Chere Maman, We have arrived in Amerika and I can summarize our entire experience by telling you briefly what happened when we went ashore. From the sea we recognized where we were by seeing the splendid volcano which resembles so much the engravings we have on Fujeeyamma in Japan, and soon after progressing past this entry point, we saw the little mount on which our eastern capital stands. It is a promising site, and if the buildings surmounting it were of appropriate construction and ornamentation, it might in time prove to be an acceptable capital, but alas, although the area consists of nothing but mountains, there is no stone for building, so what happens? The low, rambling buildings without any sign that an architect or an artist was involved in their planning consist of untempered wood poorly put together and left unpainted. You would laugh at what they call their cathedral, a gross, unplanned, ugly pile of wood topped by an amusing construction which passes for a kind of onion dome, which can be so handsome when done well, so pitiful when the various pieces don't quite match.
But this 'cathedral' is a work of art compared to what the natives proudly call their castle atop the hill. Again unpainted, unplanned, and in a very real sense still unbuilt, it is a collection of barns, no less, one added to the other in haphazard style and allowing no possibility of later improvement. A team of our finest St.
Petersburg architects could not salvage this place and I'm quite certain it will grow worse as time passes and new additions are added at random.
However, I must confess that on a clear day, and they do come occasionally but mostly it's rain, rain, rain, the country surrounding the hill can look supremely beautiful, like the best of the lake scenes we saw in Italy, for in every direction mountains of surprising height come right down to the water, forming a kind of rocky, tree covered cocoon in which New Archangel rests. And with that volcano standing guard, you have a setting worthy of a master planner.
Instead, we have Aleksandr Baranov, a miserable merchant striving ridiculously to be a gentleman, and I shall tell you only one thing about this foolish and incapable man. When Volya and I were presented to him, and we had not seen him before, he came forward, bowing low as was proper, a fat little fellow with a round little belly and a costume sewn by some provincial tailor, because no two parts fitted. When he came closer I gasped, and Volya whispered to me, almost loud enough to be heard:
'My God, is that a wig?'
It was and it wasn't. It was certainly made of hair, but from what animal I would not care to guess, for it resembled no hair that I had ever seen before and I'm quite sure it wasn't human, unless it came from the beheaded member of some savage tribe.
And obviously it was intended to serve as a wig, for it did rest upon his head, which I found later to be quite bald. But it was not that kind of wig which gentlemen and public officials in Europe can wear with such distinction, like Uncle Vanya's, for example. No, this was a kind of carpet, with a sickly color, no proper texture and absolutely no shape.
It was a most sorry affair.
But now comes the unbelievable part. To keep it on his head, Monsieur Baranov used two strings of the kind you see French peasant women use to keep their bonnets on while milking their cows, and these strings he brought under his chin, where they were tied in a bowknot big enough to have served as his cravat. Later, when this fat little fellow with his absurd wig stood beside my dear Volya, receiving the sorriest lot of guests in all of Russia, not a gentleman among them, the comparison was preposterous and I almost cried from shame for the dignity of Russia. There he stood in his nightcap wig, and beside him stood Volya, erect, proper and never more worthy in his white uniform with the gold epaulets Uncle Vanya gave him.
We cannot leave New Archangel too speedily for me, and if the above is not enough, I now find that this tedious Baranov has a native wife whom he preposterously calls the Princess of Kenai, wherever that is, but when I protested about this disgrace to Russian dignity, my informant reminded me that the local priest, a man named Voronov, also has a native wife. What in the world is happening to Mother Russia that she is so careless with her children?
With fondest thoughts, ever your loving daughter, Natasha The Muscovy remained at New Archangel for nine tedious months, and week by week Lieutenant Ermelov and his princess became more openly contemptuous of Baranov, ridiculing him before his own men as a low merchant and castigating whatever moves he made to improve his capital. 'The man's an impossible dolt,' the princess observed loudly at one party, and in his frequent reports to St. Petersburg her husband wrote disparagingly on Baranov's intelligence, managerial ability and understanding of Russia's position in the world. More seriously, in three different letters Ermelov initiated those ugly questions concerning Baranov's use of government funds which would haunt him in subsequent years:
When one considers the funds which our government has had to pour into New Archangel and then looks at the little which has been accomplished, one has to question whether this grubbing little merchant has not sequestered a fair share of them for his own selfish purposes.
These attacks on himself Baranov could accept, since he had been forewarned to expect them from any naval officer who was also of the nobility, but when the Ermelovs began to vent their bile on Father Vasili, accusing him of improprieties that were plainly ridiculous, Baranov had to intercede: 'Esteemed Princess, I really must protest.
There is no finer clergyman in eastern Russia than Vasili Voronov, and in that comparison I include His Reverence, the Bishop of Irkutsk, whose piety is famous throughout Siberia.'
'Pious? Yes,' she granted. 'But isn't it offensive to have the leading church figure in an area as big as this with a wife who was a short time ago a savage? It's undignified.'
Under normal circumstances Baranov, never wishing to excite the animosity of the Ermelovs, would have allowed this condemnation to pass unchallenged, but in recent years he had become an intense defender of Sofia Voronova, whom he saw as the epitome of the responsible Aleut woman whose marriage to a Russian invader would form the basis of the new mixed race, Russian-Aleut, which would populate and in time govern Russia's American empire. As if eager to prove the correctness of Baranov's predictions, Sofia had already given birth to a fine boy child, Arkady, but the underlying reason for Baranov's predilection for this smiling, lovely woman lay in the fact that once more he himself was without a spouse. For reasons he could not fathom, his native wife, Anna, was behaving exactly like his Russian wife: she was refusing to leave comfortable Kodiak to live with him in what she considered a less desirable residence, New Archangel. Deprived of two wives, he brought his two half-native children to Sitka, where he acted as both father and mother, and resigned himself to the fact that he was one of those men unable to hold on to a wife.
But in this loneliness he found increasing pleasure in watching the marital progress of the Voronovs, and the more he observed the gentle, loving manner in which these two people discovered fulfillment in each other, the more he saw in them the emotional satisfaction denied him in his own marriage. Vasili Voronov was proving to be an almost ideal clergyman for a place like New Archangel. Courageous in battling frontier situations, loyal in supporting the lay governor, and dedicated to the law of Jesus Christ on earth, he moved about his enormous parish like the first disciples, and wherever he touched or paused to give comfort, he produced an almost tangible Christianity. If the early fur traders brought disgrace to the concept of Russian imperialism, Father Vasili erased that stain by bringing love and understanding.
In this work he was supported by his Aleut wife, who continued to organize and tend nurseries and orphanages and who formed a glowing bridge between her pagan fellow Aleuts and her husband's Russian Christianity. She was, Baranov thought, an ideal pastor's wife, and in his support of her efforts he became a kind of father to her, so he was not disposed to allow Princess Ermelova to denigrate her.
'I beg your pardon, Princess,' he said, after listening to the latest diatribe, 'but I have found Madame Voronova, whom you call a s
avage, to be a true Christian; indeed, a jewel in our North American crown.'
The princess, not accustomed to rebuttal from anyone, looked down her patrician nose at this ridiculous baldheaded man Baranov wore his wig only on ceremonial occasions and said haughtily, as if dismissing some peasant: 'Monsieur Baranov, here in New Archangel, I see hundreds of Aleuts and they are all savages, the priest's wife among them.'
Fully aware of the dangerous course he was pursuing, Baranov thrust his fat little chin out and said: 'I see in those same Aleuts the future of Russian America, and none is more promising than the priest's wife.'
Startled by this rude refutation, the princess snapped: 'Mark my words, you'll see that one slide back into the gutter. If she poses as a Christian, it's only to deceive men like you who are so easily fooled,' and when she next saw her husband, she stormed:
'Baranov spoke harshly when I reprimanded him for defending that pathetic Aleut woman attached to the priest. I want you to inform St. Petersburg that this Voronov is making a spectacle of himself with that little savage.'
Vladimir Ermelov had, in the wisdom that married men acquire so painfully, learned never to oppose his strong willed wife, especially since she maintained close contacts with the tsar's family. But this time he did quietly ignore her fulminations against Sofia Voronova because in his dispatches home he simply had to report glowingly on the conduct of her husband, and it was these first assessments which were to pave the way for the extraordinary events which emerged later in the life of Father Vasili:
The worse Baranov appears, and I have reported only his most glaring defects and malperformances, the better does his priest Vasili Voronov stand out as an exceptional churchman. In the perfection of his approach and accomplishment he is almost saintly and I commend him to Your Excellency's attention, not only because of his religious perfection but also because he represents Russia so ably. He has only one drawback that I have been able to detect: he is married to an Aleut lady of markedly dark complexion, but if he were to be promoted to a superior post, I suppose he could be released from her.
Now, when the princess railed against both Baranov and Sofia Voronova, Lieutenant Ermelov loudly agreed with her regarding the man but remained silent when Sofia was the target, and in this persistent way he continued to undermine Baranov's leadership of the colony, for as he told his wife and anyone else who wished to listen: 'Just as you cannot operate a naval ship with peasants, so you can't run a colony with merchants. In this world gentlemen are at a premium.'
As the Muscovy was preparing to quit New Archangel for the return trip to Russia, documents arrived confirming Ermelov's basic attitudes, for one set of papers brought severe rebukes to Baranov for his supposed laxity in minding The Company's funds and his tardiness in bringing order to his vast domain stretching from Attu Island in the west to Canada in the east, while another set informed Lieutenant Vladimir Ermelov that the tsar had authorized his promotion to lieutenant captain.
Baranov, mortified by the harshness of the criticism, sought counsel with Father Vasili, to whom he poured out the misery of his position: 'I had hoped that the next ship would bring me the funds to do the work required and perhaps a notice that I had at last been recognized with a title of some kind nothing big, you know, just this or that of the third class, but with a ribbon testifying to the fact that I was now a member of the lesser nobility ...'
Here he broke down, a sorely disappointed man in his sixties, and for some moments he fought against tears. 'There, there, Aleksandr Andreevich,' the priest whispered, 'God sees the worthy work you do. He sees your charity to children, the love with which you bring Aleuts into the bosom of His church.'
Baranov sniffed, wiped his eyes, and asked: 'Then why can't the government see it?' and Voronov gave the answer which had resounded through the centuries: 'Preferment is not dispensed in rational portions,' and after a thoughtful digestion of this truth, Baranov laughed, wiped his nose, and said: 'True, Vasili. You're six times a better Christian than the Bishop of Irkutsk, but who recognizes it?'
Then, self-pity laid aside, he took the priest's hands and said with great solemnity:
'Vasili, I'm an old man and very tired. This endless work eats at a man's soul. Twenty years ago I begged St. Petersburg to send a replacement, but none has come. That ship down there, it brings condemnation of my work but no money to help me do better and no younger man to take my place.' Now, dealing with real disappointments and not with transitory wounds to his vanity, he could no longer control himself, and tears of the most burning kind welled from his eyes. At the end of a long, distorted life he was a failure and a worn-out one to boot, so he sat before his priest, shoulders shaking, head bowed: 'Vasili, pray for me. I am lost at the end of the world. I know not what to do.'
But an even greater humiliation awaited. When Ermelov received notice of his own promotion, his wife initiated a gala celebration which would include all the ships in the bay, the multiple rooms atop the rock, and even the Aleut workmen inside the walls and the Tlingits outside; and the princess arranged it so that naval funds would pay for the ship festivities, while the celebrations ashore would be charged against Baranov's depleted treasury. When the chief administrator learned of this duplicity he was outraged: 'I have no treasury. I have no money.' But as the entertainments began and Baranov witnessed the jollity of the sailors and the Indians, he found himself caught up in the celebration, and at ks height, when Lieutenant Captain Ermelov, straight and severe as an ash-tree harpoon, stepped forward to receive from Father Vasili the oath of allegiance, Baranov cheered with unfeigned generosity, even though both he and the priest knew that he was many times more effective as a commercial-political manager than Ermelov was as a naval geopolitician.
A LESSER MAN THAN BARANOV MIGHT HAVE BEEN Immobilized by the incredible position in which he now found himself: not only to be accused of stealing Company funds when The Company refused to send him any funds, but to be accused of diverting this Company money to his personal use at the very time when he was spending his own funds on work The Company should be doing, like caring for widows and orphans! It was insane, but he refused to let it disorient him, taking refuge in a comforting saying and an even more comforting visit south.
The saying explained and forgave everything: 'That's Russia!' and the excursion soothed away mortal wounds.
Seventeen miles south of New Archangel, lost in a wilderness of islands and surrounded by mountains that rose from the sea, lay one of nature's miracles: a spring, rank with the smell of sulfur, which bubbled forth in a copious steaming flow that could be mixed with a trickle of icy water from a nearby stream, making it bearable to soak in. For a thousand years or longer the Tlingits had treasured this spring, hollowing out spruce trunks to serve as pipes to feed water from the spring and nearby stream into a stone-lined hole dug in the earth. Ingeniously, the Tlingits had fixed the cold-water pipe with a swivel so that it could be swung aside when the hot water was properly tempered.
It was a congenial place, hidden among trees, protected by mountains, but so situated that one could luxuriate in the tub and gaze out upon the Pacific Ocean. One of the constant regrets voiced by Kot-le-an and Raven-heart in their distant exile was:
'I wish we could go back to the hot bath,' and one of the first things the Russians did when they captured the hill was to sail south and build at the sulfur spring a proper housed-in bath with two real pipes to bring in the two kinds of water. In time they had a spa equal to any in the homeland, and as soon as Baranov had the area pacified he began his visits to the baths. Was Ermelov behaving outrageously?
Off Baranov scuttled to the hot baths. Was his replacement seven years overdue? Down he went to the sulfur treatment, and as he lay back in the tub, working the two pipes with his toes, and the hot water steamed him to a rose-petal pink, he forgot the irritations which others wreaked upon him, and in his repose he visualized the great things yet to be done.
So on the happy day when the Muscovy finally sai
led from New Archangel to carry Lieutenant Captain Ermelov back to Russia, Baranov stood on the shore, waving farewell with the obedient enthusiasm of an underling, but as soon as the ship was out of sight he called for an assistant: 'Let's go to the baths. I want to cleanse myself of that odious man,' and deep within the therapeutic waters he formulated those remarkable steps which would make his tenure in the east so productive and so remarkable to later historians.
When he sailed back to New Archangel after his visit to the baths, his shiny round head was bursting with new ideas, and he was pleased to see that yet another foreign ship had anchored during his absence. As he drew close enough for the letters on the bow to become readable he smiled Evening Star BOSTON and he supposed that Captain Corey was bringing in his hold much-wanted cargo, like food and nails, and just as much that was not, like rum and guns.
Relieved to see an easygoing American ship replace the stiff and disagreeable Muscovy, Baranov greeted Captain Corey and First Mate Kane warmly, inviting them to his home on the hill and learning from them the details of Napoleon's latest triumphs in Europe.
With the generosity which marked all his dealing and which accounted for discrepancies in his accounts, if there were such, he told the Americans and Father Vasili as they dined together: 'Now I understand! Russia's been so frightened of Napoleon, the tsar hasn't had the time to bother about us out here. Or send us the money he promised.'