Leaving Sevastopol one afternoon, a favourable breeze carried us rapidly back to the Alma, and being now provided with the necessary permit, we could land without danger of being impaled by our enemy, the Cossack. We had also brought a letter of introduction to Count B——, a neighbouring proprietor, and, having sent it to the village, we landed, and strolled along the beach, looking at the heights the Zouaves had climbed.

Count B—— speedily arrived, kindly answering the letter in person, and bringing his carriage with him; so in a few minutes we found ourselves seated behind two spirited little Tartar horses, and away we went across the plain, perfectly regardless of the absence of road. We passed several large stack-yards, full of substantial ricks of hay and corn, where wild-looking Tartars were thrashing out the grain—a simple process, accomplished by fastening heavy blocks of wood to Tartar ponies, who were driven at full gallop round and round the enclosure.

The women wore their long hair in innumerable plaits, hanging below their fez caps, and showed their Mohammedan tendencies by partly veiling their faces as we passed. Feminine curiosity made them peep at us from sheltered corners, though they seldom ventured to show themselves completely.

We turned into one of these farmyards, and found ourselves in front of a little one-storied house, standing near a mass of blackened ruins. Here we were most kindly received by Madame B—— and a large family party, consisting of an aunt, Mademoiselle M——, a sister-in-law, two young ladies, several children, and three gentlemen. Most of the party talked French, and we were welcomed with charming kindness.

Soon after our arrival tea was proposed, which, thanks to the universal samovar, is almost always good in Russia. This time the pleasant meal seemed doubly excellent, for, besides grapes and water melons, there was a great bowl of cream, a luxury we had not seen for a long time. Milk, as well as butter, is almost unattainable in Sevastopol. The evening, though pleasant, was very warm, so we were delighted to see that, instead of being prepared in the little house, the hospitable tea-table was spread in the farmyard, and there we sat, surrounded by cows, chickens, turkeys, and dogs, in quite a patriarchal fashion, and enjoying ourselves greatly, for the charming family with whom we were had the rare art of viewing everything en rose, and while bearing their reverses with dignified simplicity, yet took whatever little pleasure came in their way with hearty and unaffected delight.

Milking was going on, and noticing the beauty of the cows, of which there were about twenty, we asked our hostess how much milk they gave a day. She did not know, nor did any one, she said, keep an account, for there is a superstition in the Crimea that should the milk be measured the cows immediately become dry.

We were kindly pressed to remain the night, but we wished to return to the children, who had been left on board the yacht. Besides, the house seemed so very small, compared with the party already assembled, that we could scarcely believe in the “possibility” of our being taken in, whatever good-will there might be. We looked around, thinking there must be some other house besides the very little one before us, but no, nothing was to be seen but some Tartar huts, a few cow-hovels, and the blackened ruins. So, with many thanks, we adhered to our original intention, and then the greater part of the party proposed to accompany us to the sea-shore.

A large, powerful horse—a fine creature, but of a fiery and impetuous nature—was with some difficulty harnessed to a lofty gig, or “heavenly chariot,” into which I was invited to mount. I did so, though, it must be confessed, with some inward trepidation. In another moment our hostess was by my side, and the fiery steed stood on his hind legs, as if he meant to “pose” for ever as a statue for a “horse rampant.”

The young ladies, without any preparation, jumped on two Tartar ponies; the rest of the party got into the other carriage. Our energetic animal condescended to come down on his forelegs, and, with a bound that almost took away my breath, off we set—“over brook, over byre”—going across country in the dark in the most astonishing fashion. To the very last moment that fiery steed acted well up to his character; snorting, plunging, and exerting himself most unnecessarily when any obstruction came in his way. However, the fair charioteer, twisting the reins twice round her hands, seemed fully equal to her task, and so away we went, with glorious indifference to holes, mounds, or other little impediments.

The young ladies rode admirably. It could have been no easy matter, and needed no little courage, to sit so steadily, galloping at such a headlong pace, on a dark night, over rough ground full of holes. However, we all arrived quite safely at the sea-shore, and found our kind friends had brought us a supply of vegetables, fruit, butter, and cream that made us rich for many days.

When we rejoined our hospitable entertainers the following morning the mystery of the sleeping accommodation was explained. The little house only possessed two rooms divided by a passage. All the men slept in one room, the ladies had the other; the governess being the best off, as she had a shelf to herself in the passage. These kind people had really intended to share their house with us, and proposed to give us one room and the passage, taking the little governess into their already crowded room, and sending the luckless men to find shelter where they could.

The “Heavenly Chariot” was again made ready, the mighty steed being more frisky than ever, as he felt the cheerful influence of the fresh morning air, and after breakfast we all, some in carriages, some on horseback, went to visit the field of the battle of the Alma.

Standing immediately beneath the Heights they appear exceedingly steep, and difficult to climb, especially one would think when exposed to a galling fire, but this very steepness proved the salvation of the Zouaves.

Once arrived at the foot of the cliffs, they were within the range of the Russian guns, and these active fellows, who climb like cats, were speedily at the top, and engaged in a hand-to-hand combat with their foe.

Our host, who had been on Prince Menschikoff’s staff, said that the Russians committed two fatal mistakes early in the day.

In his opinion the Russian guns should have opened fire when the allies were crossing the river, and when their line consequently was somewhat broken and disorganised. Unhappily, there was difference of opinion and dissension amongst the Russian generals, and therefore, marvellous to relate, no very precise orders were issued on the important morning, so the favourable moment was lost.

Deeming, also, their position impregnable, the Russians were probably paralysed by the suddenness and vigour of the attack.

Another almost equally fatal error was committed later in the day. Several Russian regiments, instead of waiting to receive the enemy on the commanding position they occupied on the Heights, rashly descended to a sort of second terrace, a few feet below the summit of the cliff; a most disastrous move on their part, for when the Zouaves and light infantry swarmed up the rocks the miserable Russians were bayoneted and cut down without a chance of retreat.

In fact most accounts tend to show that want of organization, and the want of supreme military power on the spot, contributed quite as much as the vigour of the attack to the loss of the battle of the Alma, and the subsequent fall of Sevastopol.

The Russians do full justice to the dauntless courage and brilliant military talents of their foes, but the destruction of Sevastopol lies heavy on their hearts, for the higher classes think her fall was as much brought about by faults at home as by the intrepid valour of the besiegers.

In the early part of the war, intrigues, it is said, were rife at the Russian Court, and the plans of the Crimean generals were constantly interfered with and made of no effect by contradictory orders from St. Petersburg. It was believed by the Emperor that the garrison in Sevastopol was so immense that in itself it formed a large and efficient army. It was believed that stores and all other requisites were there in such abundance that the town was capable of sustaining unassisted a protracted siege of even years, whereas so great had been the venality practised that many regiments, supposed to be fully manned, barely existed but in name.

So far from being able to support a long siege, the vast store-houses were more than half empty, and with respect even to ammunition and arms the supply was lamentably inadequate. It is said also that some of the cannon and shells were made of wood.

When all the present generation has passed away, and when the history of the Crimean war will only be classed among the histories of the past, many who read the story will feel a deep compassion for the mighty Emperor whose heart broke when he at length knew the fatal truth. His cherished town—his impregnable fortress—the pride of Russia—the key-stone, as it were, to all his ambitious projects, must fall into the hands of the enemy for want of troops, food, ammunition—for want of the very things with which he supposed it had been so well supplied. Supplies were sent, troops were sent, but in what condition could they arrive after having traversed a country the width of Europe, in the depth of winter, without railways, and nearly without towns?

The Russians are essentially a brave and noble people; it is impossible to live amongst them and not admire and like them. They love their sovereign with a personal devotion almost beyond bounds, and they can and have fought for their country to the death, but they know their system of government is very faulty.

Late events especially have led them to see how the present system tends to much oppression and venality, and that though the Emperor really labours earnestly and unweariedly for the welfare of his subjects, yet it is impossible any one man can sufficiently superintend and legislate for so vast an empire.

On the gentle slope of a pretty grass hill, where a flock of sheep were peacefully grazing, is the simple stone erected to the memory of the noble 23rd Welsh Fusileers, and a few feet from it are a number of long, narrow trenches, the edges roughly marked by stones, the graves of their gallant enemies.

Many hundred Russians lie here, but neither cross nor monument records their names. In a few more years the stones will be all dispersed, and nothing will then mark the spot where so frightful an amount of human life was sacrificed.

We again descended the valley to visit the tomb of Captain Horace Cust. It is owing to the kind care of our hostess that it is still in existence. When the family returned to Burlinck after the war, Madame B—— found the stone thrown down, defaced, and half buried in the earth, but she had it repaired and by a curious accident Captain Cust’s brother arrived in Sevastopol and came to see the little monument only the day after it had been replaced. But for Madame B——’s kindness few of the graves would have been respected, for the Tartars are very destructive, and carry off everything that they think has any value.

Count B—— has been a great sufferer from the war. His property near the Alma was worth about twenty thousand roubles a year. Now it barely yields enough to supply the family with more than simple necessaries. Formerly they spent the winter in the old Russian capital, Moscow, now they go for a few months to Simpheropol, and live here as simple farmers during the rest of the year, and a farm-life in the Crimea does not imply the comforts that are to be found on most English homesteads.

Though our host has lost so much—for besides his house several farms were burnt, the cattle seized, and the vineyards and woods destroyed—there are very many others who have been still more unfortunate. For instance, his aunt, Mlle. M——, before the war began was the owner of a fine property with a large house in the valley of Tchernaia, but long ere the siege was over she found herself absolutely ruined.

It seems wonderful that the landing of large bodies of foreign troops should have caused so little alarm amongst the inhabitants of the Crimea, but far from fearing danger for themselves, the prevailing feeling was apparently astonishment that any army should be so rash as thus to court its own destruction. Sevastopol was believed to be so safe that it is said some adventurous female spirits wished to proceed there, to witness in person the discomfiture and defeat of the allied forces.

When the allies landed, Mlle. M——, being in bad health, was unwilling to leave home. Sevastopol was so near that there seemed but little or no danger that a retreat into the town could be cut off. The Heights of the Alma also were supposed to present a formidable if not an insurmountable obstacle to the advance of the enemy, so Mlle. M—— and her household remained at Tchernaia.

“One evening,” said Mlle. M——, “we were sitting round the card-table playing loto, but I was a little uneasy that a messenger I had sent to one of my nephews in Sevastopol had not yet returned. A sudden noise was heard in the hall; and my niece was hurrying to the door of the saloon, when it was hastily thrown open by the messenger, accompanied by several of the servants, who with scared faces and in breathless accents announced that a party of foreign cavalry had been seen to enter a wood only a few versts from the house, and that if we meant to escape there was not a moment to lose.

“In the hurry and alarm of such a departure it was not possible to take away with us more than mere necessaries, and though most of the valuables, such as silver and pictures, had happily been sent to Simpheropol many weeks previously, still,” said poor Mlle. M——, with a deep sigh, “I left my dear home full of every comfort and luxury. I dare not lament,” said the kind old lady, as a few tears ran slowly down her cheeks, “over my poor furniture and little treasures when I remember the dreadful sorrows that came to us afterwards, but it gives a bitter pang to an old woman like myself, on returning to a once dear and happy home, to find only a heap of blackened ruins,”

She did not mention what we knew, namely, that all the remains of her little fortune had gone to help the sick and wounded, for when she retreated into Sevastopol she joined the devoted band of the Sisters of Mercy, and eventually became one of the lady-superintendents of hospitals. In spite of feeble health, in spite of the constant danger to which she was exposed, this good woman remained steadily at her post until the troops withdrew to the north side.

We did not like to ask many questions, for, like all who shared in those terrible duties, the scenes they then saw seem to have been too dreadful to bear being dwelt on, and the kind creature could not relate without tears some of the sad incidents that had come under her notice. Some of her patients were poor little fellows, whose manhood all deserted them under the pain of their wounds, and these she held in her motherly arms till their cries ceased, and death mercifully took them from their sufferings.

Like Androvna R——, Mlle. M—— said that all sense of personal danger became so soon merged in higher anxieties, that even the narrow escapes of many of the nurses ceased to excite much interest. The trial was to hear cries for the help that could not be given—to see terrible sufferings without the possibility of affording relief. In spite of heroic courage, nature would occasionally give way at the sight of wounds and mutilations of unusual horror, but still the devoted band of women never slackened their efforts, and laboured unweariedly at their divine and holy task.

The Russian soldier seems to be as patient in the hospital as he is obedient and brave on the battle-field. The poor fellows, unless very young, bore their sufferings with great fortitude, and Mlle. M—— said it was most touching to see their unselfishness and consideration for others. From her account there was an excellent staff of surgeons, though scarcely numerous enough for the requirements of such vast numbers of wounded. There appears also to have been a good supply of medicine, but there was a considerable deficiency of linen and bandages. The main cause of the great suffering arose from the very limited amount of accommodation.

The hospitals were frightfully crowded, and consequently the air became so impure that the wounds could not heal, and gangrene and disease carried off as many Russians as the guns of the enemy.

Mlle. M—— was the unconscious heroine of a little story that went the round of most English and French journals. It was reported that Prince Menschikoff’s carriage had fallen into the hands of the allies, and many were the jokes that were made respecting a certain pretty pink satin bonnet, and other articles appertaining to a lady’s toilet, that had been found packed therein. Unfortunately for the lovers of romance, both carriage and bonnet belonged to our friend Mlle. M——, who, though both charming and good-looking for her age, is no longer a young woman, being between sixty and seventy. The carriage in question had been packed to go to Simpheropol, but when the hurried flight became necessary it was found too heavy for such a rapid journey, and it had to be abandoned to its fate.

Mlle. M—— wishes to sell her estate at Tchernaia, but landed property in the neighbourhood of Sevastopol has so deteriorated in value that she has not yet succeeded in finding a purchaser, and it may be some years before she will be able to do so. It is almost equally impossible to let it. One farm is now in cultivation, and a few grass fields are let for grazing sheep, but the greater portion of the land has been left untilled and useless.

It was at first expected that the Government would have paid five per cent. on all property destroyed, but the expenses of the war have been so infinitely greater than was originally supposed, that the unfortunate proprietors say now they shall think themselves well off if they succeed in obtaining one per cent. of indemnification. It will be many years before the country will be able to recover the effects of so violent a blow.

We left the Alma, with a storm muttering in the distance, and every probability of wind, but soon after passing Sevastopol the breeze dropped and it fell dead calm. Not a puff filled the sails, which flapped idly against the masts; but somehow or other we drifted on, and the coast scenery was so fine that we did not regret the slow progress.

Magnificent cliffs, valleys wooded nearly to the water’s edge, and pretty villages made quite a panorama of beautiful views, whose general aspect reminded us much of the Undercliff of the Isle of Wight, only on a far grander scale.

Aloupka, Prince Woronzoff’s place, is most lovely. The house is built of grey granite, and seemed to us exceedingly picturesque, though architects and connoisseurs would probably shake their heads dismally over it, as a specimen of bad taste.

The architecture, it must be admitted, is certainly “very mixed,” being partly Gothic, partly Moorish, and altogether modern; but the numerous pinnacles and towers, and the long faÇade of buildings rising above the magnificent woods, have a remarkably good effect. A series of broad terraces descend from the house half way down to the sea; beautiful gardens, full of rare shrubs and flowers, lie on each side of the house, and the woods and park stretch away for miles along the cliffs.

General Malthoff has a very fine place, more in-land; and a few miles beyond Yalta is Orianda, the Empress’s villa.

Yalta itself is a tiny village, lying close to the sea, and surrounded by, almost buried in, a magnificent amphitheatre of mountains. The village contains about fifty houses, all nestling round a little wooded hill, on the top of which stands the church, its bright green cupolas and gilded pinnacles looking resplendent in the brilliant sunshine.

The villas, however, are the glory of Yalta. On every slope, peeping through openings in the dark green woods, are the pretty white houses. Almost all are half covered with creepers, and standing in gardens now gay with flowers, have an air of comfort and Heimlichkeit, or homeishness (if such a word can be permitted), to which we have long been strangers.

The lovely woods—the green grass—the fresh mountain air make Yalta quite a little paradise. We had the additional pleasure, also, of finding friends here—Prince and Princess B——, who came on board immediately, and whose affectionate welcome, and cheery talk of old times and old friends, made this distant place feel quite like home.

We had also another visitor, an American, who, seeing the English flag, came on board to borrow some money. He was one of the unfavourable specimens of Yankeyism who do so much discredit to their country, and whose principle is to ask for a gate when they want a bit of wood. The modest request was for £25, which Mr. Harvey declined to lend, but I suppose his heart being touched by seeing a foreigner so far from home, and in distress, he gave him enough to take him to Sevastopol, with a note to an American there, who would help him if necessary. Our friend then said, however, that he heard we were going on to Circassia, and as it was very difficult to get there, he thought he might as well take “a spell” with us, as he could fix himself down in the yacht very well. As he spoke, the sensible little craft made a sudden roll and a lurch, that caused such an internal convulsion in our would-be companion that he threw himself into the boat and departed, happily for us to return no more.

The next day we went with the B——s and a large party to Orianda. Our conveyance was an immense char-À-banc, that could hold quite a dozen people. There were scarcely any springs to speak of, but luckily the roads were excellent.

The drive from Yalta to Orianda is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. Sometimes the road wound up and down hills, and then we could look over the steep banks of woods or vines upon the intensely blue sea below. Sometimes it passed between great overhanging rocks that almost met overhead; then, again, it would cross sunny bits of rough common, or wind down narrow deep lanes where the damp coolness was delicious, and where the high banks seemed hung with ferns, and woodbines, and other plants that love the warm moist shade.

We passed a charming house of Count Potocki’s. The broad verandah was quite festooned with passion flowers, roses, and the bright lilac blossom of the Clematis Jackmanni. The gardens and grounds were as well kept as any English home could be. The neat hedges, gravel walks, and smooth lawns made us think we must be in England again.

We left the carriage at the lodge gates and walked down the beautiful road to Orianda, sometimes passing under trellises of vines, where the purple grapes were hanging in delicious profusion, then going through woods and avenues of fine trees.

The rays of the setting sun were now streaming through every opening, making the old Scotch firs look all aflame in the glorious light.

The villa is a large, white Grecian building, not handsome enough for a palace nor pretty enough for a country house. There are some fine rooms, rather grand and very gloomy. The pleasantest sitting-room was a hall, painted and decorated like a Pompeian court, with a fountain in the centre, surrounded by flowers and ferns.

The gardens and terraces make the delight of the place. Vines, myrtles, and magnolia-trees are trained over arches, and under their fragrant shade, the air cooled by innumerable fountains, how pleasantly must the summer days pass! What an enchanting change from hot, dusty St. Petersburg!

The present Empress has not yet paid this pretty place a visit, but the Grand-Duchess Constantine came for several months one summer. Her Imperial Highness seems to have made herself universally popular; her parties enlivened the whole neighbourhood, and she is spoken of by all classes with the heartiest affection.

Within an hour after sunset the wind became bitterly cold, and every cloak and shawl was called into requisition during the drive home. This sudden change of temperature is the only drawback to Yalta, and invalids who come here for health must carefully avoid exposing themselves to the night-air. The dew also falls very heavily; therefore here, as in Italy, the hour after sunset is a dangerous period. Later in the night, for those who are strong, the fresh wind is very invigorating.

Yalta is so favourite a spot that people come even from Petersburg to spend the summer here. It gives one some idea of the enormous extent of Russia to know that it is a fortnight’s journey, travelling night and day, to get from Yalta to St. Petersburg.

Thanks to our kind friends, the B——s, we have seen all the prettiest villas in the neighbourhood. Count Narisckine has a very lovely estate. There are also some beautiful places now unhappily shut up and uninhabited, the owners having been ruined by the war. Land and houses can now be bought very cheap, but unfortunately Yalta is too far from England to make it available as a summer residence.

Prince Woronzoff has a very fine property at Aloupka, and a nearer approach made it even more beautiful than we had thought it from the yacht. The house stands in a magnificent position on a narrow ridge of table-land between the cliffs and the sea. Great dark woods stretch around it for miles, and the rock scenery is quite superb. Our Russian friends did not, however, share our enthusiasm, and thought the more cultivated, smiling scenery round Yalta infinitely more beautiful.

On arriving at Aloupka we drove through a fine gateway into a courtyard, on one side of which was the house, on the other were the offices and stables. Immediately within the portico was seen the hospitable “Salve,” set in large letters in the mosaic pavement. A glass door opened into the hall, a moderate-sized room, panelled with oak and hung round with family portraits. Amongst them was a picture of the late Lady Pembroke. Princess Woronzoff’s boudoir and a few other small rooms were on one side of the entrance; on the other was the great dining-hall, a large and lofty room with three recesses: two of these were occupied by fireplaces, the other had a small fountain, an agreeable addition to a dining-room on a hot day.

Another glass door led to a very pretty room—half saloon, half conservatory. Climbing plants were trained up the columns and over the frames of the looking-glasses. Masses of flowers were arranged in groups upon the marble floor, while thick Persian carpets and every sort of comfortable lounge and easy chair made the apartment the very perfection of a summer sitting-room.

Russians have quite a talent for decorating their rooms with flowers and shrubs, and should nothing better be forthcoming, branches of trees make a background for the little cluster of plants that are placed in every corner. Dwarf palms or tree-ferns have a charming effect when crowning a group of flowering shrubs.

On the storey below were the salons and library. The latter was a large and comfortable room, well filled with books, the tables being covered with the newest French and English publications.

Prince and Princess Woronzoff were away, so we soon finished our inspection of the house. Though thoroughly comfortable, it is much smaller in reality than its appearance from the sea would lead one to expect. Seen from a distance the long, imposing faÇade makes it look quite like a palace.

The grounds, however, gained in beauty from a nearer view. Great flights of steps lead to broad terraces, on which are the most delicious gardens and lawns that imagination can picture. Every flower to be found in England and Italy grows here in perfection, revelling in an admirable climate and in an admirable soil.

In front of the house was a stone colonnade, up every pillar of which were trained climbing plants of unusual beauty. One in particular was especially lovely, a species of Mandevillia superba. There must have been many hundreds of the snowy white fragrant flowers, shining like stars from the mass of glossy dark foliage.

In the centre of the colonnade was a portico as high as the house itself, having a roof fretted and gilt after the fashion of the Moorish courts in the Alhambra. Light balconies, supported by clusters of columns, projected on either side, and comfortable sofas were arranged amongst the little wood of orange and citron trees below.

It was a day and a scene when life alone seemed a delicious blessing. The soft breeze barely whispered amongst the leaves, a few doves were tenderly cooing in the garden below, the very fountains seemed unwilling to disturb the magic quiet, and their waters fell soothingly into the marble basins, as if they were also hushing nature to rest. Every now and then the sweet south wind sighed gently over the wide expanse of sea, and then came upon the ear the trickle, trickle of the little waves, as they rippled back amongst the pebbles of the beach, and as the wind softly touched the trees overhead, down came a fragrant rain of the snowy leaves of the orange-flowers, making the ground white with the lovely blossoms.

Talking of old times and old scenes, hours passed like minutes in this enchanting and enchanted spot, and we had forgotten how long we had been enjoying a feeling of divine repose that one longed might last for ever, when the sun sank below the horizon. For a few minutes there was a great blaze and glory of light, and then a grey damp gloom stole over the landscape that warned us to be gone. Perhaps, even then, we should have lingered longer than was warranted by strict prudence, but we were all engaged to have supper with the T——s, and knew the sportsmen, who had gone out quail shooting, would have returned with clamorous appetites. The rattling wheels of our char-À-banc were no sooner heard in the village than out flew all the hungry party to know what had detained us; but the roasted quails were so good, and so were the little newly-baked sponge-cakes, that every one rejoiced in being hungry, and a merry evening finished our pleasant day.