Some Russians see St Petersburg as a cancer in their midst

Some Russians see St Petersburg as a cancer in their midst, as an insult against God

Jeremy Atiyah

Published: 21 January 2001

I'm in St Petersburg, being shown around by a gloomy intellectual in a tweedy, threadbare old coat. Just what I need.

A few people are out under the lamp-light, trudging the snow-clogged banks and bridges of the canals. Beneath a row of white columns, fronting a long wall of yellow stucco, my appointed guide, Slava, stops and lights a cigarette. "Yellow is the colour of St Petersburg," he sighs, staring straight ahead for approximately 8,000 miles. "It is the colour of bile. It symbolises total alienation. St Petersburg is an artificial European city, which was built where no city should have been built. Some Russians see it as a cancer in their midst, as the insult against God, which was the cause of so many disasters in their country."

Er, well, gosh. To acknowledge this, I join Slava in staring over a bridge at the ice-dead Moika Canal. "The Russian Soul," say I, with a dainty little post-modern laugh. "How does it feel?"
I am assuming that "soul" does not exist - except that this is Russia. "It is the nightmare claustrophobic experience of imperial St Petersburg," Slava replies seriously, glancing this way and that, as though in fear of the Tsar's uniformed officers. "But it is worse than that. It is a sense of eternal sameness. You see, Russia is our mother. And sometimes she ignores our cries." I am wondering if this is the official policy of the St Petersburg tourist authority: posting characterful depressives on the streets, as a ploy to increase airport arrivals.

Perhaps it is time to move the conversation along a little. But only while racking my brains for more optimistic gambits. "Yes but now you have home-delivery pizzas!" Of course, I have conveniently forgotten about the 70 years of Communism, not to mention the 900-day Nazi siege of the city.
I try the subject of Moscow. If the Europeanness of St Petersburg is so disturbing, I suggest to Slava, then the swirling domes of the old Khanate of Muscovy might be more appealing to him. "Moscow?" he echoes, with sadness in his eyes. "The Third Rome, you mean? But I have not been there for many years."

Next I try asking him which century he prefers, the 19th or the 20th. He replies: "Each century is worse than the one before. The 21st century will be the worst of all. Siberia will be sold to China. We will work as slaves for the West. But let's not talk about that. I don't want to get depressed." Instead we discuss for a while the relative merits of the different 19th-century Tsars, which is still a surprisingly hot subject in this city (as a rule of thumb, any Tsar called Alexander seems to have been nice, while those called Nicholas were either cruel or stupid).

Meanwhile we are passing Moika 12, Pushkin's house - yet another pale yellow mansion fronted by fake fluted pilasters. Slava gasps, in the grip of more emotion. "Do you realise that not a single beautiful woman of his age was not courted by that genius? Can you imagine that even Pushkin had to be killed to become a true Russian hero?"

Hmm, I mumble, stamping my feet against the cold. All I am really wondering at this moment is: how do normal countries cope, which can't offer tour guides with Russian souls?