Introduction

On the shore of the empty waves he stood, full of high thoughts, and gazed into the distance. Before him, wide, the river rushed; a poor little boat ran down it all alone. Here and there along the mossy, marshy banks there showed black huts, the shelter of the wretched Finn; and the forest, never reached by the rays of the sun hidden in mist, murmured all around.

And he thought: From here we shall threaten the Swede. Here a city shall be founded to spite our proud neighbour. Here nature has destined us to cut a window into Europe, to stand with a firm foot by the sea. Here, on waves new to them, all flags will come to visit us, and we shall feast in the open.

A hundred years went by, and the young city, the beauty and wonder of the northern lands, rose up in pride and splendour out of the darkness of the woods, out of the swamp's mire. Where once the Finnish fisherman, nature's sad stepson, alone by the low banks cast his old net into unknown waters, now along the busy shores crowd shapely masses of palaces and towers; ships in throngs, from every end of the earth, hurry to the rich harbours; the Neva is clad in granite; bridges hang over the waters; the islands are covered with the dark green of gardens; and old Moscow has grown dim before the younger capital, as a dowager in purple before a new empress.

I love you, Peter's creation, I love your stern and shapely look, the Neva's sovereign current, the granite of her banks, the iron lace of your railings, the transparent twilight, the moonless gleam of your thoughtful nights, when I write and read in my room without a lamp, and the sleeping masses of the empty streets are clear, and the Admiralty spire is bright, and, not letting the dark of night into the golden sky, one dawn hurries to relieve another, giving the night half an hour. I love your cruel winter, its still air and frost, the running of sledges along the broad Neva, girls' faces brighter than roses, and the sparkle, and the noise, and the talk of balls, and, at the bachelor's feast, the hiss of foaming glasses and the blue flame of punch. I love the warlike liveliness of the play-fields of Mars, the uniform beauty of infantry and horses, the rags of victorious banners in their swaying, shapely ranks, the gleam of those bronze helmets shot through in battle. I love, warlike capital, your fortress smoke and thunder, when the empress of the north gives a son to the royal house, or Russia celebrates again a victory over the foe, or, having broken her blue ice, the Neva carries it to the sea and, scenting spring, rejoices.

Be splendid, city of Peter, and stand unshakeable, like Russia; and may the conquered elements make their peace with you; let the Finnish waves forget their enmity and their ancient bondage, and not trouble with idle malice the eternal sleep of Peter!

There was a dreadful time; its memory is fresh. Of it, my friends, for you I shall begin my tale. My tale will be a sad one.