most flourishing accounts.

“But,” said I, “why did you not remain, when, as you say, your prospects were so good, and the country so delightful?”

“Ah! Matutchka, how was it possible? I thought of my native village far away in the north. I was always longing to see the snow and pine-forests again, which made me so miserable that I asked for my discharge; and as I had served the required term, here I am.”

“But how did you return from so great a distance? Did the government send you back?”

“Not at all, Barishna! I walked all the way.”

“What! fifteen hundred versts?”

“Yes, to be sure; that is nothing.”

“But I suppose you live comfortably here. You have a little pension, I dare say?”

“Pension! no, only the officers ever get that, and they only when they are wounded. But as for being well off, slavo Bogen! we live as our neighbours do. I have a wife and two children; we get plenty of black bread and salt, and very often stchie. What else could we wish for?”

It was really something agreeable to hear that even this poor man could feel attachment for his miserable village of log-huts, situated, doubtless, in the midst of some dreary morass in this obscure corner of the earth. My reflections on the wonderful affection everywhere felt for the scenes in which childhood has been passed were interrupted by the driver asking if we would like to hear some of the songs the soldiers used to sing on the march. On our assenting, he began in a full, deep-toned tenor, awakening all the echoes of the surrounding forests. The burthen of his song was concerning some country belle who danced so elegantly that even the Czar himself came to see her performance. According to all accounts, the hearts of the village-swains were all sore with being so much in love with her; but she settled the matter by choosing a happy fellow named Ivan, whose felicity, we were assured, was inconceivable. This love does not appear to have been entirely disinterested, for there followed a long list of the bride’s trousseau. She had a crasnoi sarafane, or red gown, and was further endowed with some pillows and a counterpane; added to which she was the richest bride in the whole village. The air was pretty, and, like most Russian melodies, in the minor key; the whole was terminated by the peculiar scream which finishes each cadence. We were so amused by our yemstchick that we were quite sorry when we arrived at the station. Notwithstanding his mal-adresse in overturning us, we made him a present, which was so much more than he expected, that he was overpowered with gratitude, and crossed himself many times in wishing us a prosperous journey.

He was succeeded by a merry little fellow, who entertained us by giving us a confidential tableau of his prospects in life. He began by informing us that he was going to be married, and that he was so much in love he could get no rest night or day; that his intended bride’s name was Katrina; she was seventeen and he was twenty-one, and “Please God, they should soon be as happy as they need be.” He also volunteered a song, the subject of which was a soldier’s daughter who had fallen in love with the major of the regiment; but, it appears, her case was a hopeless one, as he was going to wed another.

Night had now closed in, and for the first time during our journey the full moon shone in all her splendour upon the scene; during the previous days the sky had been much clouded, and occasional falls of snow had prevented our remarking a most beautiful effect produced by the shadow of the trees on the pure glittering plains beneath. I can compare it to nothing but a mezzo-tinto drawing, only infinitely more defined. There was not a breath of air to stir the branches of the lofty pines interlaced over our heads; a mysterious silence seemed to pervade the very atmosphere we breathed; it was excessively cold, and the moon lighted up the clear sky with such brilliancy, that we could easily read a moderately-sized print; the snow at the same time glittered and sparkled like millions of diamonds strewn in our path, and clung to the sombre foliage of the forest like gems of the purest water on sable plumes. Yes, truly, even this barren land possesses beauty and loveliness. One who has travelled through a night such as this will never forget the impression left on his mind by so splendid a scene, and will cease to wonder at the attachment of the barbarian serfs to their isolated villages.

The next day we reached Ladinapol, an insignificant place. The extensive lake of Ladoga not being sufficiently frozen to make it safe for us to cross it in our sledges, we continued our route by the post-road. We passed the small river Swere, and soon came to the town of Ladoga on the Volkof; from thence we proceeded to Schlusselberg, on the lake which formerly belonged to Sweden, and of which Peter the Great deprived her. It was in the castle of this place that his son was confined.

Once during our journey we were tempted to see what a village-inn was like, for after travelling eight days and nights we felt so thoroughly worn out by fatigue, that we thought any place in which we could rest a little would be welcome; we therefore asked our yemstchick if there were no house of entertainment at the neighbouring hamlet. “Ay, surely,” replied he, “there is a very good tavern for travellers at the other end of the village.”

“Then drive on, pray, my good fellow, and let us be there as quickly as possible.”

“Horro sha Barishna!”

Crack went his whip, and our steeds, having a vision of hay near at hand, were tempted to stretch their legs into a real gallop; we, in the mean while, had the douce illusion of thinking that we should soon have a smoking samovar on the table and a few hours’ repose. Alas! how our hopes were disappointed! Our kabitka suddenly drew up at a miserable-looking peasant’s isba, half tumbling down, from the foundation having sunk a foot or two on one side. The yemstchick rapped at the door, which was opened by a dirty, long-bearded old fellow, who seemed to have had quite enough whisky to make him perfectly stupid. When we at last succeeded in making him understand what our wishes were, he said that he had a room in which we could very well pass the night. Our Russian acquaintance begged us to alight, which we did in the faint hope of finding the interior better than the exterior would lead us to suppose. Our host thereupon threw open the door of an apartment, on the floor of which some dozen or two of peasants in their sheepskins, men, women, and children, were huddled promiscuously on the bare boards. The heat and stench were intolerable; one look was sufficient. I and my friend hastened back to the kabitka, nor did we heed the repeated assurance of the worthy landlord that we could sleep very well on the table! Our compagnons de voyage, however, had the courage to pass the night somewhere in the house; we ladies preferred the refuge of our kabitka, which was drawn under an open shed that served as a stable as well. Our slumbers were somewhat disturbed by the horses’ noses sniffing at us several times during the night, attracted, I suppose, by the hay placed at the bottom of our sledge. According to the accounts our friends gave of the manner in which they had passed the time, we had, notwithstanding this annoyance, every reason to congratulate ourselves on having given the preference to the stable.

There is a chaussée from Schlusselberg to St. Petersburg; so the remainder of our journey was easily enough accomplished, nor did we observe anything more that was worthy of remark excepting the very wretched state of the villages belonging to the Count Sherrematief, in the neighbourhood of the capital, which we thought were a perfect disgrace to one who is considered the richest nobleman in the empire.

CHAPTER VI.

Appearance of the capital—The public buildings—The statue of Peter—The quays—The lighting of the streets—The shops and shopmen—A bargain—The dwornicks: their wretched life—Tea-taverns: the company assembled—The itinerant merchants—Cossacks—Circassians: their fidelity—The soldiers of the line—Shameful treatment—The butitchnick—A sad occurrence—Winter aspect—The Nevsky Perspective—Costumes—A drowning man—Police regulations—Number of murders—A poor man’s funeral—Funeral cortège of a prince—Effect of twilight—Convicts—The metropolitan—The Emperor—Police regulations on salutations—The Kazane Church.

I was greatly disappointed with my first view of St. Petersburg. From the extraordinary accounts I had so often read of its magnificence, I was certainly led to expect something infinitely more grand. A drive of half an hour enables the stranger to pass through all the best parts of the city. It is true that in one tableau are assembled a number of splendid buildings, such as few capitals afford; but if within the same space were collected all the finest public buildings in London, with all the advantages of the great extent of ground and clear atmosphere, enabling the visitor to obtain an unobstructed view of their various beauties, it would be easy to guess which would present the most imposing appearance; added to which, it must be recollected that the edifices in St. Petersburg are for the most part only of brick and stucco. That this assemblage of all that is splendid in the city gives it at first sight a magnificent ensemble, I do not deny; but, like everything Russian, the showy façade only hides what is mean behind. In the same tableau we see the Admiralty, on a line with which is the Winter Palace itself, facing the War-office; in the intermediate space stands the Alexander Column, with the bronze angel on the top, whose head is bowed in adoration, and who bears a golden cross in his arms. In the large square of the Admiralty stands the celebrated statue of the Czar Peter, on the left hand of which is the ministerial and judicial department. Behind the statue is the Isaac Church, not yet finished, a heavy-looking building of dark granite, with gilt dome and crosses, and four ridiculous-looking little towers, one at each corner. Some affirm that the dome and cupolas are covered with thin sheets of pure gold, of the thickness of a ducat; but this is quite a mistake; they are only trebly gilt. The interior is in an unfinished state, but it will be much ornamented with rich mosaics; and it is for this cathedral that the pictures and statues are intended which formed the cargo of the vessel that so cleverly escaped a few weeks ago being seized by the allied cruisers. On the bank of the Neva, opposite to this edifice, are the University and the Academy of Fine Arts, the latter a large and handsome square building. There is one really fine street in the city: it is called the Nevsky-Perspective, which as far as the Anitchkin bridge presents a splendid appearance, but at the other extremity degenerates into miserable dwellings, some of them of wood. The objects that attracted my attention the most were the granite quays with which the Neva and the canals are bordered, and which must have cost incalculable trouble, and an immense expenditure, both of treasure and human life, in their construction. The pavement in St. Petersburg is absolutely abominable, and only two or three streets are lighted with gas; the remainder still retain the almost heathen obscurity of oil. A propos of these same oil-lamps: I was told by a Russian gentleman that the police authorities in the capital find them immensely to their advantage; for by lighting two wicks instead of three, which greatly economizes the light and oil, and putting down the extra one to their own account, they manage to make a handsome profit by the end of the year; and this will serve to show how, even in the merest trifles, the government is at the mercy of the employés.

Alexander’s Column and War Office.

[page 52.]

All the best shops in St. Petersburg are kept by foreigners; articles of clothing are very dear, especially those imported, which I was informed was mainly caused by the very great duty imposed on them, and by the unwise restrictions of the government. The Russian shops are almost all confined to the Gostinoi Dwor, a kind of bazaar, situated in the centre of the town. It is a square building, surrounded by a piazza, and contains an immense number of warehouses. We never passed through it without being reminded of the London “’prentices” in Walter Scott’s ‘Nigel,’ who formerly in Cheapside saluted the passers by with “What do ye lack?” Just the very same thing may be heard in Moscow and St. Petersburg; for at the door of each shop either the master or a servant takes his station, and endeavours to draw the stranger’s attention to his goods: “What do you wish, Sudarina? beautiful ribbons, laces, collars, handkerchiefs?”

Another calls out, “Warm boots, shoes, slippers!” A third assails one with “Fine bonnets of the newest fashion; velvet, silk, satin, whatever you wish!” A fourth with “Brooches, rings, scissors, knives (real English), bracelets,” &c. &c. All this is pronounced with inconceivable volubility, which, at the first hearing, seems to be some interminable word peculiarly Russian. The shops that strike a foreigner most forcibly are those filled with pictures of the saints, household gods, and crosses. Here a St. Anthony or St. Serge, a Virgin and Child, or a Catherine, as the purchaser may require, can be bought at any price, from sixpence to fifty guineas. These portraits are highly ornamented with an immense quantity of gold and pearls, or tinsel, according to the sum the buyer may wish to give for his patron and guardian angel, and make a glittering show in the warehouse.

Having arrived at the shop to which the stranger has been directed, the purchase is made somewhat in this fashion:—

Lady. “I wish, if you please, to look at some French ribbons.”

Shopman. “Horro sha, Sudarina” (very well, lady).

The shopman takes down a box, the contents of which are undeniably of Russian manufacture.

L. “These are not French—I want French ribbons.”

S. “These are real French: they are from Paris.”

L. “No, I am sure they are not.”

S. (After again most energetically repeating his assertion) “Well! how much do you want?”

L. “Show me the ribbons, and then I will tell you.”

S. “How many arsheens did you say?”

L. “Show me the French ribbons.”

The shopman unblushingly puts back the box which he has so recently declared contained the real article, and takes down another, which is filled with ribbons really of French fabrication.

L. “How much is this an arsheen?”

S. (With a most graceful inclination) “Seventy copecks.”

L. “Seventy copecks! Why, the price is only fifty, and that is all I will give you.”

S. (Quite indignant) “Fifty! they cost us more than that; you shall have it for sixty-five.”

L. “Fifty.”

S. “Bosja moia! No; I can’t think of fifty—say sixty.”

L. “Not a copeck more than fifty.”

S. “By Heaven! I can’t sell it for that price; you shall have it for fifty-five.”

L. “Will you take fifty or not?”

S. “I can’t indeed.” (He shuts up the box and puts it back into its place.) “You shall have it for fifty-three.”

The purchaser refuses to be cheated of even three copecks an arsheen, and walks out of the shop; she has perhaps gone half-a-dozen yards, when the shopkeeper’s voice is heard calling out, “Barishna, Barishna! come back, if you please!”

L. “Not a copeck more than fifty.”

S. (Having persuaded her to re-enter the warehouse, says in a confidential manner) “You shall have it for fifty-one.”

L. “I said fifty, and I will give you no more.”

S. “Well! say fifty and a half!”

L. “If you don’t like to take what I said, I will go to the next shop.”

S. (Finding that his customer will not be cheated) “Horro sha, Mosjna! well, you may have it; how much do you want?”

L. “Six arsheens.” He proceeds to measure the ribbon, and she takes out her purse, and gives him, perhaps, a five-rouble note to change. The shopkeeper’s hopes of cheating begin to revive at the sight of the note, for he can’t find the amount of the balance due to his customer by two or three copecks.

L. “You must give me three copecks more; this is not right.”

S. (With a very low bow) “Isvenete veno vat, I beg your pardon, I am in fault.” The remaining three copecks are slowly produced, and the customer at last walks away with her ribbon. In this senseless manner do the Russian shopkeepers waste their own time and that of the purchaser. One would think that the minutes thus lost would be of more value than the consideration of the profit of a few copecks more.

Every house in Russia has a kind of out-of-door servant, called a Dwornick, who may be considered as the real police of the country, for it is he that guards the establishment from thieves, &c. His duties are of a very varied description; he attends to the state of the yard, sees that the roof is free from snow, brings the water from the river, and is at every one’s call night and day. Their place is no sinecure, poor fellows! and I never could find out when they had time to sleep; for in addition to all that they have to do during the day, they watch over the house at night, and from seven in the evening until the same hour the ensuing morning they are obliged by the law to sit outside of the gate, to keep a look-out for all comers. Theirs must be a very hard life; yet, to do them justice, they seemed gay enough in the long summer evenings; many a time have I heard them tinkling on their balaika, or triangular guitar, and humming the wild airs of their native village, hours after I have retired to rest. In the winter, however, it must be dreadful to be obliged to remain so many hours exposed to the intense cold of a northern climate. In all their sorrows tea and votku (a kind of Russian whisky made from rye) seem alternately to be the consolation of the lower classes. See that house at the corner; the upper part of it is devoted to the goddess Bohea, which is sufficiently indicated by the rude painting of a tea-urn, surrounded by a numerous progeny of white tea-cups on a dark-blue ground, placed over the door. The windows are open, which enables us to see what is passing within. Long-bearded shopkeepers, in their blue caftans, well buttoned-up, istvostchicks or droshsky-drivers, rough peasants from the country, in their loose shirts or sheepskins, and with queerly-cut hair, are all seated in little groups, round small tables placed in lines down the whole length of the room, as many as it will contain. Young boys, in loose shirts, and mostly without shoes or stockings, are running about attending to the wants of the guests, bringing little loaves to one, rusks to another, and tea to all. Teacups do not seem to be the fashion, for most of the guests are drinking out of glasses; some prefer cream, but the majority have a slice of lemon swimming on the top, and “a portion” of sugar in a small saucer, all ready to be used, is near at hand; they do not put it into the glass, but hold it between their teeth, and suck the beverage through it. They seem happy and contented enough as we see them now, but doubtless each could tell of some act of oppression and violence which weighs heavily on his heart, and which will inevitably be avenged some day or other by him or his children’s children!

Cossacks of the Don and Black Sea.

[page 59.]

Let us now cast a look into the cellars below. If the first floor be dedicated to a Chinese deity, these are under the protection of a classic god that indeed ought to be the tutelar deity of the Russian people. The gigantic bunches of purple and white grapes on a gold field plainly indicate that “Votku is sold here,” and that Bacchus holds his reign in this subterraneous temple, even if we did not perceive the state of those reeling mujiks (peasants) and young boys continually going in and out, in danger of stumbling down the steps of the drinking-shop, the doors of which are happily closed, and thus prevent our being disgusted with what is passing within: we will therefore stand aside for a few minutes and remark the passers-by. If it be summer, we shall see the lemonade-boys with their large glass jugs and one glass for universal use. Sometimes, instead of this beverage, they vend a kind of drink made of cranberries. I dare say what they sell is very refreshing, but its purity cannot be depended on. The bread-merchants with their portable tray supported by a strap round their shoulders; the fruit-venders, whose treasures are crude enough and never ripen in this northern clime; the flower-girls with well-arranged nosegays; the begging monks and nuns, with their board covered with cloth, on which is embroidered a cross, and on which the pious are expected to place a trifle, which they pretend goes to their religious house—their disagreeable whine is the true tone of a hypocrite. All these are mixed up with an indefinite number of peasants and employés, of whom, with the exception of the military, the population at this season seems composed, for the “families” are all out of town, enjoying the short summer on their estates, or at the “Islands” in the environs of St. Petersburg. There seems no lack of uniforms, notwithstanding that the soldiers are “aux camps” some forty versts from the city: but this is the capital of a nation kept down by the knout and the sword. Yonder are four horsemen abreast: they are Cossacks. Remark their black sheepskin caps, their blue frock-coats tightly fastened by a narrow belt round the waist. By the bye, it must be a great misfortune if they grow stout, for the belt is only allowed to be of a certain length, as if even flesh and blood must obey military regulations. Their immensely long spears with red shafts are supported by a leathern strap; the hay is curiously twisted up into a kind of gigantic ring and fastened to the saddle-bow. They have good features, but are too small in size to be handsome figures. Those two soldiers that you see coming on horseback, looking round with ineffable disdain upon the people, are Circassians: their proud and stately bearing, their magnificent dress and ancient arms, recall to our remembrance the days of chivalry, when in the olden time the warriors of merry England went forth to fight Saladin in the plains of Syria. Their closely-fitting burnished helmets with little scarlet ornament at the top, their steel veil falling over their necks, their shirt of linked mail, the plate-armour on their legs, and their barbed steeds, make us imagine them to be some ancient knights of high renown ready caparisoned for the tournament. Their piercing black eyes and noble features do not belie what we have heard of the beauty of the Circassian race. These are probably some of a tribe that have been induced to swear fealty to the Czar, or perhaps are two of the hostages from Circassia. I remember a gentleman telling me that the Circassians were among the most faithful of the Emperor’s soldiers: perhaps the time may be near at hand in which their fidelity will be put to the test. You see those other soldiers opposite; they cut but a poor figure by the side of the Circassians. They are some of the infantry of the line; their downcast, inanimate look, their thin and miserable forms, tell of the many kicks and blows, the scanty rations of black bread and salt, the life of drudgery and the shameful ill-treatment to which, poor wretches! they are too much accustomed. “It is no wonder our soldiers are brave,” said a Russian official to me; “they have so little worth living for, that, as Grinion the author says, ‘they lose nothing when they lose their life:’ the only way to make a good trooper is to make him care nothing at all about his existence.” What abominable policy!

That little house at the corner of the street is inhabited by a butitchnick or stationary policeman; he is placed there to keep the streets in order: I am sorry to say he has not the reputation of being very honest himself. So many stories are told and known to be true concerning the police in Russia, that they really may be regarded as the wolves instead of the watch-dogs of the community. Among the many examples of what is here asserted, I remember two. The first was that of a servant-girl who was the slave of a lady with whom I was slightly acquainted, and who was one evening sent out to purchase something. The girl, like the generality of domestics in this country, was not of good character, and she stopped to talk with the butitchnick, who invited her into his house. She was never seen again alive, and several weeks passed before any trace of her was discovered. By chance, as the police-officer was going his rounds, he entered the man’s cabin, and looking round he caught sight of a very small portion of a cotton dress that was jammed between the boards of the floor. He instantly had them taken up, and beneath them was found the body of the wretched servant-girl: the butitchnick confessed that the silver rouble intrusted to her had tempted him to commit the murder. The second case was that of a lady who went to take a walk in the Strogonoff gardens, at a few versts’ distance from St. Petersburg. She was seen to enter them, but she never left them again. Nothing was heard of her during nine months, notwithstanding the untiring efforts of her friends and the large sum offered by them for some information concerning her fate. Many of her acquaintances were therefore reluctantly obliged to conclude that in some sudden fit of insanity she must have committed suicide by throwing herself into the water. The mystery was however, at length cleared up. It so happened that a gentleman, a friend of this lady’s, while taking a ride, was accosted by a butitchnick, who asked him if he would like to buy a parasol. It immediately struck him that it was very similar to the one which the unfortunate lady had in her hand when she so suddenly disappeared. He therefore told the man to keep it until his return, which would be soon, as he had only to call on an acquaintance. The policeman, suspecting nothing, promised to do as he was requested, and the gentleman rode on. The butitchnick’s surprise may be well imagined when he saw him come back with the police-master and two or three of his men to take him into custody. He soon met with the punishment he so well deserved: he was knouted, and, if he survived, was afterwards to be sent to the mines. No man in Russia can be punished unless he confess his crime, but means are resorted to for making him do so. This man’s reason for committing the murder was his being unable to withstand the temptation offered by the lady’s handsome dress, and he unconcernedly lifted up a part of the floor of his house and showed where he had buried her.

In winter the aspect of the streets of St. Petersburg is very different from what it is in summer. Instead of the venders of lemonade, &c., we see the itinerant tea-sellers furnished with a kettle well wrapped up in towels to preserve the heat, and a whole row of glasses in a kind of leathern rack in front of them, slung round their neck in some way or other: their tea finds a ready sale among the groups of red-faced, sheepskin-clad boys and men whom they meet in the street, and the shopmen in the Gostinoi Dwor. Instead of droshskies, the sledges filled with ladies, smartly dressed in gaily-coloured bonnets and fur-lined velvet or satin cloaks, glide swiftly along the streets. The Nevsky Perspective is crowded with belles and beaux, all anxious to display the newest fashions from Paris. The innumerable officers saunter along equally desirous of admiration. Here and there may be seen a nurse in the full splendour of the national costume—gold embroidered head-dress, the resplendent pavoinik and crasnoi sarafane, kasackan, and immense amber necklace, which they wear “pour guérir les humeurs froides,” as they say. The coachmen are conspicuous from their red velvet caps stuffed with wadding and trimmed with gold lace, and their long caftan with red scarf tied round their waist; their strangely cropped hair[2] and bushy beard, all covered with frozen breath, appear as if they were thickly powdered with snow; their horses’ backs are like fleece from the same cause, and icicles hang round their mouths and from their eyelids. The canals and river are frozen three feet deep, yet that does not prevent the washerwomen from still following their occupation of rinsing the linen in the holes made in the ice. One would think that their fingers would freeze, but the fact is, the water is so much warmer than the air, that they have no fear of that, yet they must surely suffer from standing so many hours on the ice: their loud laughter and rude jokes, however, seem to contradict this opinion. There is a crowd standing further down—what has happened? Let us ask this shopman.

“It is only a man in the water, Madam: he has slipped down through the hole in the ice, that is all.”

“But why do they not pull him out?”

“No one must touch him until the police arrive; it is their business.”

“Good heavens! the poor man will be drowned meanwhile.”

“Tchto delat?” (what is to be done?) answers the shopman, shrugging his shoulders. And there is nothing done, at least to the purpose; for, of course, in the quarter of an hour or twenty minutes expended in fetching the police, the poor creature has had ample time to be drowned, and his body, when at last fished up from the water by the accredited authorities, is set up on a droshsky with a butitchnick to hold it on, and so is driven, a horrid spectacle, through the streets to the station. This is one of the senseless regulations of the Russian police, that everything must be done by their agency; surely it ought to be lawful to save a fellow-creature’s life under any circumstances. When I was staying at Twer, one of the men-servants, in a fit of jealousy, thought proper to hang himself in an outhouse. One of his companions happened to enter and saw him struggling; he did not dare to cut the cord, but ran to fetch the authorities. They came, and poor Ivan was nearly cold. I recollect, on the road to Nova Derevna, seeing a carriage tear along the stones as if the horses were wild, and the coachman was lashing them like a madman. It appears that he had accidentally run over a drunken man, and was so afraid of the consequences of stopping a moment out of humanity to raise the poor wretch, whose leg was broken, that he thus frantically drove on. If the man had been killed he would have been punished as if for a murder, and the carriage and horses confiscated; but in any case, had he been caught, the latter part of the sentence would have been carried into effect, and he himself would have been severely beaten.

Another stupid regulation also exists. If one man should happen to see another lying murdered on the ground, and should be so unwary as to give information of the fact to the authorities, he is in danger of being himself detained until some trace of the real assassin be discovered. An English person informed me that he was one day crossing the river on foot at an early hour in the morning, and, to his horror, he saw the body of a murdered man lying close to a hole in the ice. Apparently, those who had committed the dreadful crime had been alarmed just as they were on the point of sinking their victim in the Neva, and had fled and left him. As for the Englishman, he did not dare to give information of it, as he knew too well the penalty. Who can tell how many wicked deeds are done in this gaudy capital between the setting and the rising of the sun on a long winter’s night, or how many of the murdered have floated beneath the ponderous ice, silently pursuing their frightful voyage towards the gulf! Alas! many, very many, I have been repeatedly assured by those who had every means of knowing the truth.

Yonder is a poor man’s funeral—how sad! There is not a single mourner to follow him to his final place of rest; perhaps he was a common soldier or a convict, for here one is almost as much respected as the other. The coffin is nothing but a long, roughly-made deal box stuffed with straw (a few pieces of which escape from under the lid), and is dragged along on a peasant’s sledge with as much unconcern as if it contained the body of a dog. How different from the magnificent funeral cortège I saw only yesterday! it was that of the Prince L. The road was strewn with branches of fir; numbers of men preceded the procession with flaming torches in their hands: the bishop in his mitre, the priests in their silver-bordered robes; the choristers chanting the funeral service in solemn tones; the splendid coffin with its rich and beautiful mountings; the glittering pall of cloth of gold; the magnificent canopy of crimson velvet with white ostrich-feathers waving in the wind, as if they mocked the lifeless corse beneath them; the footmen in their white-bordered coats, cocked hats, and long streamers of red, blue, and white ribbons. The innumerable carriages and sledges, marshalled in a long line by the gensdarmes, closed the procession; the soldiers presented arms to the dead. Yet all his riches and nobility could not free the proud Prince L. from Nature’s heavy debt, nor prevent him from treading the same dreary path as yon poor friendless wretch.

St. Petersburg never looks so beautiful as on a summer’s night; the buildings are then seen to great advantage. The peculiar twilight of these latitudes casts a softness yet a clearness over them, of which those who have not seen it can have no idea: the utter silence of a great city in what seems broad daylight gives a mysterious feeling to the heart, and subdues the thoughts. I was never more struck with the beauty of St. Petersburg than once when, on returning from a party at a late hour, I was crossing the upper bridge from Kamanoi Oustroff: the long line of palaces fading away in the distance, the magnificent quays, the calm river, the unbroken stillness, all produced the effect of a fairy-scene, as if they were fabrics of a vision too lovely to be real, erected on the enchanting shores of a lake of liquid silver.

But, see! yonder is a strange group. They are prisoners being escorted out of the town by soldiers. There is a Cossack of the Black Sea among them. What a savage look he casts around! The long hairs of his shaggy white cap almost fall into his eyes, and make him look even more ferocious than he otherwise would; his legs are heavily chained, so are those of his companions. The man next to him is a Cossack of the Ural; his rough sheepskin cap, like those of the soldiers, and wild-looking dress, mark him as a complete barbarian. It would be difficult to decide which has the more villanous countenance of the two. We need scarcely ask what their crimes are. That young girl cannot be more than sixteen, yet she has been knouted, and is now sufficiently recovered to be able to accompany the gang to Siberia; her crime was that of striking her mistress: she will not be reclaimed by the wicked wretches with whom she is marching. The charitable are bestowing alms on them, kindly wishing to alleviate their sufferings as much as possible, and the money will enable them to buy some trifling comforts on their journey. One of the convicts seems to be the treasurer of the party, for everything is handed over to him. There is kindness in that poor peasant who is running after them to give them the little he can afford. The Russians are, generally speaking, a good-hearted people, and would eventually become a noble nation under a freer and better government. Many of their vices and crimes proceed from ignorance and fear.

That fine carriage with six horses, the two first bearing postilions in long frock-coats and prodigious cocked hats, putting us in mind of our respected friend Punch on horseback, the two footmen behind in the same becoming costume, and the coachman holding the reins à la Russe with outstretched arms, contains the Metropolitan of St. Petersburg. He is a venerable-looking old man, with a long snowy beard and straight head-dress like a brimless hat, covered with white cashmere falling down behind: his forehead surmounted by a diamond cross; his long loose robe hanging in rich folds; his breast covered with crosses and stars, for every profession has a military rank in Russia, give him a most imposing appearance; if not exactly like that of an apostle, he may remind us of the high-priest of Rome, when Rome was mistress of the world. The people salute him, and uncover their heads with much reverence; he raises his hand, and seems as if he were bestowing his benediction on them. But let us stand on one side, for the Emperor’s sledge is coming; he is dressed in a gray military cloak and leather helmet ornamented with gold, precisely similar to that of any other officer. He has a fine face; his fair complexion and the general cast of his features show his German descent, but there is something peculiarly disagreeable about his eyes. His noble figure amply fills the sledge, which drives at a rapid rate past us. His majesty looks much older than he did a few months ago; his hair is grayer and his shoulders rounder, yet he is a fine man still. He acknowledges the low bows of his people by a military salute, and leaves behind him as he advances many open mouths and wide-staring eyes among the sheepskin gentry, who perhaps have but just come into St. Petersburg with the “winter-loads,” and can scarcely gaze their fill at the Czar, who, in their ignorance, they imagine a kind of God upon the earth. Look! the Emperor is giving a military salute to some ladies in a blue carriage, with two Cossacks in scarlet behind; it his her Majesty the Empress and her daughter. The red uniform of the Cossacks is the distinctive mark between her livery and that of the wife of the heir-apparent, which is blue.

It must not be imagined that all the respect with which the Czar is greeted is quite spontaneous. A Polish gentleman told me once an anecdote of an acquaintance of his. He had recently arrived in the capital from some out-of-the-way place in Poland, and, as the Emperor does not wear his crown in the street, he of course did not know him from Adam; he therefore committed the crime of not taking off his hat when the Emperor passed. On his return home he had a notification that he must uncover on meeting his Majesty. He did not fail to do it the next time, and saluted him with two or three low bows quite down to the ground. He soon had another visit from the authorities, ordering him out of the city, which made him practically to understand that the Czar could have too much respect paid him as well as too little. I need scarcely add that the Pole did not delay his departure, and thought himself fortunate in being able to return in safety to his obscure village in his own country.

Mais allons! Let us continue our walk down the Nevsky Perspective. The carriages with scarlet liveries and lined with wolfskin are those of families belonging to the court, of which there are plenty in St. Petersburg. The shops, or magazines as they are called here to distinguish them from the common Russian warehouses in the Gostinoi Dwor, all have signboards with the articles their proprietors sell painted thereon—a proof of the general ignorance, for, if the people could read, such signs would not be necessary. Opposite, you see is a hairdresser’s; he himself is represented on his signboard as exercising his skill on the head of a very sentimental young gentleman dressed for a ball; he unites phlebotomy with his other accomplishments, for vis-à-vis is represented a very fine lady in a blue dress and pink bows looking very so-so, whose arm is at the mercy of the operator, while a boy in a white shirt is holding the basin.

Next door to the hairdresser lives a milliner, whose gay caps and bonnets are duly delineated on her board. Yonder is a toy-shop, with a fine painting containing the most artistic grouping of rocking-horses with happy little boys on them for ever smiling, and Punch reclining wearily on a drum, mixed up with swords and guns that will never kill Turks, and helmets, shakoes, Cossack-caps, &c., destined to raise ambitious hopes in many a childish breast. But we have reached the Anitchkin bridge, which crosses the Fontanka. These four equestrian statues in bronze have a fine effect; the human figures endeavouring to restrain the fiery steeds are full of life and animation. There are some fine buildings near; that large handsome mansion on the right hand belongs to Prince Wasiliwitch; the long range that you see yonder to the left is the Catherine Institution; it contains some hundreds of young ladies belonging to noble families, and, like most establishments of education here, is a government one. It is of no use going further than the Amitchkin bridge, because there is absolutely nothing to see; the houses beyond it degenerate greatly, so we will return. That large white mansion is the palace of the Archduchess Olga, which she inhabits when she visits the capital. Leaving the Gostinoi Dwor on the left, we look down a street, facing which we see at a distance the Michael Palace, a handsome edifice. Soon afterwards we reach the Kazane church; it is built on the model of St. Peter’s in Rome, only on a diminutive scale. We will finish our morning’s ramble by entering it for a few minutes and examining the interior. It is large, and the space, unobstructed by pews, appears even greater than it is; the fine marble pillars supporting the roof are surmounted by gilt capitals; the pavement is tesselated; the walls are covered with pictures, before which silver lamps are suspended, and stands are placed, in which are stuck innumerable thin wax tapers, reminding us of the joss-sticks of the Chinese. That portrait, before which the ignorant lower class are performing their devotions, and bowing so low that their foreheads touch the ground, is the likeness of the Emperor’s daughter Alexandrine, who died some years ago. Alas! and are the days of heathen apotheosis not yet passed away? Must we, in the nineteenth century of the Christian era, see anything so shocking as this? What difference is there between the adoration of Romulus by the ancient Romans and this idolatry? Before that shrine opposite are kneeling two nuns; one of them is only a novice, as shown by her black velvet cone-shaped head-dress and gauze veil hanging down behind; the other has a straight head-dress covered with black cloth; they are both habited in gowns of black serge, and carry rosaries. A face, however beautiful, could never look so in this unbecoming costume. Near them is a poor woman decently clad, whose repeated prostrations, and the tears coursing each other rapidly down her cheeks, show that true devotion, and perhaps repentance for sin, can be felt even by one so humble and ignorant as a Russian peasant-girl. The massive balustrade round the altar, the gate of the Holy of Holies, and the candelabra are of real silver, made, as they say, from the spoils of the “grande armée,” when the French invaded the country; but who can believe all the Russians say? We have often heard them boast, among other incredible triumphs of their arms, that they took Paris in 1814, and they even had the assurance to deny that any one else had aught to do with their entry into that city. The large filagree silver doors that enclose the Holy of Holies are shown to advantage by the crimson velvet curtains behind them. We ladies are not allowed to enter the “sanctum,” so we must content ourselves with the knowledge that there is nothing worth seeing inside, and with admiring the portraits of the saints inserted in the gates; they are really well executed, but “saint-painting” is a profession in Russia, something like that of the artificers of brass who worked for the great temple of Ephesus. This royal-looking lady is St. Olga, whose only claim to merit was that of introducing the Greek religion into Muscovy. Her horrid cruelty and detestable immorality would lead us to think that she deserved any other abode but that of heaven. These people, just coming up the steps as we are leaving, are a party of pilgrims come on a devotional journey to St. Petersburg; they have no cockle-shells or gourds, no staves nor sandal shoon, as we generally see on the stage. They have all the appearance of common mendicants, with a stout stick in their hands and a wallet on their back; and such indeed they generally are, for under the pretence of a pilgrimage they manage to make a very profitable begging tour through the country.

CHAPTER VII.

Places worth visiting—Peter’s Museum—The Czar’s works—Curious effigy—The war-horse—The Nevsky monastery—The saint’s shrine—Magnificent tomb—Superstition—The cemetery—Catherine—Imperial mausoleum—Description of the sarcophagi—Prisoners—Political offenders—Spy system—Bombardment of Odessa—Dumb spy—A spy of rank—Assemblée de la noblesse—Masked balls—Russian civilization—Love of money—Inebriety—Society in St. Petersburg.

There are many places well worth visiting in St. Petersburg: such as Peter’s Museum at the Academy of Sciences, the Palace of the Hermitage, the Monastery of Alexander Nevsky, &c. &c. The first of these (Peter’s Museum) contains a great many relics of the Czar after whom it is named; many of them are the work of his own hands—models of ships, a chandelier, some iron articles, shoes, and little ivory figures. There are also his tools and instruments, carefully preserved under a glass case. In another apartment is the effigy of the great Peter himself, modelled in wax, habited in one of his own court-dresses, having shoes on that he himself made, and the head is decorated with his own natural hair made into a wig. Unlike the Russians generally, he had dark eyes and hair, and his features had more of the southern cast than of the northern. He must have been of immense stature, for a rod was shown us which we were assured was exactly his height, and its length was some inches more than six feet. Another room contains the horse on which he rode at the battle of Poltava, when the royal Swede “was taught to fly;” it is a wiry little animal, of a light brown, much resembling in size and appearance one of the small species ridden by the Cossacks, but quite out of proportion to the gigantic Czar, whose feet must have nearly reached the ground. I believe there is another museum also called after Peter the Great, but we did not go to see it.

At the very end of the Nevsky Perspective, after passing a vast number of miserable dwellings, we reach the Nevsky Monastery, from which the street is named. Alexander Nevsky is an imperial and warrior saint, and was Czar of Muscovy. After his death he was canonized for some reason or other; and of course, with all his imperial and religious advantages, his shrine is greatly visited and much reverenced by the people. It seems a general rule, not only among the heathen nations of antiquity, but with the Russians as well, that, when thoroughly tired of the “fantastic tricks” played by their monarchs “before high Heaven,” they are content to worship them as gods, though they might themselves have forwarded them on the road to Paradise. The late Emperor Alexander, though not yet dignified with the title of saint, has obtained the first step towards it by being surnamed the “Blessed,” but why and wherefore no one could ever tell us.

The Nevsky Monastery is a large pile of buildings painted white, with a green roof; the road to it leads through an avenue of birch-trees, as is generally the case in Russian monasteries. A large cathedral forms the principal attraction, for in it is contained the saint’s shrine, which is very magnificent and consists of an immense silver monument, several yards in height, and placed against the wall: in the front is a sarcophagus of the same metal on a raised dais; on its cover is a full-length likeness of the dead, crowned by one of those circles of radiant glory in pure gold which distinguish the Greek images,[3] and further decorated with a wreath of artificial flowers. At the head of the tomb a beautiful silver lamp is always kept burning, which casts down on the features a soft light, and gives them a peculiarly pleasing effect. At the foot of the shrine are seated two large figures of angels in silver, and at each side of it is a military trophy consisting of shields, spears, battle-axes, &c. &c., all of the same precious metal; over the sarcophagus was thrown a magnificent pall of cloth of gold most richly ornamented. I was assured by the Russian lady who accompanied me that the body of the saint lay uncorrupted beneath.

“And do you really believe that Alexander Nevsky’s corpse is exempted from the decay of other mortals?”

“Undoubtedly I do,” was the reply: “I have as little doubt of it as that I see you now before my eyes.”

“But have you ever seen it?”

“No! that of course is not allowed, but the priests have done so, and they tell us that he lies there just as if he were asleep; even his limbs are not become rigid, and that is one of the great proofs that he is worthy of being numbered among our patron saints.” Seeing me still incredulous, she added, “I assure you that at Kiev there are numbers of the uncorrupted bodies of our holy men and martyrs, which, if you went thither, you could see yourself and be convinced.”

“But perhaps the monks have the secret of thus preserving them; I have heard so.”

“I will not talk to you any more,” replied my friend; “you English heretics will not believe any of our miracles.”

She quitted me, and went up the steps leading to the sarcophagus; and devoutly kissing the hands and feet of the image, she repeatedly crossed herself, whilst she muttered a few words in prayer; and having made the offering of a piece of money, by slipping it through the top of a well-secured box, she turned to accompany me out of the church. We lingered a few moments longer to admire the rich canopy, supported by massive silver pillars, that overshadows the tomb, and to read the name of “Souvarof” on a small mural slab, and then proceeded to the cemetery attached to the establishment. It was much crowded with monuments; broken pillars, surmounted by a gilt cross, weeping female figures of the purest white marble, and simple white crosses, were among the most common and interesting of these offerings to the memory of the dead, made by affection, ostentation, or hypocrisy. It was here that Peter III., the husband of the too famous Catherine, was interred, for she would not even allow him to repose with his ancestors. Perhaps the idea of herself being placed side by side with him of whose dreadful death she stands arraigned, might not have been a very pleasant one. After Catherine’s decease, Paul had his father’s body removed to the fortress, which has been the mausoleum of the imperial family since Peter the Great’s reign. I was told that he caused the nobleman who had actually done the murderous deed to stand as guard the whole of the first night alone in the church, between the tomb of the woman whose wicked orders he had obeyed in the hopes of sharing the crown (of which reward she cheated him), and that of the unhappy monarch whom he had murdered: the fearful feelings of that night’s dreadful ordeal rendered him a maniac during the remainder of his life.

We visited the chapel in which the members of the Romanof family are deposited. Their resting-place is extremely simple, and is an ordinary church. The tombs or sarcophagi are merely long boxes, standing in rows before the altar, each covered with a crimson velvet pall, on which the arms of Russia are embroidered. I was told that they were precisely similar to the tombs of the Sultans in Constantinople, with the exception of the turban.

Among other things we were shown the cushion on which Souvarof, the half-barbarian general, reposed when in his tent; it was of leather, stuffed with straw; but as I have no respect for the man, I was not much interested in seeing it. On the other side of the river, opposite the fortress, is a statue of him “en héros,” as our friend said; en barbare would have been more appropriate.

On leaving the place we perceived several of the criminals (it being the state prison) peeping through the gratings of their cells; the whole of one side of their heads was shaved, beginning with the line of the nose, and finishing at the nape of the neck, presenting a most strange appearance; the object of this is, that they may be recognised if they should effect an escape. Beneath the fortress are the dungeons in which the state prisoners are confined; I was assured that the dungeons extend to a considerable distance under the Neva. How inconceivably wretched such an existence must be!—in darkness, silence, and solitude, it seems wonderful how they can survive, even for a few days. The church clock chimes every quarter of an hour, which must be wearisome enough to the unhappy creatures within hearing. At one time I was residing just opposite to this place, on the other side of the river. One morning, at about nine o’clock, I perceived a long line of sledges crossing the ice, preceded and followed by a party of mounted gensdarmes: each equipage contained a gentleman and one of the police. I found out afterwards that these poor fellows, most of them quite youths, had been incarcerated for some silly nonsense they had uttered about politics; they were then being taken before the authorities to hear their final sentence. I do not think that any of them escaped; they were hurried off to Siberia, in the prisoners’ kabitkas that stood ready to receive them in the yard. It appears that they had been to a supper-party, and had taken more wine than needful, when they had talked pretty freely, of course. When three meet together in Russia, you may safely count one of them as a spy; it proved to be so in this instance, for information was quickly given that some horrible conspiracy was being formed. The result we have seen. A young gendarme officer used to visit at the house of one of our acquaintances; his presence always produced restraint, as they are obliged by their duty to report whatever they may hear. A propos of the spy system: I was informed that, besides the secret police, there are eighty thousand paid agents in the country, among whom, to their shame be it spoken, are many Poles and foreigners. I am happy to say that I never heard an instance of an Englishman being so employed. A great many women belong to this hateful profession; even some of the French milliners in St. Petersburg have the reputation of being agents of police. One would wonder how politics could be brought on the tapis while a lady is engaged in trying on a new cap or bonnet; but these marchandes de modes have free admission to the masquerades, theatres, &c. &c., where they can exercise their detective talents. It is no exaggeration to say that a Russian subject scarcely dares to utter his true sentiments, even to his own brother or familiar friend. I am sure that I have often been present at conversations in which perhaps four or five would be taking part, each knowing that his neighbour was telling a lie, and avowing sentiments exactly contrary to those he felt; yet the subject under consideration would be discussed with all the gravity and seriousness of entire conviction. Take for example the recent bombardment of Odessa: I was present in St. Petersburg at the time, and read the proclamation of the Emperor announcing to his faithful people the astounding fact that the allied fleets, mounting three hundred and fifty cannon, had fired for twelve consecutive hours upon the town, killing only four men, and that the people were so well behaved, they did not let even the tremendous cannonading interrupt their peaceful devotions! Added to which, they were assured, after a few remarks on our fleet firing at too great a distance to be within range of the battery guns, that the English ships retired with great loss and damage. How this was caused when the Russian balls could not reach them, the Emperor forgot to explain. I had an invitation to dine with a family the very day on which the news came, and I would not be absent, lest it should be ascribed to some feeling of annoyance among the English. During the whole dinner (at which were some generals, other officers, and ladies of rank), nothing was talked of but this wonderful triumph of the Russian arms. I am convinced that there was not one single person there present who believed it: but who could venture to doubt the imperial words? Evil would have befallen him who had dared to do so.

I remember, when in the province of Archangel, a deaf and dumb gentleman paid the town a visit; he was furnished with letters of introduction to some families there, and was well received at the governor’s table; his agreeable manners and accomplishments, joined to his misfortune, made him a general favourite, and caused much interest; he could read French, German, Russian, and Polish; was a connoisseur of art, and showed us several pretty drawings of his own execution. Two or three times I was struck with an expression of more intelligence in his face than one would expect when any conversation was going on behind his back. It was not until three years after that I accidentally heard this very man spoken of in St. Petersburg. He was one of the government spies. It was no doubt for a very large sum that he had been induced to put so great a constraint upon himself, and it must have required long training to enable him to perform so difficult a part. This vile system must have a dreadful effect in demoralizing all ranks of society, producing hypocrisy, falsehood, meanness, and cunning, which are felt in the minutest relations of life. On one occasion I was conversing with a Polish lady and gentleman upon Count Custine’s work on Russia, which is rigidly prohibited by the censor; in the midst of our conversation a gentleman called, and by some à propos accident asked if we had read the book in question. I, being English, immediately replied in the affirmative; but my Polish friends pretended that they had scarcely ever heard even its title; and although only a few minutes previously they had acquiesced in the justice of many of the Count’s remarks, they said “of course they would not read a work condemned and prohibited.”

I will add another instance. A general officer visited the province in which I was for some time residing; his rank gave him easy access to all the best houses, and he was sure to be met with at any grand dinner. Alas! he also was a spy. It was not until he had quitted the place that this began to be whispered, and it was afterwards confirmed. I have heard that professions learned and sacred, as well as honourable, all have members who act as spies upon the rest.

Among the places worth visiting in the capital is the “nobility’s assemblée,” at the corner of St Michael-street and the square. When I first went to reside in St. Petersburg, these rooms were considered quite the mode, but now they are no longer so, for public places soon degenerate in Russia from the comme il faut to the mauvais genre; there were given balls and masquerades, at which the imperial family were frequently present; the ladies wore dominoes after midnight, but the gentlemen went unmasked. Any lady could intrigue the Emperor (no gentleman was allowed to do so), who frequently was surrounded by a little gay crowd of beaux masqués, entertaining him with all the chit-chat and conversations légères peculiar to the style of such amusements. I was informed that a great many Frenchwomen, even milliners, were furnished with tickets gratis, their gay badinage and cheerful manners serving so much to enliven the company. Among the tales of scandal which, in the absence of politics, shares with actors and actresses the honour of being made the subject of conversation in Russian society, was one which I make no doubt whatever was a positive fact, and, as it is à propos to these bals masqués, I will relate it. A lady, the daughter of an old general named B——, was one evening at the masquerade; she intrigued a personage of very high rank, and while so doing was imprudent enough to touch upon some forbidden subject; shortly after she left the assemblée and returned home, perfectly unconscious that orders had been given not to let her out of sight until her name and place of residence had been ascertained. The next morning she was disagreeably surprised by a visit from an officer of the secret police, who politely requested her to accompany him to Count Orloff’s office. Such an invitation was, of course, not to be refused—she went immediately. The gentleman who received her was aimabilité itself; he kindly pointed to a seat that stood near, and blandly proceeded to ask her a few questions concerning the previous evening’s amusement, to all of which the terrified lady tremblingly replied “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” for no equivocation would have availed her in that place. When the interrogation was finished, the chair suddenly sank through the floor, and I am ashamed to say that from the hand of some unseen person below she received a correction such as little boys used formerly to be subjected to from the birch of old-fashioned schoolmasters. I met this lady frequently in company, and knew her sister well. I had the anecdote from an intimate friend of the family, and have not the slightest doubt of its being true.

The same misfortune is said to have occurred about four months ago to a certain noble princess from the south, who expressed some sympathy with the cause of the Western Powers. I have often asked Russians, when they were boasting of their great civilization, if this were a proof of it. Once the reply was that “a great many of the Russian ladies deserved to be beaten, and that it would do them a great deal of good.” At another time, in speaking of the peasant-women being so treated, a certain Prince A—— replied that “they were not worthy of the title of women, they were no better than cattle!” Once, on complaining of the impertinence of a servant, I was recommended to “box her ears well;” on my remarking that such an action would be a greater disgrace to me than to the girl herself, the lady, whose maid she was, answered, “If you do not do it, I will;” she rang the bell, the footman was told to send Marousha, and the instant she came, notwithstanding my entreaties, the lady administered with her own hand a sound blow on each side of the poor girl’s head!

When abroad, the Russians invariably deny that such a state of things exists; they will even sometimes attempt to hide it in their own country, which shows that at the least they have the grace to be ashamed of it.

A stranger in walking through the streets in St. Petersburg, if he understands anything of the language spoken, cannot fail to remark that the general theme of conversation among the lower classes is money; scarcely one of the men or women passes by without our catching the words tchitvertack, grebinick, roup, &c. In no country is more avidity displayed in the pursuit of gain; only speak of a piece of silver, and a Russian’s eyes sparkle at the sound, and he is ready to do anything in order to obtain it. Copecks and whisky are the two greatest temptations of his heart. M. P——ski, a gentleman of education, assured me, only the morning I left St. Petersburg, that they were in much more danger from the pillage of the lower classes than from any exterior enemy; and he expressed the greatest fears for the consequences of bringing so many thousands of wild savages of soldiers into the town, for, if they rose, it would be en masse, and he was fearful that the great temptation offered by the sight of a civilized capital for the first time would shortly prove an irresistible one; if they did have an outbreak, it would sweep the upper classes away like a torrent.

In regard to the love of whisky to be remarked at every step, how can we wonder that the Russian boor is addicted to drinking when there is every inducement held out to him to do so? he is more to be pitied than condemned. The government revenues are in great part acquired by the sale of votku; there are people called brandy-farmers, who contract with the authorities for the monopoly; they generally make great fortunes, and the poor people pay for all. The charge of inebriety among those of superior rank is entirely false; a Russian gentleman seldom takes much wine, and the ladies never; they have faults grave enough, but this is not one of them.

The society in St. Petersburg is, of course, as varied and as much divided into cliques as that of any other great city, and it entirely depends upon which circle the stranger has the fortune to be introduced into whether he be favourably impressed with what he sees, or the contrary; from my own experience I should say that it is rare to meet with more agreeable people. I do not speak of their knowledge, or what is denominated mind, for there are not many lovers of deep study or profound erudition among the Russians, either gentlemen or ladies; but of their kindness, good-nature, and desire to afford pleasure to others, the foreigner will have no reason to complain. It must, however, be confessed that their feeling towards strangers has much changed since the present state of affairs has commenced.

CHAPTER VIII.

Winter amusements—The opera and French theatre—Hamlet—A true Russian play—Corruption of the police—Anecdotes—The hermitage—The museum—Dinner-parties—Russian hospitality—Want of information—The censor’s office: its restrictions.

The winter amusements in St. Petersburg are the same as those of other capitals during the season—the opera, French theatre, balls, concerts, bals masqués, &c. The opera is of course an Italian one, and the same artistes perform there as in London. I was once at the opera when the Emperor thought proper to applaud the cantatrice (Castellan I believe) by clapping his hands; he had no sooner done so than somebody hissed; he again showed his approbation—the unknown hissed a second time; his Majesty stood up and looked round on the assembled multitude, and the third time gave his applause; he was answered in the same manner as before. I soon after heard a terrible scuffle overhead; the police had discovered the hardy offender, and quickly dragged him out of the house: I never learnt what became of him; doubtless he was made to repent that he had dared to have an opinion different from that of the Czar.

A gentleman in our box suggested that it must be a foreigner, for no Russian subject would have dared to act so.

The French theatre is extremely good; all the best artistes from Paris are engaged for the season at enormous salaries. We were informed that his Majesty once said to the Director that “he was one of his best friends, because he amused society.” A great deal more was perhaps sous entendu than the mere words expressed. It is certain that, as long as the government can get the people (that is the upper classes—there are no “gods” in Russia) to wrangle and quarrel about the merits of an actress or a singer, instead of thinking upon what great events are passing around them, it is safe enough, and security is worth purchasing at any rate. This last winter, as very extraordinary affairs were being transacted, Madlle. Rachel was imported: I forget the exact amount she received, but the diamonds and jewels with which she was presented were of enormous value, and her performance, the Czar’s generosity, and her conduct furnished all the nobility and gentry with a fruitful theme of conversation. As the climax to all the compliments paid this actress, the Emperor did the Empress the honour of presenting Madlle. Rachel to her, and gracefully led her to his consort’s presence. Madlle. Rachel in return wrote a flourishing letter to the Emperor (a copy of which was shown me), containing innumerable highflown compliments on his might and power, and she spoke of the tears of gratitude she shed on her return to her lodgings, &c.: it was handed round with about as much reverence as we should do an autograph epistle of Shakspere or of Alfred the Great. Doubtless, the great tragedian laughed heartily at it all, and thought the Russians a set of dupes. As politics are dangerous subjects to talk about, and as people must have something to converse on, the actors and actresses take the place of “whigs and tories;” their performance, of some “new measure;” their manners and conduct, of “new bills and reforms;” and the news of a fresh play, of “a change in the ministry.” English people can only wonder how a society such as that in St. Petersburg can employ all their energies about such absurdities.

There are translations of some of Shakspere’s plays performed; the two most frequently witnessed are Hamlet and King Lear; the class of shopkeepers, who may be called the people in Russia, for the others are mere serfs, are those by whom they are chiefly appreciated, and Shakspere is reverenced by most of them nearly as much as in England, although they have read his works only in a translation; perhaps at some future time his lofty thoughts will have a good effect upon their opinions and conduct. When I was at Twer I saw the part of Hamlet exceedingly well performed by a young actor, and the audience, even in this small provincial town, seemed thoroughly to appreciate it. I once went to a shop in St. Petersburg, when I remarked to a lady who was with me “that the proprietor much resembled the portraits of Shakspere;” although the remark was made in French, the shopkeeper understood it, and to my astonishment made me a low bow and thanked me. It was only a small fruit-shop, and we neither of us had the least idea that he had ever heard the poet’s name.

Such of Shakspere’s plays as Julius Cæsar, and others containing sentiments of freedom, are not permitted to be performed, and are not even translated.

The Russian stage is very destitute of good pieces, but I saw one which, being truly national, may serve to give an idea of their plays. It was the best I ever witnessed on the Russian stage, and it gives too true a picture of the unjust extortion and bribery which are also truly national, for they pervade all ranks in an equal degree. I was in perfect astonishment that the piece was allowed to be played at all; one would think that pride alone would have prevented such an exposure of their prevailing vice to the foreigners with whom the capital is crowded.

It was called the ‘Reviseur,’ that being the title of an officer sent from time to time into the provinces to examine into the state of the government, and to report concerning the manner in which it is carried on.

The play opened by a domestic scene, in which the police-master, his wife and daughter, are all eagerly conversing on the shortly-expected visit of the Reviseur, and we are let into the secret of various amiable weaknesses and domestic plans to keep up an appearance of propriety, in the midst of which the elder lady suddenly sees a carriage pass, which she is sure can be no other than that of the great man himself. An extraordinary bustle ensues: the police-master, in all haste, gives various absurd orders to the employés under him, one of which is that “the soldiers should not on any account be seen without their coats, as it would be then discovered that they had no shirts on,”—the money furnished by the crown for providing them has of course been pocketed by himself and the colonel. After taking all the precautions he can think of, he hastens to inform the other principal men of the arrival of the Reviseur.

The next scene introduces us to the servant of the supposed functionary, who is no Reviseur at all, but a poor gentleman who is running away from St. Petersburg, on account of certain bills which he has not the means of paying. The miserable lodging, and the hungry lamentations of the unlucky servant, give us to understand the state of his master’s finances, that he has actually expended the very last of his cherished rubles, nor does there appear to be any probability of his purse being replenished: how they will be enabled to continue the journey is a casse-tête. Thereupon the master himself enters, and, being quite as famished as his man, orders him to go and get something for dinner, for it appears he has been to an eating-house, and they refused to give him credit. The servant refuses to go without the money. At last, with the help of a great deal of blustering, he is persuaded to “try his luck:” he soon returns; he has been successful in some measure, for he is accompanied by the boy from the cook-shop, who has brought two dishes and—the bill. The savoury smell of the soup and beef drives the hungry pair almost mad, but the purse, unlike that of Fortunatus, is as empty as their stomachs, and, unless the boy gets the money, he is ordered by no means to leave the dinner. Now, here was a dreadful dilemma; but in the midst of it the police-master arrives: the distressed traveller is in fearful trouble, for he is convinced that the dreaded officer is come to arrest him; “he has doubtless heard of his flight from St. Petersburg, and has received orders to take him prisoner.” The police-master, on his side, is equally sure that he is in the presence of the real Reviseur, but that he travels thus in disguise that he may take them unawares, and so detect their numerous acts of dishonesty and corruption: consequently, a most laughable dialogue ensues—the official trembles as he addresses the supposed great man, and is ready to cringe in the dust at his feet. At last the latter begins to see “which way the wind blows,” and, perceiving to what profit he may turn the mistake, informs the other as a very great secret that he is really the Reviseur, and compliments him on his extreme penetration, which alone could have discovered him under such a disguise. No sooner has he done so than the police-master slips an excessively heavy purse into his hand, the contents of which have been furnished by himself and the other chief government officers, to blind his eyes, and to act as golden spectacles. Here the boy from the cook-shop re-enters to be paid for the dinner; the traveller takes out his newly-acquired riches, and is on the point of paying for it, when the police-master politely interferes, and orders the boy to put it down “to his account;” the latter casts a terrified look at the two, and, seeing what a powerful friend his customer has acquired, rushes off in extreme dismay. The official, then turning to the traveller, expresses the hope that they shall have the honour of his company at his house, and respectfully begs permission to write a few words to his wife to inform her of the intended visit; on its being graciously accorded, he sits down and indites a note, in which he bids her strain every nerve for the reception of the distinguished guest, for that she was quite right, it was really the Reviseur that she had seen.

In the following scene the wife and daughter are gravely consulting concerning the toilet proper for the occasion, as they have some sly matrimonial designs on the stranger’s heart. The police-master returns home accompanied by all the chief officials in the place; they have been all “oppressors and unjust judges alike,” and every scheme is canvassed to ensure concealment. The soi-disant Reviseur arrives, and is received with all the slavish obsequiousness of which only Russians are capable. The poor shopkeepers, who come, according to the national custom, to present the bread and salt, and who have been fleeced by the authorities, are summarily dismissed, and can obtain no hearing for their complaints. As for the supposed Reviseur, he knows well the character of his countrymen, and takes care to profit by it by receiving bribes from every one. The inferior officers, whose turn to be introduced is not yet arrived, are all assembled outside the door, determined to listen to what is going on, and to see as much as the keyhole will permit them. Their anxiety is so great that they push the door down and roll over each other on the floor, to the great damage of their noses. Order being restored, the Reviseur gives audience to one at a time: they have received such severe contusions in the fall that most of them have patches on, and one has a black one covering the whole of his nose. Each gives a bribe to the great man, according to his rank: a great deal of laughter is produced by the one with the black nose not being able to find more than eightpence; but the Reviseur takes it, being resolved to get all he can. After all these people are dismissed there is a grand flirtation with the police-master’s daughter, whose visions of a splendid match can only be equalled by the exultation of the mother.

Having obtained as much as he can, our traveller thinks it “high time to be off,” lest by any untoward chance his deception should be discovered. He pockets the money, in all eight hundred roubles, protests his entire satisfaction of everything, his eternal devotion to the daughter, and his fixed intention of shortly returning to marry her, in the midst of which the kabitka drives up to the door; he takes his leave, and the traveller’s bell is soon heard; everybody runs to the window to take a last look at the retreating sledge; the tinkling of the bell becomes fainter, and the act is finished.

The last act opens with a scene between the police-master and the shopkeepers, whom he most bitterly upbraids for daring to complain of his oppression, and refuses to be pacified until they have promised to send him various valuable offerings, so many arsheens of cloth, and so on, to act as peace-makers. At last, on this consideration, he consents to “think no more of it,” and the poor people take their leave. They are replaced by the numerous friends of the family, who have heard of the intended marriage, and have come to congratulate them upon it. A shower, or rather a deluge, of compliments greets them on all sides, in the midst of which the police-master sneezes. When such an accident occurs, the Russians always exclaim, “I wish you well.” It may therefore be imagined what a chorus of voices, each desirous to be remarked above the other; is heard simultaneously. Various grand plans are discussed for the future couple, and the whole family seem ready to die with triumphant exultation, when in comes the postmaster so much out of breath that he cannot speak. On recovering his voice he informs them that he has opened the letter that the traveller had forwarded to St. Petersburg, that he is no Reviseur, and that he had turned them all into ridicule, calling them asses, dupes, and fools, and had given a detailed account of everything that had passed. The distress of the whole company is inconceivable; the police-master is frantic with despair, the daughter and mother faint, the ladies scream, the confusion becomes greater and greater the more they have time to reflect on their position. In the midst of all this terror, consternation, recrimination, and misfortune, enters a chasseur, who announces that the real Reviseur has just arrived. Their despair is now excessive; it becomes deeper and deeper, whereupon the curtain drops and leaves them to their fate.

The acting was admirable throughout. I forget the name of the artiste who performed the first character, but he did it in a manner beyond praise. The comic actors in Russia are excellent; there are not many first-rate actresses; Mlle. Samoiloff was the best—she has since quitted the stage.

Perhaps it may be thought that the preceding play is but a burlesque, an extremely exaggerated picture of what really passes in Russia. Far from it. The Count Z. was sitting next to me, and we were conversing upon the excessive truth of the whole, when Madame P. turned and entreated us, “pour l’amour de Dieu,” not to pass such remarks, for if we were heard we might have a visit from the police before the next morning; so we waited until we returned home, when every one acknowledged that the picture was by no means overdrawn.

We were once staying at the house of a provincial governor, and had many opportunities of hearing and knowing what was going on. The police-master was a colonel in rank; the pay that he received from the government was not forty pounds per annum, yet he kept a carriage, four horses, two footmen, and a coachman; his wife was always extravagantly dressed; she had two or three children, and of course a maid and a cook, added to which she paid a visit every season to the capital. On my expressing wonder as to what miracle enabled him to support his family in such luxury, when it was well known to everybody that he had no estates and nothing besides his pay, I was told a little anecdote of him that deserves to be recorded, if it be only to show to British tradesmen that their brethren in Russia have a worse incubus than that of taxes weighing on their hearts.

On one occasion the Colonel was going to St. Petersburg, but he had not a ruble in his purse, and how to find the money to defray the expenses of the journey was a question. He was not long in solving it, for he hit upon the following plan. There happened to be a rich iron-merchant in the town; he called on him and ordered an immense number of poods of iron to be supplied for the use of the government. To what earthly use could a police-master put all this iron? The poor merchant knew very well that iron was not the metal he wanted, and was glad to compromise the affair by begging his acceptance of a good round sum of silver rubles instead. As for the poods of iron, they peaceably continued to repose in the store, and our “brave homme” went and enjoyed himself very much in the capital.

Scores of similar anecdotes have fallen under my knowledge in every province in which I have resided. It was no longer an enigma to me in what way a police-master’s carriage and horses were paid for. I remember going with a friend to the Persian shop in the Galitzin Gallery in Moscow. Whilst we were there a servant came in and ordered several silk dresses of the kind called canaouse to be sent to the house of the police-master. Never shall I forget the rueful look of the poor Persian as he gave them into the man’s hand, for he well knew that payment was out of the question: he might send in the bill, which would be laid on the table and postponed sine die, but he could not refuse to send the dresses for fear of the consequences, as very likely some pretext would soon be found for ordering his shop to be shut up.

The Palace of the Hermitage is a place of great interest, and contains various beautiful vases in malachite, lapis lazuli, jasper, &c., of great value. There is one enormous vase, I forget of what stone: it is of an oval shape, and measures twenty feet in diameter. These objects are the work of criminals, and are brought from the Ural Mountains and Siberia. The apartments are very fine; the floors are particularly worthy of attention, being curiously and most elaborately inlaid. The gallery of paintings is good; those by Sneyder are excellent. I saw here Brulof’s ‘Last Days of Pompeii,’ but it certainly did not answer the expectations I had formed of it from the immense praise previously bestowed upon it by my friends. The Russians used to boast that he was the first artist in Europe, but everything in Russia is “the first,” according to their own account. Among the pictures here shown, the English stranger will see with regret the splendid collection once at Strawberry Hill, which were unhappily allowed to leave the shores of Britain: there are also some good statues and a few antiquities that are interesting.

The Museum in St. Petersburg is very small; it contains some badly-stuffed birds and animals, and very little besides, nor would it be worth the trouble of visiting were it not for the celebrated remains of the mammoth which are preserved in it. Some portions of the skin and hair are shown; the former is like discoloured board, the latter resembles enormous bristles.

A dinner-party in Russia differs little from our own, excepting that all the dishes are handed round, which is much more pleasant than the stiff formality of the joints being placed on the table: the lady and gentleman of the house are thus at leisure to enter into conversation with the guests, and can attend to the minor politesses requisite. I was once at a large dinner-party in Moscow, and was surprised to remark that the host and hostess did not take their seat at all at the table, but walked about chatting first to one, then to another, recommending this wine or that dish to the attention of their assembled friends. I found that it was formerly a very general custom, but has now much fallen into disuse; it had its origin doubtless in the anxious wish to perform thoroughly the duties of hospitality, for which the Russians are justly celebrated. There is one custom that might well be entirely abolished. Each person washes his mouth out after dinner, and, after having well rinsed it, empties its contents into the finger-glass: it certainly is not pleasant to see a whole party thus employed. Immediately after coffee the guests depart; they do not, as with us, remain the whole evening. This is a good arrangement, as it gives the lady the opportunity of going to the opera, or to a friend’s house, as she pleases. There is little conversation worth remembering at a Russian dinner, efforts at making those antediluvian solecisms called puns, or endeavouring to say bons mots, repeating the last anecdote, real or invented, of the Emperor, the Empress, or some fortieth cousin of the imperial family, news as to who has obtained the cross of St. Anne, or that of Vladimir, or of some other order of knighthood which the Russians are ready to sell their souls to obtain, some great honour done to one of the party by his Majesty’s having looked at him, &c., flirtation, and paying personal compliments, are the staple of their “feast of reason.” We have often remarked with astonishment the excessive want of general information among the gentlemen; many of them seemed to know nothing at all beyond the frontiers of the empire. Knowledge is decidedly at a discount. Their showy exterior, their brilliant accomplishments of music and dancing, their fluency in speaking so many foreign languages, are apt to strike foreigners with surprise, and they give them credit for knowing all those solid acquirements which with us are the sine quâ non of a good education. An attempt to converse on any scientific subject would astonish every one, for it would soon show how very little real knowledge they possess. There is also another peculiar trait in the national character. A Russian will frequently pretend an intimate acquaintance with a subject of which he is perfectly ignorant, yet so well will he conceal this fact, that he will keep up the deception for an incredible time, when all at once he will ask some extraordinarily stupid question which shows you that he has not understood a single syllable of all that you have been saying. To this general rule there are of course many exceptions, but in speaking of a nation we take the majority. I do not know how it can be otherwise in a country where so absurd a department exists as that of the censor’s, through which all books and papers must pass before they reach the hands of the community. The extreme fear of the government lest the nation should become too enlightened will some time or other meet with its reward, for they may as well attempt to curb the waves of the Atlantic as to stem the tide of civilization in its course round the world. It seems the rule with the censor’s office to let all the books pass that are likely to increase the demoralization of the nation, such as the detestable novels of Eugène Sue and Georges Sand, the vicious works of Paul de Koch, and so on, and to exclude all those that would tend to its enlightenment, or would contribute to forward true and solid civilization. The overstrained sentiments, the caricatures of affection, the degrading views of society, and the familiarity with vice exhibited in these works, find their most ardent admirers in Russia, and will undoubtedly have a fearful influence at some future time when the “siècle de Louis XVI.” shall arrive: then they will perform in action what they have learned in theory, and a terrible retribution will fall upon the heads of their rulers for their sin and wickedness in thus aiding their country’s degradation.

I remember well the lamentations of one of the best living authors in Russia in speaking of his works, and his bitter regrets that the very parts he had most valued were not allowed to be published. Among others he mentioned a play, which really contained some most admirable speeches, but when it returned from the censor’s office he showed us that they had all been erased, leaving nothing but the light conversations and “parties légères,” which alone were thought suitable for public amusement; of course the play was never performed, for, as he said, “c’était parfaitement ridicule.” How can a nation possess great poets, historians, or other literary men when such an embargo is laid on mind and thought? “Our cleverest men are in Siberia,” said a Russian one day: perhaps the remembrance of its snows serves to chill many a rising genius that would make his country greater than their vaunted army of a million of warriors. We were told that Karamsin, the modern historian, was obliged first to read over his pages in the presence of the Emperor before they were allowed to go forth to the world; it may, therefore, easily be conceived to what extent the truth of his statements may be relied on. So exceedingly strict are the regulations of the censor’s office, that I used jestingly to say that the introduction of foreign literature would be, at last, restricted to the alphabet! A short time ago a gentleman of literary pursuits, being anxious to write a play, the subject of which was to be taken from English history, was making some notes on the different events, but every one of them was either too expressive of the love of liberty, or some equally well-founded objection was discovered. “But why not, then, take the story of Elfrida, the daughter of the Earl of Devonshire?” proposed I; “it is a thousand years ago nearly, and cannot much influence the present century.”

“Impossible!” was the reply; “it would never be allowed to pass the censor’s office, or be permitted to be performed on the stage here.”

“But what is the objection?”

“Why, they would never let a play be represented in which Elfrida’s husband deceives the king.”

“But he was not the Czar of Muscovy.”

“That does not signify; the act is still the same, and the possibility of a crowned head’s being deceived would on no account be allowed.”

By this it may be seen how impossible it is for a Russian author to write anything better than the silly farces and absurd comedies which are nightly performed to amuse the public in St. Petersburg.

CHAPTER IX.

Russian courtship—State of household servants—Anecdotes—Trousseaux—The matrimonial candidate—Matchmakers—Serfs’ weddings—Rich dowry—Matchmakings—Curious custom—Russian marriages—Blessing the threshold—Bridal parties—Statute-fair for wives in St. Petersburg—Habit of painting—Lottery of marriage, &c.

In Russia, especially among the lower classes, courtship and love-making, as we understand the terms, are little known. Marriages, for the serfs, are not “made in heaven,” but by the proprietors of the estates and the land-stewards—the reason is obvious. As for the domestic servants, they cannot marry at all without the consent of their master or mistress (which is seldom given), or by purchasing their freedom at a price fixed by their owners; for if a girl wed a serf belonging to another proprietor, she must become the property of his master.

“Do you think I am going to let Zouboff marry Ivan?” was the speech of a lady one day: “why, I should never get another maid to suit me so well; besides which, I apprenticed her, for which I paid good money to Solavieff, one of the best dressmakers in St. Petersburg; and if I were to let her marry I should lose her services entirely.” The fearful immorality to which such a state of things gives rise may be imagined, but not described: in fact, the vice of the lower classes can only be equalled by that of the upper: in the former it proceeds from their unhappy position and ignorance, in the latter from idleness and corruption.

When staying, on one occasion, at the house of a lady of high rank in Russia, I was present at a scene that would scarcely be credited in England. The establishment was on a very grand scale; as many as sixty men-servants were residing at the house, and in the lapse of time the numerous boys, sons of these servants, had grown up into young men. The nobleman, on looking over his list, seemed to think that so many were not needed—at least, that they were wasting their time in town when they ought, for his advantage, to be down at the villages and getting married: he therefore ordered them into his presence—there were about twenty altogether. He began by telling them that it was quite time they should think of becoming settled in life, that it was their duty to be married, and for that purpose he would give them a fortnight, at the expiration of which he expected every one of them would have found a wife, and that they must go down to their village to do so.

The young men stood for a few moments in silence with downcast eyes and serious aspect; a little whispering took place among them, and then one of them stepped forward and respectfully intimated that the shortness of the time was such “that they were afraid they could not find so many marriageable women in the village, and it would take them longer to look about them, as they must make inquiries in the neighbourhood.” Their master, therefore, granted them a week longer, with which they appeared satisfied, and withdrew. I had the curiosity to inquire as to whether they had succeeded in finding the requisite number of wives, and was assured they had all got married, and within the time specified.

At Moscow we became acquainted with a lady whose husband was one of the richest men in that city. She had the misfortune to lose her daughter, an amiable young person, in her twentieth year. According to the custom in Russia, her dowry had been prepared for her settlement in life:[4] it was on a magnificent scale, and consisted in enormous quantities of the finest linen, table-cloths, bed furniture, silks, jewels, plate, everything that a rich bride is expected to possess. It is the custom for the bride to furnish the sleeping apartment, the drawing-rooms, and the kitchen, to find the linen, &c., besides her trousseau; and even a dozen new shirts of the finest quality for her husband. Everything is marked with the lady’s name, as in case of a separation she may reclaim her dowry. The bridegroom has to fit up his own apartment and the dining-room, in addition to which he purchases the carriages and horses. This shows how very advantageous it is for the gentleman to enter the state of matrimony, especially as in Russia he generally depends upon his bride to find the fortune as well; but, as a Muscovite once said in my hearing, “On doit être payé pour les épouser, car elles sont si ennuyantes!” It was on the anniversary of the young lady’s death that her parents resolved to dispose of her trousseau, and with the proceeds to find dowries for six young portionless girls, whose prayers they hoped thus to secure for the repose of their beloved Marie’s soul. I was staying in the house at the time, and I believe I saw all the candidates for marriage in Moscow. It was announced that any young person of noble birth (that is, of respectable station—the offspring neither of slaves nor of tradespeople) who wished to present herself would be eligible. I need scarcely say there was no lack of candidates for the promised dowry. I found that the lady’s consideration was infinitely greater concerning the beauty of the six girls than their worthiness or their good conduct. All the virtues under heaven could not, in her eyes, counterbalance the want of personal attractions. She ran into my room one day, exclaiming, “There are four more young persons arrived; pray come into the hall, for I wish you would give me your opinion as to whether you think them pretty.” I accompanied her: there were, as she had said, four girls, decently dressed, the eldest of whom might have been twenty-two: one of them was really good-looking; she was perhaps eighteen. I was astonished to see the cringing baseness to which two of them stooped to obtain the dowry. They prostrated themselves to the ground, and kissed the feet of the lady. I was very glad that neither of them was chosen.

As soon as we had had an examination of the different faces we adjourned to the next room, when my friend asked me what I thought of them. I scarcely knew what to reply, but I decidedly gave my opinion against the two that had so disgusted me. She herself made an objection to one of them, by saying “that, as she had a handkerchief round her face, she had, she supposed, the toothache, and she would not have one that had bad teeth.” However, she settled the matter by sending for the best-looking girl, and dismissing the others. On her entering the room the following dialogue took place:—

Lady. “How old are you, young lady?”

Girl (with a low inclination). “Just eighteen, Madame.”

L. “Have you any father, and what is he?”

G. “My father is dead, he was an employé; but my mother is still alive, she lives near the Kousmitski most (Smith’s bridge).”

L. “Very well: what is your intended’s name?”

G. “I have none, Madame.”

L. “You have none! and yet you ask me for a dowry? How is that?”

G. (with a very low bow). “If you will promise me a trousseau, Madame, I shall be able to find one before to-morrow morning.”

Incredible as it may appear, she actually did find one, for the next day she presented herself, accompanied by a tall, fine-looking young man of about five-and-twenty, who came and examined the various articles of which the dowry consisted: he carefully counted each dozen of linen, had a strict survey of the six gowns and three bonnets, tested their quality, and, having been thoroughly convinced that there was no cheating in the case, consented to accept her “for better and for worse,” and her marriage took place on the same day as that of the other five; when my friend exultingly said, “that she was quite delighted at having found six pretty brides, for she should have been sorry to see such good wedding-clothes thrown away upon ugly people.”

In Russia many marriages, even of people of rank, are made up by professed matchmakers. In the villages an old woman is generally employed by a young man to find him a suitable partner; he gives a correct account of the prospect his wife may expect, both of the agreeable and disagreeable; how much work she will have to do, whether his mother be alive (for that is a great consideration, as the daughter-in-law is entirely under her rule during her life), how great a marriage portion he expects, &c.; even the number of gowns and shoes is specified. A girl being found that will accept the terms, the courtship does not last long, for the church ceremony takes place immediately, or as soon as possible. When a general order arrives in a village from the proprietor, desiring all the young men and women to get married, the priest makes very short work of the religious ceremony, and marries a dozen couples or so at once. A lady told me that she was present when twenty-five couples were united by one perusal of the mass appointed by the Greek Church for the occasion.

Very frequently old women will go about begging from house to house for the ladies’ left-off dresses, with which to make their daughter’s trousseau, as they say, “unless she has a certain number, no one will have her.” I have frequently myself thus contributed to a bride’s dowry, for a Russian husband will take nothing by hearsay alone; he must be convinced by ocular demonstration that he is not going to be cheated.

Among the upper classes the “trousseau” is always shown for several days before the wedding takes place. I once saw one which was worth many thousands of pounds: there were dozens of everything, all tied up with narrow pink satin ribbon, quantities of table and bed linen, countless dresses, mantles, and all the etcetera of a lady’s toilette, beautiful jewellery and magnificent furs, everything that money could purchase, and in such abundance, that in the longest lifetime it would be impossible to wear them out.

I knew a lady of very high rank in Russia, at whose house I frequently met some old ladies well known in St. Petersburg as a kind of “matrimonial attorneys.” I was surprised that such persons should be so intimate with her, but my astonishment ceased when it was announced that “the Princess L. was going to be married.” I guessed how matters had been arranged, and my conjectures were afterwards confirmed by the parties themselves, and I found that it was a very common occurrence among the aristocracy.

As soon as the conditions are agreed on between a Russian and his bride, they go together to call at the houses of their friends and acquaintances to receive their congratulations: the same is done the day after the marriage ceremony has been performed.

The general rule in Russia that the lady’s friends should find the money, which is of rather more consequence than the bride, and that the gentleman’s friends should find the man to accept it, may partly account for the unhappy marriages and immoral consequences of them, by which one half of the inhabitants are enabled to amuse themselves with the scandal of the other half. I have frequently been told by the Russian ladies themselves, that, if a young person has money, it needs only to become known for a certainty, and suitors will present themselves even from remote provinces: it matters little whether she be good, handsome, or amiable; they make an offer after having seen her but once, and they are married. It must, indeed, be a chance if they are happy.

One of the great reasons why the ladies in Russia are so extremely desirous of being married is, that they really enjoy no freedom until they are so: before marriage they are under so strict a surveillance, that they can scarcely go from one room to another without being watched. This excessive restraint only makes them abuse their freedom when they get it, and doubtless much of their légèreté may be ascribed to it. As soon as they are Madame instead of Mademoiselle, they frequently commence a life of dissipation that only ends when they are too old to enjoy it: they then devote the remainder of their existence to Heaven, hoping by the prayers of their age to efface the sins of their youth. Yet it is but just to say that illustrious examples of excellent and affectionate mothers, as well as amiable and devoted wives, are very often met with among the Russian ladies; their natural kindness of heart and charming dispositions cause them to centre their affections on their families, and prevent them from falling into errors of which the highest classes are guilty. “Le nôtre est le siècle de Louis Quinze,” said a gentleman one day, in speaking of the society in St. Petersburg. Alas! with too much truth. Yet if we take his as a true comparison, we should find that all classes in France, even under the reign of such a king, at the head of such a court, were not equally corrupted.

I will add one more example of the manner in which alliances are formed in Russia. A lady, who had adopted her nephew, being desirous of seeing him settled, mentioned her wish one day to him. “Very well, chère tante, and whom would you wish me to marry?”

“Eh bien! there is Catherine ——; she is rich, of good family, and would, I dare say, make you a suitable wife; I saw her some weeks since, when we were down on our estate.”

“Is she handsome?”

“She is not bad looking, and she is twenty-six.”

“If you wish it, certainly, my dear aunt, I will go down to Tcheringoff and make her an offer.”

He did so, and they were married.

In the northern provinces there is a curious custom. When a young woman is going to be married, she invites all her companions to an evening-party the night preceding the intended ceremony. When all the company are assembled, the bride begins to weep and lament, expressing the utmost sorrow at the change about to take place, and at her now being obliged to bid adieu to the pleasures and friends of her girlhood. In all her distress she is joined by her acquaintances, who each shed tears and mourn with her. During all this time the bridegroom is probably in the next room, and very likely catches a glimpse of his bride through the open door for the first or second time that he has ever seen her. An old woman always acts as the prompter on these occasions; her duty consists in warning the young person as to the proper time to weep, what she ought to say, &c., as until she begins it is not the etiquette for the others to do so. I imagine that this custom is confined to some of the northern provinces, as I have frequently inquired about it elsewhere, and found it was quite unknown.

The marriage ceremony in the Greco-Russian Church is full of form, as, indeed, are most of its acts of worship.

The first Russian wedding I saw struck me as curious. A servant-girl of the family was married to the gardener; they both belonged to the same proprietor, therefore there was no possible objection to the match. As the Russians are very anxious to have as many witnesses as may be at the ceremony, the bride begged the honour of her mistress’s company, as well as that of all those on a visit at the house. The lady herself assisted in dressing the bride, and made her a present of a great deal of finery for the occasion, among which was a white silk dress and a wreath of orange blossoms: she was present when the ceremony of parting the hair into two plaits[5] was performed, and appeared to take great interest in the whole affair. We all dressed en grande tenue, to do honour to the occasion, and repaired to the cathedral in which the marriage was to take place. On entering we found the happy couple already arrived; the bride was standing on the left hand of the bridegroom; she had two bridesmaids besides the two garçons de nôces necessary for the Greek ceremony. A moveable reading-desk stood in the body of the church, at which the priest took his place, assisted by the deacon or clerk. The bridal party advanced towards it, the bridegroom presenting the two rings (for among the Russians husband and wife each wear one) to the clergyman, who, having blessed and changed them, held them above the head of the kneeling couple, and made the sign of the cross; he then addressed a few words to each, asking them if they had no greater love for another, and if any objection existed against the marriage. On their replying in the negative, he placed the hand of the bride in that of the bridegroom, and led them thrice round the reading-desk, the two garçons de nôces holding above their heads two silver-gilt crowns, ornamented with the miniatures of saints. A piece of rose-coloured satin was laid down at one part of the ceremony for the pair to stand on, and it is considered a very unlucky omen if the bride step on it before the bridegroom. The newly-married couple received the communion, and the priest, having read to them the portions of Scripture addressed to those who take upon them the holy state of matrimony, gave them his benediction, and the ceremony was concluded. If a widow marry, the use of the crown is dispensed with.

After leaving the church we proceeded to the house of the bridegroom, to witness the ceremony of the blessing on the threshold. The bride bowed thrice, her brow touching the ground, and each time she was raised by the husband’s friends; his mother then, holding a loaf of black bread above the head of her daughter-in-law, made the sign of the cross three times, and bestowed her blessing on the union, whilst others went to the image of the Virgin and Child, and lighted the lamp suspended before it.

A wedding in Russia is a general feast for all the friends and acquaintances of both bride and bridegroom, and only differs in the profusion and wealth displayed according to the means of the parties. Among the rich a splendid supper and ball are given, because among them the ceremony is performed in the evening; and when the newly-married couple wish to retire, their desire is intimated to the guests by the presentation of bonbonnières to each of them, when they immediately take their leave.

I often met bridal parties in the villages. I remember near Twer encountering a curious cavalcade, consisting of the wedding-guests of a yemstchick. He and his male companions were on horseback, carrying flags of different colours, or handkerchiefs tied to sticks; their hats were decorated with peacocks’ feathers and faded artificial flowers, and their crimson shirts fluttered in the wind; they had no saddles, and with difficulty could keep their seats on the rough-coated wild-looking cattle they bestrode: altogether they presented a rather picturesque appearance. They seemed very merry, for they were singing with all their might some of their national airs, which we heard at the distance of a verst before we saw the party. As for the ladies, they followed behind, sitting à califourchon, two on each droshsky, and appeared too much occupied in eating gingerbread and cracking nuts to care much about the very ridiculous figure they made. The whole of the company seemed to have had quite enough whisky to make them not only gay but boisterous, and they appeared determined to forget all grief and sorrow, and to spend at least one day of their life in complete enjoyment.

Even the imperial sledge makes way for a bridal party, so of course we turned our horses aside to let all these gay people pass, which complaisance on our part seemed to give extreme satisfaction, if I may judge by the shouts of laughter on the occasion.

I once met a bridal party in a village in the province of Jaroslaf, which struck me as being very interesting; they had just quitted the church, and were apparently repairing to the young husband’s isba or cottage. The bride was a girl of about seventeen, pretty and modest; she was slowly walking with downcast eyes by the side of her husband, who was a youth of twenty or so; their hands were clasped together, and the look of real affection he cast on his companion proved that, in their case at least, the marriage made at the command of their proprietor was not felt as an act of despotism.

Among the various modes of matchmaking in Russia I ought not to omit to mention that of Whit Monday. On that day a general meeting of lads and lasses takes place, at least of all those who are desirous of taking upon them the duties of a married life.

I went several times on such occasions to the summer gardens of St. Petersburg to see “the brides.” Along the principal walk were two rows of candidates: on one side were the young men, on the opposite side the young women: they appeared to consist for the most part of shopkeepers and servants, and were of course all of the inferior ranks in society. They were dressed in a great deal of finery badly put on, and a great many colours ill-assorted. The young men were, upon the whole, rather good-looking, but an uglier assemblage of young women it would be difficult to meet with anywhere, notwithstanding their painted faces and silk gowns.

Speaking of paint reminds me of a curious custom in Russia, which may serve to show how very common its use is among the people: when a young man is paying his court to a girl he generally presents her with a box of both red and white paint, as a necessary addition to her beauty. Among the upper classes this habit is also very general, and I have often been present when ladies have most unceremoniously rouged their face before going into the drawing-room. The lower class use a great deal of white paint, which gives them an extremely ghastly appearance, and must be very injurious to the health, as it turns the teeth quite black; I was told that it consists of a preparation of mercury.

But to return to the “brides” in the summer garden. There seemed to be very little laughing or merriment among them; there they stood, silent and almost motionless, with their arms hanging straight by their sides; they had evidently come upon a serious business, and were heroically intent on carrying it through. I noticed that behind the young people were the elders of the family, to whom now and then they addressed a few words.

Being anxious to know in what manner matches were made at this “statute-fair,” I applied to an old lady of our party.

“Do you not see,” replied she, “that the parents and friends of the candidates are behind them? Well, when a young man has fixed his choice on one of the girls, he informs his mother or father of it, who immediately proceeds to make all sorts of inquiries concerning her, as to the amount of her marriage-portion, quantity of wedding-clothes, what her household accomplishments are, &c.: having received the necessary replies, and given information in return, if it meet with the approbation of the parties the affair does not take long to be arranged to the satisfaction of all.”

“But do you think they can be happy?”

“And why not?” replied my friend: “having once determined upon taking a ticket in the matrimonial lottery, the chances are they enjoy as much felicity as generally falls to the share of other couples. Marriages, you know, the proverb says, are made in heaven.”

Those married in the Greek Church cannot be divorced, but I believe the union can be dissolved by the Emperor for some particular reasons. I have been told that, if the husband be banished for life to Siberia, the wife is perfectly at liberty to wed again, as in the eye of the law the former is to all intents and purposes considered as defunct, and has neither a name nor family, being only designated according to the number by which he may be classed, such as one, two, three, and so on. No one can be married more than thrice in Russia.

CHAPTER X.

The abbess—The inmates of the convent—The wardrobe—A young Russian priest and his bride—The archbishop—Ancient manuscripts—Alexis, son of Peter the Great—Description of a monastery—Prisoners—The church, cemetery, and garden—Monastic serfs—The archimandrite—Superior and inferior class of Russian clergy—Peter the Great’s policy—Political use of religion—A modern miracle—General estimate of monastic institutions—Proscribed sects—Russian hermits—Hermitage at Kastroma.

Among my acquaintances was the abbess of a nunnery in the province of Twer. Her reason for having embraced the sacred profession was one which we found common enough in Russia: “Je n’avais pas de succès dans le monde, ainsi je me suis faite religieuse,” was her candid confession. She was of high family, but the generality of those who thus devote themselves to a convent life are not of noble birth; indeed, we were told that by so doing those who are of gentle blood lose their rank. We frequently went to pay her a visit, and were always received kindly and with true Russian hospitality; but as the monks and nuns of the Greek Church are forbidden to eat any kind of meat, they can only furnish their table with fish cooked in different ways, generally in oil, and with pastry, sweetmeats, and so on; and, to confess the truth, I was not very fond of dining at the convent. The abbess was a lady well accustomed to the politesse of the world; it made no difference to her that I was a busermanca or heretic; she very politely took me over her establishment and explained their mode of life: most of the nuns were either the daughters or widows of priests.

“Those young girls,” said the superior, throwing open the door of a large apartment, “are the orphan children of priests; they are being brought up in the convent as the proper asylum for such. They are, as you perceive, very busy in embroidering the church vestments.”

“But what becomes of them in after life, ma mère?”

“Oh,” replied the abbess, “some of them are married off to young priests, for, of course, you are aware that no pope[6] can have a cure unless he be married. Those who have not a chance of becoming so settled remain in the convent, and when they are of the proper age they take the veil; but as no one can do so until she is forty, they hold the position of novices until then.”

The young girls were all occupied in embroidery. One was making a chalice-cover; it was about three-quarters of a yard square, of crimson velvet and pearls; in the middle was a resplendent cross, and the figure of a cherub with its wings spread, painted on some peculiar substance, was inserted at each corner. Another was engaged in ornamenting the collar of a robe with spangles and gold lace, with here and there the imitation of some precious stone. They seemed pleased at my admiration of their skill, and the abbess kindly offered to show me the wardrobe belonging to the church, which she assured me had been made entirely by the inmates of the convent. On my expressing a great wish to see it, she led the way through a long corridor; we descended some stone steps, at the foot of which was a door, which my friend opened. Here I was shown into several rooms surrounded by immense clothes-presses and chests of drawers. Each was unlocked in succession, and innumerable suits of vestments were displayed to view. Some were of silver tissue with flowers of silk woven on it, others of silk with gold flowers, or of cloth of gold enriched with pearl embroidery. Each seemed to me more magnificent than the last, and the dresses were in such quantities that I thought the holy sister who accompanied us would never have finished opening and shutting the drawers. I inquired whether the splendid materials had been presented to the establishment. “Yes,” answered the superior; “all these vestments are made out of the palls thrown over the coffin at rich funerals. After the interment they become the property of the church in which the deceased is buried, and are put to the use you see. Many of the dresses,” continued she, “are, as you may perceive, very ancient; some were embroidered in the reign of Peter the Great, and others in the time of Anne and Elizabeth. But you have seen enough of these; would you not like to visit our infant-school?” So saying she opened a door on the opposite side and led the way through the church. There was an old nun standing before an image as motionless as a statue; she was rapidly repeating in a low tone some prayers in Sclavonic, and then prostrated herself several times and kissed the pavement. The superior smiled approvingly as we passed, and then informed me that it was sister Marie, “one of the most truly devout women in the convent, for no illness nor any other reason ever prevents her from performing her religious duties either night or day.” By this time we had reached a moderately-sized apartment, in which about twenty children were being taught to read by some of the nuns. They seemed happy and contented, and, to all appearance, were well treated: these were also children of priests. We afterwards visited some of the cells, which were very poorly furnished with a small mattress, a deal table, and one chair: we then proceeded to the refectory. It was their supper-time, being five o’clock, for the nuns retire to rest at six, in order to be enabled to perform mass at two o’clock A.M. The sisters were all seated at long tables, partaking of the mushroom-soup of which the Russians are very fond, but which is very distasteful to foreigners. We did not stay in the apartment, as we would not interrupt their repast. My friend the abbess often expressed the most enlightened sentiments regarding religious sects, and I always ascribed great liberality to her on those points, but I was assured that they were not her real sentiments, but that she very frequently uttered them merely out of politeness when persons of another creed were present. Whether that was the case or not I had, of course, no means of ascertaining, but it must, I think, be allowed that the members of the Russian Church are very liberal in their sentiments and conduct towards those of a different religion. They never display the bigotry and narrowness of mind too frequent among the Roman Catholics: they certainly prefer their own road to heaven, but their doing so is no reason why they should deem that none other leads to it. No one who has lived among them can really believe that the fanatical agitation so general at present in the country can be ascribed to any other cause than to the unwise policy of a government that thus influences the minds of the people.

One day, when I was at the convent, a young priest begged to speak with the superior. He was of an interesting appearance, apparently about twenty-four or twenty-five years of age; his beautiful hair was parted in the middle and hung down in wavy curls a foot long over his shoulders; his nose and mouth were well formed, but what gave extreme intelligence to his countenance was a pair of bright black eyes with dark eyebrows: altogether I had rarely seen a more prepossessing young man. He was dressed in the long purple silk robe with loose sleeves, the extremely becoming costume of the Greek clergy, and suspended round his neck was a thick gold chain, to which was attached a crucifix of the same precious metal. The abbess received him with much kindness, and after remaining a few minutes in the drawing-room they retired together into another apartment. A short time elapsed ere the superior returned: when she did so, she informed me that her visitor was a young priest to whom a cure had been offered, and, as no one can accept a cure unless he be married, he had called to inquire of her if, among the orphan daughters of the clergy in her convent, she could recommend him a suitable wife, “which is very fortunate,” added she, “for there is a young girl named Annushca, whom I have been wishing to get married for the last year; she is just nineteen, and he could not find a better partner.”

“But is she likely to be agreeable to the match?”

“I think so,” replied the abbess; “but he is to come to-morrow morning to see her.”

About a month afterwards we saw the abbess’s carriage pass our house. There were three young persons in it; one we had no difficulty in perceiving was a bride, by her orange-flower wreath and long white veil—the two others were bridesmaids. In another carriage was the young priest himself, looking as happy as possible, for on that evening he was to wed Annushca the convent bride.

Among the Greek clergy it is absolutely necessary that the priest should be married, but, if his wife die, he cannot wed a second, because they interpret the phrase “having one wife” in its entirely literal sense: should he have the misfortune to become a widower, he generally enters a monastery, as he can no longer have the care of a parish.

The priesthood in Russia form a class almost entirely distinct from the rest of the community: they mostly intermarry among their own families, and the circle of their acquaintance is limited to those of their profession. If a clergyman have no sons, an alliance with his daughter, if there be one, is much sought after by the young unbeneficed priests, as, on her father’s death, his living becomes her dowry: it may therefore be readily imagined how many suitors are desirous of espousing a girl so portioned.