I The Tsar and Tsarina at Their Home of Peterhof
It is half-past nine in the morning, as I start on my journey to Peterhof, having been honoured by the Tsar with an invitation thither. It is yet cold and chilly. The great metropolis is covered with a veil of fog. One would imagine that winter had already begun, and it is difficult to realize that according to the calendar it is the month of August. The street leading to the Baltic station, St. Petersburg, is still half deserted.
There Switzers begin to sweep the doorways, and detachments of soldiers hurry to take up their different posts. There are a few milk-carts that rattle to and fro, and one or two private vehicles occupied by people in full dress and uniforms covered with decorations, throwing into sharp contrast the dreary surroundings of the humble suburb. In fact, contrasts are the most striking feature of the capital of the vast Russian Empire—contrasts in light and shadow, splendour and humility, and I dare say contrasts in everything that is characteristic of the West and the East.
The railway station, where I arrive at last, is certainly one of the most interesting illustrations of what I have just pointed out—the very link and meeting-place of the West with the East. It is crowded with people: their countenances are so different, their dress so picturesque, their behaviour so unconventional, yet so characteristic, that I forget that I am on a railway platform, and imagine myself amidst the picturesqueness of a great caravanserai.
Perfect order is kept. The train is already at the platform, ready to start, and I am shown without delay into my compartment. There are a great many officials, all of them in striking uniforms. In fact, there are nearly as many railway employés as travellers, and together they form incoherent groups of Oriental brightness.
The train winds through colourless and uninteresting suburbs for some time. Here and there we have a glimpse of the white Neva, arched by beautiful bridges and skirted with magnificent palaces. We pass near many small villages full of summer-houses, all built of wood. Each house is painted in different colours, and has its own pretty garden. There are some red, some green, and some blue, making a polychromatic mosaic on the green fields. They are all summer residences of the official or semi-official world, who are obliged to pass the summer near town. Indeed, the great charm of St. Petersburg consists in its neighbourhood. These attractive retreats, or, as they are called, Datshas, are on the riverside or on the seashore, or hidden in a quiet neighbourhood like the magnificent Imperial residences, Tsarskoe Selo, Pavlovsk, and Gatschina.
But among them all, Peterhof is the most famous—the Versailles of the North. I think Peterhof undoubtedly deserves the first place. There is not only splendour, but there is real beauty too. Art and nature contribute to make it one of the loveliest spots on earth. There is, in fact, only one royal residence, I think, that can compare with it, and that is the castle of Pena on the high peaks overlooking the ocean near Lisbon.
To get an idea of Peterhof we must imagine a luxuriant forest overshadowing the blue waters of the Baltic. Buried in the woods are summer-houses, gardens, fountains, Greek temples, and triumphal arches. The palace itself stands on a hill that has been cut into terraces—terraces that are surrounded by balustrades and ornamented by statues and flower-vases. Then as a centre there is a magnificent cascade looking like a crystal staircase leading up to a golden palace; it spreads out its waters into a silver carpet covering the pathway and flowing in a broad canal to the sea, bordered by an avenue of rippling fountains.
And when we get tired of the golden palace, of its silver carpet and its dazzling brightness, we return to some of the smaller residences, of which there are many scattered about in the grounds. Some are little French châteaux, some others imitate Dutch farms or Roman villas. They are all different in style and taste, but they are all charming, and contain priceless collections of art. Each has interesting annals; each has some historical connexion and a past of romantic or tragic memory. Wars have been declared, treaties ratified, peace re-established in its lofty halls and gilded salons, every one the scene of important events. Peter the Great’s many schemes were born within these walls; and from these groves Catharine II ruled with her iron sceptre.
The present Tsar selected for his home one of the smaller châteaux, called Alexandrovsky.
Alexandrovsky is indeed a modest house. It has no lofty cupolas, no magnificent gates, no stately cour d’honneur. It is a simple villa such as is seen in the neighbourhood of well-to-do commercial towns. It might be somewhere near Birmingham or Queenstown. It is built of bright red bricks, has some friendly bow windows, and is ornamented by some little turrets.
Its charm consists in its homeliness. Its beauty is its situation.
It stands in the centre of a green lawn on the border of the sea. It is surrounded by a little flower-garden, where, instead of magnificent fountains and marble statues, there are masses of bloom full of colour and scent; borders of lilies, hollyhocks, poppies, and sweet peas form a natural fence of many hues against the sombre background of the wood. It is a garden which you can realize is tended with affection.
The Empress herself takes an interest in it, and, surrounded by her daughters, passes in this charming retreat many quiet hours of the long summer afternoons. Undoubtedly, this must remind her of lovely Wolfsgarten, hidden in the Hessian forests, where she passed the merry days of her childhood, where she returns so faithfully nearly every year, and where she is so beloved by all the villagers.
Her Majesty is tall, has a fine presence, and is extremely graceful in all her movements. She is refined in the highest degree and very artistic in her disposition. Her leisure hours are mainly occupied in drawing, painting, and music. She is an ardent supporter of all the artistic societies in the capital, and gives a great impetus to literary training in all the different schools which are under her patronage. There are a large number of these schools in St. Petersburg, and she pays personal visits to them frequently.
Her greatest interest, however, is concentrated in her children, and she finds her chief happiness in her own home. Her domestic virtues are those which make her respected by the whole nation. Coming as she did from a far-away country, and being a foreigner, it must have been no easy matter to be at once understood. For refined and retiring natures it is specially difficult to become at once popular. It is only in time, and by having opportunities to show deeper qualities, that sympathy can be awakened. By kind actions, by benevolence towards those she came in contact with, and by unbounded charity, the love of the nation was secured. But how she won the hearts of all was by being an ideal mother.
The Empress is a devoted mother. She attends to her children, as much as possible, personally, and with the greatest care supervises the education of her four little daughters.
The nurseries are established entirely on the English system. There is great simplicity in the furniture, but plenty of fresh air and a good water supply.
The nursery governess is an English lady, and the rules of this little world are strictly observed and precisely carried out, Her Majesty herself having been brought up, as a grandchild of Queen Victoria, on the same principles. Method and punctuality are strictly observed, and the little Princesses must attend to their duties most scrupulously; lessons, recreation, exercises—everything is timed and planned in advance. There is a great deal to be done in the twenty-four hours, lessons and all sorts of small duties of many kinds.
The simplicity of everything might serve as a model to many households.
The food they partake of is of the plainest kind, healthy, but nothing elaborate, consisting mainly of porridge, bread and butter, milk and vegetables, and a little meat or fish. So it is with their attire; generally they are dressed in scrupulously neat white cotton, but it is devoid of all ornament. They pass many hours of the day on the seashore, and as they are running about, laughing, building castles in the sand, or clasping their beloved mother round the neck, they make a perfect picture of happiness.
I reach Peterhof at half-past ten by the special train which daily conveys the Tsar’s guests and visitors. Officials, Court dignitaries, aides-de-camp, and others of those who are on duty, have hurried to the large platform, which, covered with red carpet, presents the appearance of a reception-hall. There is great animation at the Peterhof station all the time the Court is there, as the greater part of the suite live in town.
Before the station is a long row of carriages belonging to the Imperial household; peculiar-shaped victorias are there, horsed by enormous black Orloff stallions with great arching necks and flowing manes and tails, looking very much as if they had stepped from one of the pictures of Wouvermans or Velasquez. Lackeys, with three-cornered hats, gaiters, and heavy scarlet coats covered with gold lace, usher each guest to his vehicle, and each starts in a different direction to the many palaces and offices. Rattling over gravelled roadways, I first fully realize that in a few moments I shall be in the presence of the mighty Tsar of all the Russias, the ruler over the greater part of the enormous Asiatic continent, the autocratic head of millions of human beings.
My request is a very modest one—simply permission to get to my destination in the Far East through Siberia. There was some difficulty at the Russian frontier about my further journey, and I was advised to get the obstacles removed by His Majesty himself. He very likely knew that I am only interested in the spiritual and philanthropic institutions established in the Far East, my desire being to get through to my objective as soon as possible.
We drive for quite a quarter of an hour through woods, and here and there as we pass by different residences meet sentries marching up and down. We pass through several gates, all of them made of plain wooden bars—they might almost be in Leicestershire—each opened and closed by a Cossack. As we get nearer there are more sentries, and several times the password is given by the groom.
Alexandrovsky stands isolated in a quiet corner of the vast domain. Its home grounds are surrounded by walls and a kind of palisade. At last, having passed the last sentry and the last gate, the carriage stops at the private garden entrance.
I am received by an officer who shows me immediately into the palace—I ought to say villa. Villa indeed it is in every respect, and the entrance-hall is so small that it scarcely holds the few servants who are in attendance. The staircase is very narrow, too, and winds in exactly the same way as in small old-fashioned English houses.
The drawing-room gives the same impression of comfort and cheerfulness—the privileges of English homes. It is small, and with a rather low ceiling. The furniture is extremely plain. The few sofas and armchairs are covered with bright material, and the woodwork is lacquered white. The walls are covered with watercolours, sketches, and photographs. In one corner there stands a piano with music, and in the window a desk, apparently both much in use. The main feature of this room is the quantity of flowers. Tables, brackets, and furniture, are laden with jars, vases, and bowls filled with fresh-cut, sweet-smelling flowers.
But I have no time for further observations or to analyze more minutely this bright, homely abode in all its detail, giving as it does such a good insight into the private life of its owners. Simple, bright, unassuming, it is a sincere illustration of domestic happiness; and with its writing-desk littered with papers, its piano covered with music, and tiny jars and vases full of sweet-smelling blossoms, it is a human document in itself.
The door opens and an imposing A.D.C. enters and announces that His Majesty is ready to receive me. He is one of the Grand Dukes on duty at the palace for the day. He is a first cousin of the Emperor, an officer in the Russian army, and a most accomplished linguist. He narrated to me many interesting details of his yachting tour in far-distant seas. He had just returned from India, and seemed much impressed by the beauties of that wonderful land.
A bell begins to ring, a signal that the Emperor is ready to receive me. I am shown into the next room, which is even smaller and simpler than the one which I have just left. In its extreme modesty the furniture seems to be reduced to a few chairs, a lounge, and a large writing-table which occupies the greater part of the room.
This is His Majesty’s study.
But if the interior is so very unassuming, the view out of the windows is simply magnificent; it looks straight on to the sea—a grey and shining mirror, crowned by the dark battlements of majestic Kronstadt. The famous citadel floats like a mirage in the blue haze of the distance, looking even finer than usual as I see it from one of the Tsar’s windows.
The room is so small that there is no space to make the obligatory three bows. I have scarcely stepped into the room when His Majesty gets up and meets me himself with his well-known affability. Nicholas II wears the undress uniform of a Russian general—dark blue and green, with a very little gold lace, and a single medal on his breast—a modest garment, subdued in colouring, suited very well in every respect to its owner.
The portraits of the Emperor are well enough known to make it unnecessary for me to go into minute details. He is not tall, and of rather delicate frame, but healthy, and with a good complexion. What strikes one at the first moment is his open and kind-hearted expression. The two main features that impressed me at the first glance are the turquoise-blue colour of his eyes and their open gaze. Those eyes, which are the chief feature of his countenance, and seem to be a family inheritance, can hardly fail to arouse deep sympathy in the beholder. A very great likeness exists in this respect to the heir to the English throne.
His Majesty seemed to be much interested in my proposed journey across Siberia, and wanted to know how long I intended to stay in those regions. He spoke in an interesting way about his own experiences; he knows the whole length of the country in fact, as Tsarevitch he turned the first sod for the railway about twelve years ago in Vladivostok, and now the line runs from one end to the other, linking two continents. But he himself has travelled over the greater part of the route in the simple Russian tarantas.
He gave me with great vivacity many of his innumerable reminiscences and impressions. He was interested in every question, and tried to see everything as much as possible for himself. He stopped at each place of any importance and investigated the situation in detail. Besides his official engagements, he was keenly interested in the purely historical and scientific sides of these unknown regions. The knowledge he gathered during his journey is unique in value, and of the greatest importance to students of the Asiatic races, their origin, life, and future development. Undoubtedly there has been no other ruler of this enormous empire who ever before ventured to enter these remote districts.
He told me what never-failing interest it was to him to come across the different races in his Asiatic dominions, and to see the nomadic tribes there leading their own primitive life. It was a pleasure to listen, not only to his world-wide experiences, but to all his different impressions, gathered with the fresh conception of a young man, and to realize the keen interest which every sentence so eloquently expressed.
He spoke with such benevolence about his subjects, with such love about all those with whom he came in contact throughout his endless wanderings, that there should be no doubt that the Tsar of all the Russias really loves his subjects tenderly, and that their welfare is the highest aim of his life.
And he spoke further of his hopes of improving their condition, of witnessing their advancement, and of his earnest wish to have peace during his reign all over his territory. When he spoke about the great blessing of universal peace his voice vibrated with an emotion that carried the conviction, that so long as the fate of his vast empire depended entirely on his personal desire, there would be no cruel wars, but calm peace and prosperity over all his possessions. In replying I ventured to remark, “What could prevent the mighty Tsar of all the Russias carrying out his wishes?” He only answered, with a never-to-be-forgotten expression, “I see you are yet a new-comer in this country.”
His Majesty showed the greatest care in making my journey through his vast empire, across Siberia, not only possible, but also in insuring that I should see as much as possible—that I should be able to observe and learn as much as would be useful to my endeavour.
His Majesty’s permission was extended to embrace such hospitality as I would not have sought. I took the liberty of saying I would prefer to proceed as a humble missionary to my destination.
His Majesty kindly insisted:
“If you will not accept it for yourself, accept it for the satisfaction of your mother. She must be very anxious. I know from my own travels how hard it is for parents to be separated from their children by thousands of miles. I sent a telegram every day, but, even then, I knew what their sufferings were. It will give your mother some relief to know that while you are in this empire you are under my protection....”
Time seems to have flown. On my way back I write with difficulty in my solitary compartment, by the rays of a single light. My day at Peterhof has seemed to vanish as a moment, but it has been so full of interesting incidents that to look back upon it is as if a month had been crowded into a day. I have no time to go into details in my diary, so to be correct I limit myself to generalities, and if I cannot put down in extenso all that was of interest—I might say of importance—I want to fix the main outlines of the picture.
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