TAKING my arm, Prince K—— begged me to assist him to his stateroom, where, offering me a seat, he said in a low voice, “As we are alone, I will recount to you a story:—it is to you alone that I relate it, because before Russians one must not talk of history.
“You know that Peter the Great, after much hesitation, destroyed the patriarchate of Moscow, in order to unite, on the same head, the crown and the tiara. The political autocracy thus openly usurped that unlimited spiritual power which it had coveted for so long—a monstrous union, unknown before among the nations of modern Europe. The chimera entertained by the popes during the Middle Ages is now actually realized in a nation of sixty millions of people, many of them Asiatics, whom nothing surprises, and who are by no means sorry to find a grand Lama in their Czar.
“The Emperor Peter sought to unite himself in marriage with Catherine, the sutler.
“To accomplish this supreme object of his heart it was necessary to begin by finding a family name for the future empress. This was obtained I believe in Lithuania, where an obscure private gentleman was first converted into a great lord by birth, and afterwards discovered to be the brother of the empress elect.
“Russian despotism not only pays little respect to ideas and sentiments, it will also deny facts; it will struggle against evidence, and triumph in the struggle!!! for evidence, when it is inconvenient to power, has no more voice among us than has justice.”
The bold language of the prince startled me. He had been educated at Rome, and, like all who possess any piety of feeling and independence of mind in Russia, he inclined to the Catholic religion. While various reflections, suggested by his discourse, were passing in my mind, he continued his philosophical observations.
“The people, and even the great men, are resigned spectators of this war against truth; the lies of the despot, however palpable, are always flattering to the slave. The Russians, who bear so much, would bear no tyranny if the tyrant did not carefully act as though he believed them the dupes of his policy. Human dignity, immersed and sinking in the gulf of absolute government, seizes hold of the smallest branch within reach that may serve to keep it afloat. Human nature will bear much scorn and wrong; but it will not bear to be told in direct terms that it is scorned and wronged. When outraged by deeds, it takes refuge in words. Falsehood is so abasing, that to degrade the tyrant into the hypocrite is a vengeance which consoles the victim. Miserable and last illusion of misfortune, which must yet be respected, lest the serf should become still more vile, and the despot still more outrageous!
“There existed an ancient custom for two of the greatest noblemen of the empire to walk by the side of the patriarch of Moscow in solemn public processions.
“On the occasion of his marriage, the czarinian pontiff determined to choose for acolytes in the bridal procession, on one side, a famous boyar,[1] and on the other, the new brother-in-law that he had created; for in Russia, sovereign power can do more than create nobles, it can raise up relatives for those that are without any; with us, despotism is more powerful than nature; the emperor is not only the representative of God, he is himself the creative power; a power indeed greater than that of Deity, for it only extends its action to the future, whereas the emperor alters and amends the past: the law has no retroactive effect, the caprice of a despot has.
“The personage whom Peter wished to associate with the new brother of the empress was the highest noble in Moscow, and next to the czar, the greatest individual in the empire—his name was Prince Romodanowsky. Peter notified to him, through his first minister, that he was to attend the ceremony in order to walk by the emperor’s side—an honor which he would share with the brother of the empress.
“‘Very well,’ replied the prince; ‘but on which side of the czar am I expected to place myself?’
“‘My dear prince,’ replied the courtier, ‘how can you ask such a question? Of course the brother-in-law of His Majesty will take the right.’
“‘I shall not attend, then,’ responded the haughty boyar.
“This answer reported to the czar provoked a second message.
“‘You shall attend!’ was the mandate of the tyrant; ‘you shall either attend, or I will hang you!’
“‘Say to the czar,’ replied the indomitable Muscovite, ‘that I entreat him first to execute the same sentence on my only son: this child is but fifteen years old; it is possible that, after having seen me perish, fear will make him consent to walk on the left hand of his sovereign; but I can depend on myself, both before and after the execution of my child, never to do that which can disgrace the blood of Romodanowsky.’
“The czar, I say it in his praise, yielded; but to revenge himself on the independent spirit of the Muscovite aristocracy, he built St. Petersburg.
“Nicholas,” added Prince K——, “would not have acted thus; he would have sent the boyar and his son to the mines, and have declared by an ukase, couched in legal terms, that neither the father nor the son could have children; perhaps he would have decreed that the father had never been married; such things still often take place in Russia, the best proof of which is that we are forbidden to recount them.”
Be this as it may, the pride of the Muscovite noble gives a perfect idea of that singular combination of which the actual state of Russian society is the result. A monstrous compound of the petty refinements of Byzantium, and the ferocity of the desert horde, a struggle between the etiquette of the Lower Empire, and the savage virtues of Asia, have produced the mighty state which Europe now beholds, and the influence of which she will probably feel hereafter, without being able to understand its operation.
We have just seen an instance of arbitrary power out-braved and humiliated by the aristocracy.
This fact, and many others, justify me in maintaining that it is an aristocracy which constitutes the greatest check on the despotism of an individual,—on an autocracy; the soul of aristocracy is pride, the spirit of democracy is envy. We will now see how easily an autocrat may be deceived.
This morning we passed Revel. The sight of that place, which has not long been Russian territory, recalled to our memories the proud name of Charles XII, and the battle of Narva. In this battle was killed a Frenchman, the Prince de Croï, who fought under the King of Sweden. His body was carried to Revel, where he could not be buried, because, during the campaign, he had contracted debts in the province, and had left nothing to pay them. According to an ancient custom of the land, his body was placed in the church of Revel until his heirs should satisfy his creditors. This corpse is still in the same church where it was laid more than one hundred years ago. The amount of the original debt has become so greatly augmented by interest, and by the daily charge made for the keeping of the corpse, that there are few fortunes which would now suffice to acquit it.
In passing through Revel about twenty years since, the Emperor Alexander visited the church, and was so shocked with the hideous spectacle presented by the corpse, that he commanded its immediate interment. On the morrow, the emperor departed, and the body of the Prince de Croï was duly carried to the cemetery. The day after, it was brought back to the church, and placed in its former position. If there is not justice in Russia, there are, it would appear, customs more powerful even than the sovereign will.
What most amused me during this too short passage was to find myself constantly obliged, in obedience to my instinctive notions of equity, to justify Russia against Prince K——’s observations. This won me the goodwill of all the Russians who heard our conversation. The sincerity of the opinions which the amiable prince pronounces on his country at least proves to me that in Russia there are some who may speak their mind.
When I remarked this to him, he replied, that he was not a Russian!! Singular assertion! However, Russian or foreigner, he says what he thinks. He has filled the most important political posts, spent two fortunes, worn out the favor of several sovereigns, and is now old and infirm, but especially protected by a member of the Imperial family, who loves wit too well to fear it. Besides, in order to escape Siberia, he pretends that he is writing memoirs, and that he has deposited the finished volumes in France. The emperor dreads publicity as much as Russia dreads the emperor.
I am much struck by the extreme susceptibility of the Russians as regards the judgment which strangers may form respecting them. The impression which their country may make on the minds of travelers occupies their thoughts incessantly. What would be said of the Germans, the English, and the French if they indulged themselves in such puerility? If the satires of Prince K—— are disagreeable to his countrymen, it is not so much because their own feelings are wounded, as on account of the influence these satires may have upon me, who am become an important person in their eyes since they have heard that I write my travels.
“Do not allow yourself to be prejudiced against Russia by this unpatriotic Russian; do not write under the influence of his statements; it is from a wish to display his French wit at our expense that he thus speaks, but in reality he has no such opinion.”
This is the kind of language that is addressed to me, privately, a dozen times a day. It seems to me as though the Russians would be content to become even yet worse and more barbarous than they are, provided they were thought better and more civilized. I do not admire minds which hold the truth thus cheaply. Civilization is not a fashion or an artificial device, it is a power which has its result—a root which sends forth its stalk, produces its flowers, and bears its fruit.
“At least you will not call us the barbarians of the North, as your countrymen do.” This is said to me every time I appear pleased by any interesting recital, national melody, or noble or poetic sentiment ascribed to a Russian. I reply to these fears by some unimportant compliment; but I think in my own mind that I could better love the barbarians of the North than the apes who are ever imitating the South.
There are remedies for primitive barbarism, there are none for the mania of appearing what one is not.
A kind of Russian savant, a grammarian, a translator of various German works, and a professor of I know not which college, has made as many advances towards me as he could during this passage. He has been traveling through Europe, and returns to Russia full of zeal, he says, to propagate there all that is valuable in the modern opinions of western Europe. The freedom of his discourse appeared to me suspicious: it was not that luxury of independence observable in Prince K——; it was a studied liberalism, calculated to draw out the views of others.
If I am not mistaken, there may be always found some savant of this kind, on the ordinary lines of route to Russia, in the hotels of Lübeck, the steamboats, and even at Le Havre, which, thanks to the navigation of the German and Baltic seas, has become the Muscovite frontier.
The individual in question extracted from me very little. He was specially desirous of learning whether I should write my travels, and obligingly offered me the lights of his experience. He left me at last, thoroughly persuaded that I traveled only to divert myself, and without any intention of publishing the relation of a tour which would be performed very rapidly. This appeared to satisfy him; but his inquietude, thus allayed, has awaked my own. If I write this journey I must expect to give umbrage to a government more artful and better served with spies than any other in the world. This is an unpleasant idea. I must conceal my letters, I must be guarded in my language; but I will affect nothing; the most consummate deception is that which wears no mask.
[1]The title of a Russian noble.