Mower County transcript. [volume] (Lansing, Minn.) 1868-1915, 1889-05-29
LIFE IN PETERSBURG.


LIFE IN PETERSBURG.
Graphic Description Of . Mtdwlntcr R,dA
with ..Troika- ISirds.' ~
Large four-seated sleighs are ordered
from a job master famous for the swift
ness of his horses and the skill OF his
drivers. The bells OF the teams tin),1a
at the door; the company envelon
themselves from head to foot in furs.
the women tie Orenburg shawls over
their faces. Two couples take their
places in each of the vehicles, and, as
may be readily conceived, it is not
chance that generally presides over
this arrangement, but another little
god who is less wise than chance. The
driver gathers in his hands his bundle
of reins, and speaks tenderly to
his horses: Forward, my little
pigeons" The three pigeons start
at full gallop through the empty
streets, twenty degrees below zero.
the air still. the sky black as steel, and
sparkling with golden spots which
glitter oven the whiteness of all OBJ
jects in this limpid atmosphere. The
cold freezes the breath as it issues
from the lips. In a few minutes the
boards are converted into stalactites of
ice. The Russian heart bounds with
Joy. "Quickcr! quickerw cry the
women, their voices broken by wild
and joyous laughter. The driver, who
has previously fortified his stomach
with innumerable glasses of brandy,
administers stout blows with his knout
over the backs of his horses, and vet
they are giving the maximum of speed
that can be expected from their limbs.
They too seem to get intoxicated with
their own galloping. The e%quipage
flies along the quays and crosses the
river; the lei houses of the fau-
bourgs, with their poor little lights,
vanish out of sight behind it
like phantoms. Trees take the
place of houses the more deeply
we penetrate into the islands; now we
glide over vacant country in absolute
darkness, the tinkling Of the bells and
the ripples of laughter alone breaking
the silence that has gathered over the
earth. When the hoofs of the horses
strike the pavement beneath the thin
ner snow, or when they bound over a
projecting block of ice on an arm of
the Neva, the heavy sleigh jumps and
jolts enough to throw the travellers
out. Woe be to the one who is talk
ing at this moment: he is sure to bite
his tongue cruelty; and then the
laughter redoubles at his expense. The
combined intoxication Of the move
ment and of the cold is at it's height.
go on more quickly" the voices of
women say, nervously; and sometimes
a deeper voice murlnurs in a lower
tone: why faster? 1t would be bet
ter that we never arrived at the end"
We do arrive, however. The team,
white with foam. stops in front of an
isolated tavern. 1t is Samarcande or
Tachkent, one of the inns Of the sub
ur5s of Petersburg, famous for the
troupes of Bohemians who lodge there.
The party hires a room decorated in
any thing but a luxurious manner:
four smoky walls, a few chairs, and 3
table. Champagne is brought and the
Tsiganes appear. The choir is COM
posed of three or four men and eight
or ten women. The men wea on their
bronze faces the expression of the
tranquil dignity of their race. With
their aquiline protiles, their sad
and profound eyes, they seem
like di-spossessed kings Of Asia.
We would gladly depict the women
in some picturesque Eastern costume,
but the truth compels as to confess
that they are dressed in shabby silk
dresses, the cast-off tinery of scmo elo-
giant lady, bought at a secondhand
store in the Gostiny Dvor. The olive
colored compilations beneath their
painted cheeks, and the fire of their
eyes beneath their painted eyebrows,
alone betray the Indian origin OF these
daughters of the Pariahs. The leader
of the choir tunes his guitar and strikes
up an accompaniment, very slow at
first, and then gradually quicker and
quicker. The Bohemian girls sing;
they are seated in q semfcircle,
their bodies and faces motionless.
At the beginning the accent is
cold and restrained. These wom-
en appear Indifferent to the senti-
ment they r interpreting, like sibyls
visited by a god whom they do not
feel. But little by little their voices
become animated, and warm into that
cultural trembling which artists Ct
any other race can never Succeed IL
initiating. The demon has taken pcs
session of the singers; they hurry the
rhythm with furious alterations
melodies and words are infused with
the same excitement, the languor, the
despair, and the fire of wild passions.