We took a motor-boat to the island of Väike Pakri Saar - Little Pakri Island - and visited a farm where Catherine the Great once put up when she was taking the Sea-mud baths on the other side of the island; and there, with its ivory keys still white, was the melodeon on which she is said to have played. Extraordinary was the peace and quiet on the little island. The ancient buildings of stone and hewn logs still stood, warm and adequate shelters for man and beast. Stone walls protected the fields of barley, rye and potatoes from the roaming cattle. This Sunday afternoon all the populace was attending the one church - Lutheran. Our young people went off for a swim, and Mrs. Adamson and I sat down on the thick, springy sod, a mass of all sorts of tiny, flowering plants. near a field in which long rows of potatoes were flourishing quite incredibly in hills of gravel - not earth, not a bit of earth, just stones. These island potatoes, so strangely nourished, are famous, she told me, for their firmness and flavor. The peace of the earth and the ocean and sky flowed over us and all abut us, and formed a consoling background to the tale of history she presently unfolded. She pointed to the sea-wall across the water, built by slave-labor during Catherine’s time. The work was mercilessly hard, so that many of the slaves died under the overseer’s lash. But what enraged Catherine was that the architect and the chief builders were so constantly demanding fresh sums of money. So when she was down here, taking her baths, she went over personally to examine the wall, and when she found out how little had been accomplished, she flew into one of her violent rages, put an instant stop to the whole undertaking, and cursed everyone concerned in it, including the half-born town. The people of Paldiski believe that continuing curse is on the town today and prevents it from growing. As we talked we heard a shout: Our young people were returning from their dip in the sea. The church services were over, and the people were also returning to their homes, some of them dresed in native costume. Among them walked the black-robed pastor surrounded by his choir. The cattle, full udders swinging, ambled along a stone-walled lane that merged with the one in which people were walking - presently they would all be one goup. We rose and joined it. The farmer’s wife had sent out supper for us on a bare wooden table under the eaves. we sat on benches, each one having befor him a spoon and a bowl of curds. In the middle of the table a great pile of thick slices of black bread and sweet butter, also of gooseberries.... I ate my curds and berries, but the sour black bread I fed secretly to the cat and dog who pressed against me. We took the boat back to Paldiski, across the still waters reflecting the evening colors in the sky - not a ripple, except those our boat made. One sign of lingering vitality we saw in the dream town as we went through it to the railway station - there was scaffolding for repairs across the face of the Russian church. Thus we left Paldiski, faintly hopeful of the blessing of the church, vaguely fearful of Catherine’s curse, between dream-hope and dream-fear returning to that nature from which, at the command of an autocrat, it had briefly emerged, only to sink quietly back again. • • • • • • • • And to-day - 1940 - the sea wall that Catherine’s slaves had begun, under the Knout, is being finished by Stalin’s soldiers, under military discipline. (To be continued)
A Search for a Happy Country (30) (1)
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