MOSCOW. THE CITY AND ENVIRONS. TROTTING IN RUSSIA.
“Say, Mandarin, fresh from the Orient old, Will they give us the queue when they give us the gold? Rise, Curtin, arise! Let the Manchu declare— Is he under the paw of the Great Northern Bear?
You uncovered the Pole, brought Pan Michael to light, Ran Sienkievitch down through the vast polar night; Then, skirting the coast to the isles of the Celt, You caught the sweet ballads that make the heart melt,
Thus linking two worlds. Nate Appleton tried, But the Gulf was too deep, or the Isthmus too wide. Brother Pratt had the keynote—he doesn’t know which, Art, music, the lingo of Ivanovitch.” —_James Herbert Morse._
Harvard College Class of 1863. Poem at Class Dinner of 1901.
FROM ST. PETERSBURG TO MOSCOW.
The journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow is a long ride, and in winter when the days are short, seems to be a night which will never end. You take the train in the afternoon and have not accomplished many scores of versts, or disposed of many hours, before twilight fades into dark, and the great snow plain on every side loses its brilliant whiteness, and has a grey and mysterious look. So, too, in the morning, though late, the sun is not more than fairly up when you behold in the distance the gilded domes and fairy minarets of the old Russian metropolis, as they first appear, and you feel that at last you are in the heart of the Empire. But the hours passed in the cars are far from tedious. “Car” is the word that can be used, for those on that railroad line much more resembled what we have in the United States, than anything to be found in Europe. They were divided into small rooms or compartments, a large saloon being left in the middle, and a passage going the length of the car, so that you could pass from one end to the other, and get off on either platform. At that time no regular beds were made up, as in our “sleepers,” but the cushions could be comfortably arranged and the weary traveller repose very satisfactorily. There was, too, a room overhead for smoking, which you entered by climbing up a narrow, ladder-like staircase, and where the fragrant Havana could be enjoyed in security. Double doors and windows kept out the excessive cold, and a good stove plentifully supplied with wood made the temperature within all that was to be desired. The buffets on the road could not be excelled, and a _table d’hôte_ dinner was taken at one of the stations about six o’clock, which offered a glittering array of glass and silver as you entered on leaving the train, while the display of viands alone would tempt one, were he not ravenous with travel.
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW. ]
The occupants of the car, in an easy fellow-feeling way, soon get acquainted with each other, and throwing off the reserve they might otherwise have, mix together in democratic freedom. Their nationalities are soon known, if not their names, for there is always one man aboard who has a knack of finding them out and of communicating adroitly his information to the others, and stories of travelling adventures in different countries, with accounts of the queer persons met, and the dangers escaped, beguile the hours.
St. Petersburg is entirely a modern city, and a modern city like other European capitals, or, rather, like the modern parts of them. The stranger going there expects, very naturally, to see predominant the stamp of Muscovite nationality but he does not find it, as the principal public buildings were designed by foreign architects, and show plainly traces of the country from which the brain that gave them birth has come.
Moscow, fortunately, is quite different, and is well worthy of being the place where the Tsars are crowned. Any one who dropped down their blindfold would, as soon as the bandage was removed from his eyes, cry out like the soldiers of Napoleon’s army, as its green roofs and gilded cupolas met their anxious gaze, “Moscow, Moscow!”
No city in the world has a more marked style, which is neither of the East nor of the West, but rather suggestions of both. Constantinople, Venice, Vienna, all can be seen in part, and as you look at it calmly, in awe and admiration, you can only say, “This place is unique, it resembles nothing else,” and you know why it is so, in reflecting that here is the old homestead of the great Slavonic race, a race sufficiently different from all others to be well warranted in leaving one typical city as a monument.
FIRST LETTER FROM MOSCOW.
To my mother from Moscow I wrote as follows:—I cannot date this as there is no French paper about, and also, what with the Russian and our difference in the calendar, time is considerably mixed up. This cannot be better shown than by the agreeable fact that we have two Christmas Days this year, one which we passed in St. Petersburg, and the other which comes next week, when we are to see a real German Christmas tree at the Carnatzes.
Well, then to begin, Mrs. Appleton, we are now in Moscow, a truly Russian city, and as different to St. Petersburg as Boston is to Paris. We left St. P. on Saturday afternoon, and after a journey of hours, with several Americans in the train, we arrived here, and are comfortably established in the Hotel Dusaux.
I first went to find Curtin, my old classmate and the secretary of our Legation, who was much surprised at seeing me, and said he would do his best possible to make our stay pleasant. We then called on my cousin Eliza Carnatz, and had no difficulty in finding her and making ourselves known, and she was delighted at seeing her relatives and appreciated your present, which I am happy to say has finally reached its destination safely. This picture (The letter-head showing a colored view of the Kremlin.) will do for your scrap book, so I will leave it entire.
In the evening Curtin took us to a Russian party, and I think I passed about the pleasantest evening there in Europe. It was at the house of General Behring, a lineal descendant of the one who discovered the Straits, and the _soirée_ began with private theatricals in Russian and French, afterwards dancing, then the mazourka, then a sit down supper, the universal custom at parties here, and finally the _cotillon_, something as with us, and home between four and five.
The General received us with charming cordiality, and would make us believe we were doing him a favor in coming, and his lovely daughters,—their mother being dead,—acted well in the plays, and did the honors of the house most gracefully.
There were several pretty Russian young ladies there, and many were the sentiments and toasts for the friendship between Russia and America, the two great rising nations of the world!
The young ladies here nearly all speak English well, besides French, German, Russian, and also, sometimes, Italian. This is true of many of the young men, too, and although this seems to make us very ignorant, still, in the matter of general education, the classics, philosophy, mathematics, etc., I imagine we are their superiors. Moreover, languages are almost a necessity here, while with us they are only a very desirable luxury.
Wednesday p. m.: The day after the ball we did not rise much before dinner time, when we dined with the Carnatzes. The party consisted of Coz. Eliza and husband, Mr. Watson, the father of his first wife, a brother, a French lady friend, and one or two others. It seemed quite natural there, as there were several family portraits on the walls, and her album was filled with photographs of all of us. We had a quietly pleasant evening, with long chats about Russia and America, family events, literature, politics,—and drank tea indefinitely.
RUSSIAN TEA-DRINKING.
Tea is the national drink of the Russians, and a genuine tea-drinking restaurant is very curious. We went to one the other evening which is the resort of the _isvoschiks_ (cabbies) and the peasants. Your true Russ orders a pot of tea and another larger one of hot water, the latter of which is often replenished, and he will sit over it several hours, drinking fifteen or twenty cups of tea, and not finishing until he can get no more color out of it. What do your delicate nerves think of this?
DRINKING TEA. ]
The tea is wonderfully good, and the commonest stuff here would put to the blush the very best hotel article in America and much of that you have at family tea parties also.
Yesterday morning we went with Mr. Young, a very pleasant and attentive young American from Niagara, who has been here several years in the business of agricultural implements, to see the Kremlin, and all the big bells therein, which are truly wonderful, and can make much noise when they try, and in the evening to the Carnatz’s box at the ballet of the Grand Theatre. The building is considered, perhaps, the finest in Europe, and the ballet itself as is always in Russia, remarkably fine. After the ballet Charlie and I went to a ball at the Kosakoff’s, where we had a good idea of a fine Moscow house and the Muscovite _beau monde_. Dancing, supper, music, etc., and finally I had for my partner in the German cotillon the prettiest girl in Moscow, a Miss Martinoff.
FAST TROTTERS IN MOSCOW.
We went out today to the race course, where they often have races in sleighs, and saw the sports of Moscow exercising their fast trotters. The scene was very like ours at home, and we conversed on the relative merits of Russian and American trotters, and one enthusiastic old Russ wanted to bet two hundred thousand roubles on his country, so that if I buy and import “Dexter” (The fastest trotter of the time.) I can make a goodly sum.
SNOW HILLS.
The snow hills are a national institution on the same principle as our coasting, only the hills are artificial and are all ice, and you take a lady on the sled with you, and dash down like the wind. There are two hills opposite, so that they go from one to the other and then return.
Remembrance to all, Nate.
THE CARNATZ CONNECTION.
My diary when a boy of fourteen had the following entry:—“January 16, 1858. Our Russian cousin sent us some nice things; among them were a malachite pin and sleeve buttons, and one of the medals thrown to the peasants at the coronation of the present Emperor Alexander.”
My mother’s mother, Mrs. Jesse Sumner, was a daughter of Mrs. Nathaniel Coffin, whose son Thomas established himself in business in Moscow about 1829, and died in Perovo, Russia, in 1832. His daughter Eliza married Mr. Carnatz, a German. In 1870, we received the intelligence that they proposed to remove to Dresden.
THE CARNATZ CHILDREN.
Nothing has ever shown me more conclusively how easy it is for children, when very young, to learn and speak several languages, than my experience with my little Carnatz cousins. Of course being Russians by birth, that may naturally have been their first language, but their mother, who insisted upon being an American, the country of her father, had them at once instructed, probably by herself, in the English tongue. Then her husband, their father, being a German the language of the Fatherland had its proper place. After that came French, which was the cosmopolitan language of all well-to-do people in the Russian empire. They could rattle off these various languages “as easily as rolling off a log,” and so can any one who begins them in childhood.
A RUSSIAN MANSION.
A good type of the elegant Russian mansion was large, made of wood and only two stories, with a long array of rooms running _en suite_. At the door stood the ever watchful porter, ready to take the _shubes_ and overshoes of the guests, and never forgetting to whom each belonged, resplendent in his showy livery with the eagles embroidered in the wide border of his cape, looking the picture of comfort as he stood by the blazing fire, the thermometer outside showing a temperature well below the zero of Fahrenheit. Beyond him, at the foot of the stairs, a huge, stuffed black bear stood erect, in his paws a salver, with a pitcher and glasses, as if bidding you welcome to the hospitalities of the house.
THE CITY AND ITS ENVIRONS.
We went on many excursions in the city and its environs. The Kremlin, with its endless interesting objects, the churches so numerous that they say there is one for every day in the year, and the old historical monuments from which can be gleaned a knowledge of all the phases from barbarism to civilization through which the vast Muscovite nationality has passed, were carefully and intelligently studied. We would ramble for hours through the curious bazaar, the Gostinny Dvor, gazing at the different wares exposed, talking and bargaining with the shrewd Jew shopkeepers, and picking up many curiosities, from Persian talismans to Siberian rugs, which had found their way to this cosmopolitan mart in boats through the Caspian Sea and up the curving Volga River, or in caravans all along the dreary plains and through the steep mountain ranges, from the interior of China and Hindostan. Malachite from the mines in the Ural Mountains, fragrant packages of high-priced tea, chain-armor from Circassia, and quaint Albanian gems, gorgeous colored silks, pipes of every description, in short, a perfect medley of _bric-a-brac_, we hunted up leisurely, sending daily some newly discovered treasure to our collections.
TROTTING IN RUSSIA.
The trotting during the winter months takes place on the ice, when a large river or pond is accessible; as, for instance, on the Neva itself at St. Petersburg, which is the favorite place of all. But a well made track on the frozen snow is nearly, if not quite, as good, and this can be found and laid out anywhere. The course, which is one or two versts long,—the Russian verst is 3501 English feet,—is in the form of an ellipse; that is, the length of two of the curving sides is much greater than that of the other two, as is often seen in American tracks, where a long and narrow piece of ground only can be obtained. But now comes the great peculiarity of the Russian race, which is, that the horses do not start or trot together. One starts from a line in the centre of one of the long sides of the course, while the other starts from a line exactly opposite and on the other side. Should there be four horses entered they have two parallel tracks close to each other, and for six horses three of these ellipses, and so on. When there is more than one track the effect is most peculiar: for, at the signal for starting, the horses all seem to be rushing off in different directions.
Then, too, the horses all start from a standstill, each one toeing the line before the word “go” is given. Of course, in this system, there is not the excitement of seeing the horses together, changing places, now one ahead, and now another; those who break held in, and all trying to secure and keep the pole from the others. They merely trot round the course at their greatest speed and the one which returns to his goal or starting point first, is declared the winner. In case of breaking, a certain number of steps at a gallop only is allowed during the heat, and any horse that is not brought down into this allotted number is thrown out of the races by the judges, and loses his chance. It is common to have a running horse by the side of the trotter to excite him to his utmost speed, but generally this horse is not harnessed, but is mounted by a skillful rider, who keeps close alongside of the other, knowing exactly the pace at which he can go without breaking.
The sleighs used are very light, seemingly made of some kind of basket-work, and also very low, the driver being seated not more than a foot off the ground or snow, bracing himself with his feet in a sort of stirrup on either side. Low vehicles are also used for racing on the gravel track, and primitive they are in appearance, a narrow board supported on the axles, with four small wheels nearly the same size, and the American twowheeled spider-sulky has come into use, as the small wheeled vehicles detract from the speed, on account of a badly regulated centre of gravity and excessive friction.
For getting the greatest pulling power out of the horse with the least fatigue, and leaving all the muscles unimpeded and in full play, the Russian method of harnessing is excellent. The shafts of the _drosky_ or sleigh, the collar of the horse and the duga meet at one point on the horse’s shoulder, and at this point is all the strain of pulling. There are neither traces nor breeching to interfere with the action. The collar, made of wood, is carefully fitted to the horse’s neck, and while the shafts are inclined to press it _against_ the neck, the duga exerts a corresponding pressure out on either side, and these three parts of the harness are so lashed together by leather thongs that they remain firmly in place, and it is a rare sight to find a horse with his neck galled from exercise.
A COURSIER. ]
The horses are put on the track very young, at the age of two, three or four years, and after that time, are found rather to lose than increase their speed. Perhaps there may be peculiarities in the breed which gives them their greatest strength when young, or it may be the climate brings out forces which in milder regions it takes more time to develop. Certain it is that the Russian horse, of which the Orloff is the handsomest type, when taken to a foreign country soon loses his grace of action and fire. At home they are the _beau ideal_ of beauty, with great natural knee action, arching necks, distended nostrils and flashing eyes, but it has often happened that the same horse which would attract the attention of every passer by on the Nevski Prospect, when seen in the Bois de Boulogne or Hyde Park has lost his distinguishing traits and seems but an ordinary animal.
As there is always a question as to the beauty of “banging” the horse’s tail in accordance with the English taste, or of leaving the natural growth as was more common in America some years ago than at present, I would state that the tail in Russia is left as nature made it, long and waving, and sometimes even trailing on the ground. And for another disputed question, whether or not it is beneficial to clip the horse in winter, without touching on the numerous arguments which humanity, convenience and preference have brought plausibly up on either side, I will simply say that in Russia it is the universal rule to leave the horses, whether they be for work or for pleasure, with the long-haired coat, God has given them, untouched all through the months when they need some protection against the cold.
TO HARNESS A HORSE A LA RUSSE.
First put on the bridle, which is merely a headstall without blinders. Saddle and surcingle together. Collar and breeching together. Put the horse in the shafts and put on the hoop, strapping the shafts and hoop together with a long strap, which is afterwards wound around the shafts. There is a strap on each shaft just opposite the saddle. The one on the left shaft goes over the saddle, passing through rings, and is wound around the right shaft. The one on the right shaft goes through loops under the surcingle and is wound around the left shaft. These straps help to keep the shafts firmly in place. The horse pulls from his collar. The ends of the shafts and hoop must just meet, the hoop going inside of the shafts and pressing them out. Of the four straps from the top of the hoop, two go under the check strap and fasten to the bit ring, and the other two, with the loops through which the reins pass, are fastened to the shafts, behind the hoop. The bit should be simple snaffle.
The running horse is on the left side. A strap goes from his bit to the shaft of the wheeler, passing through the martingale ring. This strap is quite long, and gives him considerable play. The rein, _only one_, goes from the outside ring of the bit.
For a pair of horses there are no saddles. The traces are fastened to leather rings on the collar. A surcingle is fastened on the traces and passes under each horse, close behind his forelegs.
They always drive with four reins but this is useless.
The ridiculous custom of having blinders over the horse’s eyes is unknown to the Russians, except as imported from other countries. The animal is allowed to see for himself on all sides, pleasant or ugly sights, and is not treated like an infant, whom his human doctors suppose is going to be frightened at what may meet his gaze. Sensible both for horse and man is this, as the former doubtless derives pleasure in his way from the sights of the street or the scenery of the country, while the latter enjoys seeing what is one of the finest points of a horse—his eye.
Check reins are happily not a part of the Russian harness.
The men who congregate about the race-course are pretty nearly the same types in all the nations of the world. There are the elaborate dandies, known as _petits crévès_ in France, who go because it is the fashion to see and be seen, whether or not they have any taste for the racing itself, and can tell one horse from another. There are gentlemen who really are devoted to the noble animal, who are interested in improving the breeds, and who, if possessed of fortune, generally have some of their own stock taking part in the races. Then comes the sporting fraternity of all degrees, horse dealers sharp for making a good bargain in buying or selling, trainers, jockeys, stable boys and besides them plenty of loafers who are there for betting on the race, or for “turning an honest (?) penny” in any way that their wits suggest.
LETTER TO MY MOTHER.
Moscow, Dec. 27, 1866. This is dated by the Russian calendar, which is just twelve days behind ours, so you can calculate. I have a few minutes before going to dine with Cousin Eliza to begin this and I will dip promiscuously into some of the events of the past week.
THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
Let me see,—Christmas has come and gone for the second time this year, and we have seen the way it is done in Russia. It is the same old story—a tree, _arbre de Noël_,—everywhere, though the custom has been brought here by the Germans.
We went to the Carnatzes about half-past seven, and they being German of course all the arrangements were _a la mode Allemande_. The tree always comes off Christmas eve, and is generally a family gathering, gotten up especially for the amusement of the little ones. A large tree just like ours at home, greeted our gaze on entering, placed on a table, brilliantly lighted, covered with all kinds of things, bonbons, gold balls, etc., topped off with an American flag in compliment to us. The presents were all lying around on tables, and the tree remains untouched for a week, so that poor children can come in and enjoy it on different days.
Charlie and I were not forgotten, and we received each a portfolio filled with different views of Moscow.
Every guest, on leaving, also, takes a huge box filled with almonds, sugar plums, cakes, etc., etc., quite enough to make you ill for a week. The party was not very large, and we broke up just before midnight to go to the French Catholic church to hear the mass, but the place was jammed, and we did not stay long. Charlie and I then jumped into our sleigh, and the great bells of the Kremlin and the neighboring churches were booming all around.
THE PATRIARCHAL CATHEDRAL.
We wended our way up the hill and pushed into the Patriarchal Cathedral of Russia, where all the Tsars are crowned, and here we saw the Russian mass. The crowd was so dense that it was impossible to penetrate more than a few feet into the church, and we soon left.
THE RUSSIAN BATH.
One evening last week we did the Russian bath. It is perfectly delicious, a general steaming all over first, and then you are bodily champooed by the careful attendant,—the soap suds being, so to speak, whipped in with a bunch of rushes flourished round you,—and then recline at your ease, as long as you please, and finally cool off with differently moderated showers of water.
We have made the acquaintance of a Mr. Arnoldi, who has a charming wife. He is a great lover of horse flesh, and took us over a stable, where we saw splendid specimens of the different types of the Russian horse, and afterwards we went to the trotting track and saw the sports with their fast trotters. The scene was not unlike Riverside Park at home, and very interesting to me. They want to get up international races.
We afterwards dined with Mr. A., quite _en famille_.
THE MAZOURKA.
We have been to another party at the aunt’s of my lovely Miss M—, and I again watched her going through the graceful slides of the mazourka.
There are two public balls every night now during the holidays, sometimes a masquerade at the Nobility Club or the Grand Opera, or again a dance or concert at the German Club, and so on, but the masquerades, after Paris, are tame.
The holidays are much made of here, and every one celebrates them by getting tipsy, for the Russian, besides his everlasting tea, also manages to dispose of considerable _vodki_, the alcoholic drink of the country. (Spelled _vodki_ and _vodka_, distilled from rye, also from potatoes.)
To a hard working Yankee it is odd, the slowness and want of ambition of all. For instance, Sunday is a holiday, and the day before he prepares himself for it, and the day after he gets sober, and as there is on the average one fête day during the week, when the same game is tried, it does not leave many days for work.
OFF TO ST. PETERSBURG.
Thus you see the days slip along on golden wings, and your _flâneur_ looks with horror on the bore of packing up his traps, but we may be off on Saturday to St. Petersburg. I have your letter No. 11, with the Boston gayeties. I will get you some nice postage stamps some time, but for the present these will suffice. Accept, also, the photograph of Chawls and myself _à la Russe_, with the Kremlin in the background, and us in the front, done up in our _shubes_ and boots, and waiting the approach of many bears. (See frontispiece.)
Fear not for our ears and noses now, for although the thermometer keeps down steadily in the region of “Niblo” (Meaning zero, an old joke of First Lieutenant Peleg W. Blake of the Fifth Mass. Battery, who when speaking of the weather always called zero “Niblo,”) we are much more comfortable in the streets than we are at home, where it seems to be the fashion to be cold always out of doors.
The photographs of Moscow are the best in the world. (I had never seen such beautifully glazed ones at that time.) We do not get much news here about Americans, as there is no French paper in Moscow, and even if there were there would be no time to read it, we are in such a whirl of excitement. Going to bed at four gives you a short morning.
THE STAIGG PORTRAIT. ]
I read the President’s (Johnson’s) message with interest, and great satisfaction in regard to everything except the internal politics of the United States. How pleasant, too, is the report of the Treasury. People here look upon our diminishing debt with perfect amazement. Indeed the influence which our country is giving to the world is more perceptible every day and very noticeable here.
We are of course much interested in the great yacht race, and want brother Tom to come over in the Spring, and give the graceful little _Alice_ another wetting in the Channel. Tell him she must not go home in May. I want to sail in her once in the summer. What a carnival there will be in Paris, and how much nicer to be a “swell” in Moscow than an individual in the former.
Well, adieu. Nate.
FROM MY MOTHER IN BOSTON.
THE STAIGG PORTRAIT.
Dec. 27, 1866.
You can judge of my amazement, my excitement, on going up to the drawing-room after dinner on Christmas Day, to find before my eyes a portrait of you, my dear Nathan, gracefully standing with your arm holding the bridle of your horse, and looking so like life that I really started, reading the announcement, put on by Hattie:—“By Atlantic Telegraph, St. Petersburg. A Merry Christmas!”—Why, I felt that it had actually come from there! It is a charming picture. What a villain you are! Of course it is not finished, and is to go back to have some alterations.
Oh you sly boy! Coming up from Lynn (Our summer home at the beach.) every day to give me this delightful surprise! _I thank you._
We had a charming Christmas dinner, and, will you believe it? the presents for the third time were so hid they had great difficulty in finding them, and some were obliged to be told.
NEW YEAR’S DAY IN MOSCOW.
Russ., January 2, 1867.
I begin you this, Dear “Mum,” from Moscow, but I may finish it in St. Petersburg. Children of chance, that we are, how dare we calculate on even the events of a few days? With this moral question at the beginning, I will tell you that we are still here, and have been through various adventures. Among others was the dedication of a church in the Russo Greek style, and the magnates of the city thought we had better see it. I did not object, as a dinner formed an important feature. Accordingly, one of the selectmen of Moscow routed us out of bed, and I gave him audience in my _robe de nuit_, and after he had conversed some time in Russ he thought matters would be expedited by an interpreter. I soon discovered that his sleigh was at the door, and that he wanted us to be off, so I hastened, and was ready,—Charlie following in our sleigh with Curtin.—He wore a medal and his horse was a high stepper. We soon reached the church, and had standing places of honor, _vide_ Moscow _Gazette_ of the next day with our distinguished names in Russian print,—for above three and a half hours, and we were not sorry to rattle off to the good dinner, which the opulent merchant, who had given the church, had had prepared for his guests. The lunch was stunning, entirely _à la Russe_, with some little wrinkles I mean to remember, and the _menu_ on very gorgeous frosted paper, and a photograph of the church under each plate. We returned from our day’s work very much satisfied.
The society of this place is quite funny. We have got into the very “swell” little clique of the town, the Faubourg Saint Beacon Street of Moscow, and like the same set in our own blessed “Hub,” it is a close oligarchy with an endless array of cousins. The other evening we saw a most pretty phase of the holidays. About twenty young ladies and cavaliers of this set, with one or two matrons, went round the town in masquerade with fancy domino costumes, stopping at half a dozen different houses, at each of which they would dance once, with a supper later. Chawls and I went to two of the houses to see them and the effect was stunning; a postillion rushing in first, and then the others following in couples, Poles, Spaniards, and Tartars, Folly, a Cook, a Baby and her Nurse, &c., and so on. The coachman and footman, even, were in mask, to make the disguise as complete as possible, but we soon discovered our friends.
I think we will try it in Boston next winter.
The society of the merchant families is quite another set, but as they have the money now their entertainments are on a most gorgeous scale.
NEW YEAR’S DAY.
After all how like people are in all countries. This is well shown by yesterday, the Russian New Year’s Day. We got up a very “swell” trap,—a trotter and a runner by his side,—and went about slaughtering all our acquaintances. It was precisely the same as in New York, except that they gave you no grub anywhere, nor wine, though we did see one inebriate youth driving off. Every one always drives about the city and you get into the state of being unable to walk ten steps. You wo’n’t do it. Sleighs are very cheap, and the distances are very great, so that you keep your sleigh about you as an indispensable companion, from twelve noon until after midnight. The coachman follows you round like a dog, merely going off to feed his horses some time in the afternoon. With all this it is strange that the Russians never drive themselves, and no matter how fine the horses of the gay youth of the city, and how elegant his equipage, the coachman always drives. Perhaps this is because horses are a necessity, not a luxury, and having to drive so much every day you do not care to do it yourself. I think I, myself, with all my fondness for horses, would soon be indisposed to drive in Russia.
THE RUSSIAN GROOM.
The “swell” groom here has a _chic_ quite his own, and totally different from the London “tiger,” which has spread over the rest of the continent and America. My “Tom,” with his neat tights and top boots, carefully trimmed whiskers and square shoulders is very different from your bearded Russian coachman, the stouter the better, with lozenged-shaped, pin-cushion like, velvet hat, long tunic with a gorgeous colored sash and big boots. They drive with both arms stretched out at full length, and have four reins for a single pair of horses.
Tuesday, p.m.: I will finish this off now and take it on with me to St. Petersburg, tomorrow, to mail it there, as we have decided to change our base, in fact, having slaughtered all the fair ones of Moscow, and having left a good impression, it is much better to make our bows and retire quickly.
I have been skating today and yesterday with a most bright and attractive young lady, the Princess G—— (Princess Julie Gagarine now for years Madame la Princesse Ourousoff, one of the same great family represented at the Races on the Newport beach in 1866.) a cousin of the beautiful Miss M——. Being in mourning we have not seen her in society. She goes to St. Petersburg in a few days where we shall meet her again.
We go to our last party tonight. Private theatricals and a ball afterwards. Last evening a _soirée musicale_ at the Martinoffs, and a dance later at another house.
We go to St. Petersburg to be quiet(?) as you imagine, and we shall arrive just in time for the “Blessing of the Neva,” breakfast at the Winter Palace, Review of Troops, etc., etc., and from now until Lent we shall have all we want of gayety.
Adieu, oh Moscow! with thy Kremlin and gilded turrets, thy fair princesses, thy fast horses, thy caviar and thy mazourka. Fain would we linger here, but the hand of time points onward, and the vague sensation of joys now past, vibrates in the brain!
I have some little packages for you and Hattie from Coz. Eliza, which will I hope reach you safely some day. I am off now to bid her good bye.
Nate.
FROM MY SISTER IN BOSTON.
January 8, 1867.
Your letter from St. Petersburg arrived by the same steamer that brought Mr. Burgess and little Billy’s blue suit, for both of which many thanks. I wish you could see the little man in the jacket and cap, he looks awful cunning, and the color just suits his complexion. They are just the right size, and all beholders say “How remarkable that a young man like Mr. Appleton should know just what to get for a baby like that!”
The worsted work for the old lady was also a great success. She thinks it the funniest thing she ever saw. And all this page and not a word yet about the picture!
THE STAIGG PORTRAIT. THE SURPRISE.
... I took Elias (The old family servant.) into the secret, and he was so important, and so excited with it that I never expected he would get through waiting on table that dinner, without smashing something. You know we got it into the house very quietly, during church time, and hid it on the back piazza, and Elias got it up into the drawing-room while we were eating dinner, and coming down made such telegraphic signals that Erny (Ernest Longfellow) who was next me, said, “What has come over Elias? he is winking and making such faces at you. There’s some immense secret!”
As I had not my “eyes” on it was unfortunately thrown away. When Mamma did get up and saw it, she was fairly terrified, apparently thinking you were there yourself in some incomprehensible way. I don’t know but she will pull down “Rosalie” to have a place to hang it. Brother Tom takes a great interest in it, and brings artists to see it, who mostly think it Staigg’s best work.... Dear me. I have not told you about the piano we are having constructed to match our book cases, and with Mr. Staigg’s first sketch of you inserted in a panel,—truly lovely!
ON THE 11TH MY MOTHER WROTE:—
Your brother Tom has just been in to read a letter from Charlie. He was quite excited in hearing about Russia, and really wished he was with you to enjoy something so new. He would have been a great addition, and talked French and made everything as jolly as possible. He hopes that you have made known that you were officers in the army and wounded men, and I trust it is understood that C. A. L. is son of the “great poet.”
Your letters stir us all up, and though this is not a regular writing day, I could not resist telling you how much we enjoy hearing from you.
The “presentation” must have been rather a trial, not speaking French fluently. How T. G. A. would have rattled it off! He rather wonders that he came home. Of course the yachting will take him out in the Spring. We have now fine sleighing, and he is every day on the Brighton road, but not a “fascinating hood” is to be seen; all the women with veils tied tight over their faces. T. G. A. drives his pair and has some damsels with him.
Monday Eve: Little Billy (Curtis) came to see his Grandma this morning in full French costume; his pretty blue coat and hat, and Astrachan fur. It is lovely and very becoming to the little man.
All are so charmed with your picture. It gives life and light to the old house. I cannot bear to part with it, and I believe Staigg does not consider it finished.
I am glad you have nice quiet apartments, and are not at a hotel. Please be moderate, and do not dash about and make yourself conspicuous. It is foreign to the family name.
LETTER FROM GEO. B. SHATTUCK.
“Boston. January 8, 1867.
My dear Nathan.
A visit to No. 39, a few days since, and the exhibition of your portrait by Staigg, spurred me up to an undertaking which I have long been proposing to myself, answering a letter which you wrote to me before your departure and after mine from San Francisco, and which was forwarded to me here.... I was much pleased with your picture, and thought it an excellent likeness for the number of sittings I was told you had.
Of course, as is the duty of a good artist, he exerts his best effort that your personal pulchritude may not suffer, and the war-horse, etc. is rather in the style of General Washington. You ought to have had your negro “Joe” brought into the picture holding the charger. The horse, as well as I could judge from a short inspection, is well done, and surprisingly so, if, as Mrs. Appleton told me, this is Staigg’s first horse. I speak so at length as I suppose the thing to have been completed since you left home.”
ROSALIE. ]
ALLSTON’S ROSALIE.
The picture of “Rosalie” by Washington Allston, mentioned in my sister’s letter as hanging in the drawing-room at 39 Beacon street, and to which the author addressed some exquisite verses, became mine after the death of my father, at whose request it was painted.
It was in 1835, that my half-sister, the wife of the poet Longfellow, then Miss Frances Elizabeth Appleton, made a copy, which I now have in her own handwriting, of the following verse which was added by Allston some time after the original three verses were composed:—
“So, at that dreamy hour of day When the last lingering ray Stops on the highest cloud to play, So thought the gentle Rosalie, As in her maiden reverie, First fell the strain of him who stole In music to her soul.”
The original three verses are as follows:—
“Oh! pour upon my soul again That sad unearthly strain That seems from other worlds to plain; Thus falling, falling, from afar, As if some melancholy star Had mingled with her light her sighs, And dropped them from the skies.
· · · · ·
No—’tis not born of aught below, That melting breath of wo Which now doth o’er my spirit flow; Waking the deeply-seated springs Of silent joy; that round me flings This nameless light—if light it be— That veils the world I see.
For every form around me wears The hue of other spheres: And something mixed of smiles and tears Comes from the very air I breathe. Oh, nothing, sure, the stars beneath Can mold a sadness like to this— So like angelic bliss.” —_Wa. Allston._
These three verses have the signature as given above, in the copy in my possession. To the peculiar circumstances under which the picture was painted, an allusion is made in a letter to my brother Tom in Paris, by Mr. Tom Kemper Davis in Boston, a member of the legal profession with a strong leaning toward literary pursuits.
THOMAS SULLY.
“Sully, the artist,” he wrote, “is in town. I went with him yesterday and bowed at the shrine of the divine ‘Rosalie’. Sully’s first exclamation, after gazing some time at the picture, was,—
‘Raphael and Titian combined!’
Allston, by the way, has in conversation with me frequently alluded to your father’s purchase of this picture, and as I never heard him allude before to any like transaction. The manner in which the thing was done seems to have touched his heart.”
When they went to see it, the picture hung in the drawing-room of our old house, 39 Beacon street. That the artist Sully may have had a personal interest in the “Rosalie,” was suggested to me by a letter from the pen of a Washington correspondent of the New York _Daily Graphic_, signed “Mary E. Nealy,” which I chanced to see. I, being then in London, addressed a letter to this correspondent from 449 Strand, the Reading Room and Exchange of Robert Bowles, dated October 26, 1875, in the following words:—
“I noticed in a recent number of the _Graphic_, a letter of yours from Washington, in which you gave quite a long account of a collection of pictures painted by Sully. My attention was attracted to it by what you say of ‘Rosalie’, and the verses written by Allston, because I am the owner of the painting of ‘Rosalie’, which Washington Allston painted, and for which he wrote the verses.
This picture was painted for my late father and hung by the direction of Allston himself at our house, where it has remained many years, the admiration of all. Should you ever go to Boston, I think it will give you pleasure to see it.
I always supposed that the name was merely a fancy one, but what you say of Allston’s intimacy with Sully and his family, makes me believe that quite probably the name was taken from one of Sully’s daughters, and as such it may even be a sort of portrait of her.”
I closed by asking for further information in regard to the original of the picture, and received the following reply:—
MARY E. NEALY TO N. A.
618 Sixth Street, Washington City, D. C. Nov. 18, 1875.
Your letter of enquiry in regard to the portrait of “Rosalie” by Allston was duly received. Colonel Wheeler does not know about it, and Mrs. Wheeler, formerly Ellen Sully, being married before her sister Rosalie was grown, does not _know_ that the verses were inspired by her sister, but thinks it highly probable, as Mr. Allston admired her very much. She was very beautiful, as well as talented, but died at an early age. Mrs. Wheeler could tell you certainly about your picture if she could see a photograph of it.
I will be happy to call and see the picture if I ever go to Boston, and thank you kindly for the privilege and the invitation. I have been intensely interested in his pictures, and think that few artists ever created more lovely female heads. I have an old annual called _The Gift_, published in Philadelphia, in 1842. On the title page is a lovely vignette head, which Col. Wheeler says is Rosalie Sully. If I could send it to you without spoiling my book I would do so. But the more simple way would be for you to photograph your painting.
P. S. This is a handsome and youthful brunette, with a spirited yet most lovely and womanly expression. Her hand supports her head, and the dark rich curls fall carelessly about her face. Sully painted his daughters in many positions and in various characters, and many female heads of his, supposed to be imaginary, are portraits of his own loved ones.
_The Gift_, edition of 1842, is in the Boston Athenæum Library. The second picture on the title page really does look like “Rosalie” but younger.
Allston died in Cambridge, Mass., July 9, 1843. Mrs. Jameson, the English author, in her Memoir of Washington Allston, January 1, 1844, gives the following description:—
“‘Rosalie Listening to Music.’ The figure of a young girl, life-size and three-quarters. She has been reading. The hand which holds the book has dropped: the other is pressed on her bosom. The head a little raised. Rapt, yet melancholy attention in the opening eyes and parted lips. The coloring deep, delicate, rich.
When I first saw this picture, in the drawing-room of Mr. Appleton of Boston, I had never seen Allston, did not even recollect his name. It at once so captivated my attention, that I could not take my eyes from it, even though one who might well have sat for a Rosalie was at my side. I thought I had never beheld such a _countenance_, except in some of the female heads of Titian or Palma. Yet the face was not what would be termed _beautiful_; and oh, how far from the sentimental, ringletted prettiness of our fashionable painters!
When I afterwards asked Mr. Allston whether his poem of ‘Rosalie’ had suggested the picture, or the picture the stanzas, he replied, that, ‘as well as he could recollect, the conception of the poem and of the picture had been simultaneous in his mind.’ He received for this picture 1,200 dollars, about £250.”
The “Rosalie” was exhibited at the Philadelphia Centennial Exposition in 1876, and a lithograph was published by James R. Osgood & Co., Boston, in a collection entitled “Massachusetts Artists’ Centennial Album, 1876.” The description is as follows:—
“This picture was painted in 1835. It represents a beautiful girl seated, facing the spectator, with one hand upon her bosom, and the fingers of the other between the leaves of a red book which she holds upon one knee. A piece of dark-brown drapery thrown across the lap nearly hides the blue of the skirt. The waist of the dress is of gray, with white sleeves, and is bound to the form by a yellow girdle. The background is a dull red curtain with a gray column at the left. The picture is owned by Mr. Nathan Appleton. The illustration is a heliotype made from the original.”
I loaned it for some years to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, and in 1893, it was exhibited at the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago. I afterward sold it to my brother W. S. Appleton, and it is now at 462 Beacon Street, Boston.
MY BROTHER TOM AND ALLSTON. LETTER FROM T. G. A. TO MRS. SAMUEL APPLETON.
31st August, 1844. Ashby de la Zouch.
I have been a week with Lady S. and her husband Mr. Smith Wright, not far from here. Lady S. is famous for her taste in flowers. Her conservatory is superb, and her white “yackas” unrivalled. She has a sister like “_ma chere Mire_” in Miss Bremer, with a wonderful face for energy. She is 87, but quick as a girl, a very clever botanist as well, and corresponding with all the best botanists in England. I drove and rode and walked over the country; magnetized a little, and drew a little, and so the hours flew. The Everetts were there a bit, and then flew to Scotland. To show how kind a man Mr. Smith Wright is,—he it was at Rome who got the Protestant burial ground enclosed, and did away with the burial by torchlight of old time. He is president of the Mechanics’ Institute at Nottingham. I shall hope to see these excellent friends again. I am the first American who ever visited them.
Yesterday Lady S. drove me to Sir George Beaumont’s, wishing herself to see Allston’s picture, I had so interested her in him. On the way there she told me how odd a person the present Sir George was,—the nephew of the famous art patron,—He received us at his superb porch in a blouse, with a funny white hat on, and was in great spirits to see us.... He took us over the fine house, a miracle of taste, as was everything of his uncle’s, and at length into a glass conservatory-like gallery he had built to hold the over abounding pictures. Here were all the first good things of Wilkie, Leslie, etc., which Sir George bought to encourage the young artists, but Sir G.’s own sketches were as interesting as any, and as good. The last one he was upon when he fell with apoplexy was peculiarly so. It represented boys playing over water upon a fallen tree, and every figure was in danger. Sir G. considered this very curious, so anticipating his own situation.
I mentioned Allston. He jumped. “I’ll show you a picture of his,”—and he ran for the key. It is in a lovely gray stone church, close to the house, a sort of guardian angel to the place.
Allston’s picture is the only one in the church. It is the one he often spoke to me about. It is ill placed, and ill lit, but wonderfully fine. An angel in white with sky blue scarf fluttering, points, while standing on the steps, to the prison door with a radiant hand, while Peter lifts a majestic face, heavy with sleep, upon the Angelus from between his bent and drowsy guards.
There is a huge _patine_ of moonlight breaking through the grates of the prison above.... The angel’s hair is nut brown and a little too pretty for so sacred a subject. It reminded me of “Rosalie’s” which is womanly, not angelic. The figures are life size and the picture one of Allston’s fine ones tho’ not equal to the “Jeremiah,” “Miriam” or “Balshazzar.”
We spent hours in wandering through the grounds....
Oh! the dairy, you should see that! An arched alcove, all _tiles_ above and below, rows of huge cream bowls standing upon marble slabs, and a fountain coolly splashing from an antique mask at one end. This gem of a dairy was dead Lady Beaumont’s doing.
There were poems of Wordsworth cut in stone about the walks. He was a great friend of the former Sir George, and I saw a stone seat, the rock cut, in which he wrote many of his poems. When one thinks of this lovely place and the great men, Sir George, Allston, Wordsworth, and Beaumont and Fletcher,—this is one of the family,—perhaps Shakespeare, one must allow this to be almost unmatched as a country seat.
On page 67, of brother Tom’s volume of poems entitled “Faded Leaves,” in one addressed to Allston after seeing his “Peter delivered from Prison” at Colcorton Hall, in Wordsworth’s winter garden, may be found the following stanzas:—
“A portion of thy soul divine Is fitly shrined in yon meek aisle Where arching roofs in prayer incline, And chasten all the silent pile.
· · · · ·
Ah! yes, dear Allston, from the bars And dungeon of this mortal sphere, At length thy spirit seeks the stars, Free in their happier atmosphere.”
FROM MY MOTHER AT BOSTON.
“February 24, 1867.
I do think you are having splendid times. The last princess seems to be the loveliest. And then the furs, and the slippers, and the table covers, and the malachite! Oh, what a boy!
Mr. Sayles (Henry Sayles) and Ned Brown (Edward Ingersol Brown) called to see me and were so much pleased with your picture. (Staigg portrait.)
They were told you _really sent_ a telegram from St. Petersburg on Christmas Day, and thought it so like you to do it. W. S. A. is in pursuit of a second pair for his four-in-hand. I do not approve so much display.”
In another letter my mother observes parenthetically:—“You must remember I am an old lady and belong to the old school of manners and propriety, which has sadly changed since my day.”
THE BLESSING OF THE NEVA. ILL. LONDON NEWS. ]