The Russian Century: A Hundred Years of Russian Lives

At this time, the end of May 1899, my head was in a spin not only from exams but from various plans for the future. The class master kept asking me which military academy I had chosen. But I had other plans. Something on the order of forestry school along with “Popka” Bekilov. Besides I recalled with pride that father had deposited 100 rubles in my name in a bank. The question was what to do with them.

Before entering an academy, it would have been nice to see the world and especially those places in Europe which we studied so thoroughly in school. For instance, to go into the mountains of Schwarzwald or the Swiss Saxon Alps. There was also the town of Freiberg with its mining institute. It would be interesting to enroll there and see if I could become a mining engineer. In any case, even if I were to lose a year, I would learn German and one or two other subjects. And finally I could always enter the Pavlov Military Academy with the help of my friend Musin-Pushkin.

Oleg Pantiukhov, A Student’s Summer

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I laid all these plans out to my parents both orally and on paper. To my delight, father hardly objected to the European trip. He was opposed to the Freiberg plan. And so I graduated from military school. The passport for traveling abroad and the hundred rubles were in my pocket. Everyone seemed to be moving that year. My older brother was getting married and moving to the Crimea with his bride. He was encouraging mother and my other brothers to go there with him. My aunt was going there as well. Only my father in Tbilisi and Vania in Artvin were to stay in place.

My civilian outfit was of a kind fairly widespread in Russia. It consisted of a Russian shirt [with buttons on the left side of the chest], a broad belt, and a light, sand-colored overcoat bought in Gulaspov’s store [in Tbilisi]. It was strange to see our Voznesenskii Street neighbor and buddy, Sandro, as manager there. He also sold me a stylish cap with a hard celluloid peak.

I am alone in the railroad car of a train heading westward to Batumi. I am traveling at night in order to save time and hotel expenses. It is uncomfortable on the hard bench and there are too many thoughts in my head to sleep anyway. I tour the city, write postcards and leave on a ship of the Russian Navigation and Travel Association. It is a third class ticket, but I can move into second class for an extra five rubles if the seas get rough. I do so in Poti, having spent a night lying on hawsers and inhaling oil fumes. In the second-class cabin I sleep on clean sheets like a lord. In the morning I marvel at the forested mountains on my right and the blue expanse on my left, and decide to stop at New Mount Athos on the way back, money permitting. Next we hit rough water and there was great relief when the ship entered the bay of Novorossiisk.

As proper for a tourist, I immediately set off to view the city. But there was no city. It was all piers after piers, wharves, a railway shop, dirt and endless dust. I pressed on in search of the vanished city and finally reached the public gardens. They were colorless and dusty, but I never did find the city, only insignificant rural buildings, insignificant shops, and the smell of anthracite. In memory that smell is Novorossiisk to me.

Next day at dawn we reached Kerch. What a lively place. Just outside the town is Mitridat Mountain [mentioned by Pushkin]. There is no sand or pebbles on the beach—only pea-size seashells. It was good to bathe in the clear, glassy water. The people here were different from those in Tbilisi. They behaved as if they had nothing to do but bathe in the clear water, dry in the sun and drink black coffee in the Turkish taverns.

Feodosiia was even more attractive. This was the real Crimea and the people on shipboard were in a mood of high anticipation: tomorrow at dawn we would be in Yalta. The Yalta where Chekhov himself lives. The city was still asleep; the sun barely breaking through the clouds in the east. It had just rained. The sand squeaked under foot and the air was such that words fail me.

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Chapter Four