ON THE DAY of the fête at Peterhof, I had asked the minister of war what means I should take in order to obtain permission to see the fortress of Schlüsselburg.
This grave personage is the Count Chernishev. The brilliant aide-de-camp, the elegant envoy of Alexander at the court of Napoleon, is become a sedate man, a man of importance, and one of the most active ministers of the empire. Not a morning passes without his transacting business with the emperor. He replied, “I will communicate your desire to His Majesty.” This tone of prudence, mingled with an air of surprise, made me feel that the answer was very significative. My request, simple as I had thought it, was evidently an important one in the eyes of the minister. To think of visiting a fortress that had become historical since the imprisonment and death of Ivan VI, which took place in the reign of the Empress Elizabeth, was enormous presumption. I perceived that I had touched a tender chord, and said no more on the subject.
Some days after, namely, on the day before yesterday, at the moment I was preparing to depart for Moscow, I received a letter from the minister of war, announcing permission to see the sluices of Schlüsselburg!
The ancient Swedish fortress, called the key of the Baltic by Peter I, is situated precisely at the source of the Neva, on an island in the lake of Ladoga, to which the river serves as a natural canal, that carries its superfluous waters into the Gulf of Finland. This canal, otherwise called the Neva, receives, however, a large accession of water, which is considered as exclusively the source of the river, and which rises up under the waves immediately beneath the walls of the fortress of Schlüsselburg, between the river and the lake. The spring is one of the most remarkable natural curiosities in Russia; and the surrounding scenery, though very flat, like all other scenery in the country, is the most interesting in the environs of Petersburg.
By means of a canal, with sluices, boats avoid the danger caused by the spring: they leave the lake before reaching the source of the Neva, and enter the river about half a league below.
This then was the interesting work which I was permitted to examine. I had requested to see a state prison; my request was met by a permission to view the floodgates.
The minister of war ended his note by informing me that the aide-de-camp, general director of the roads of the empire, had received orders to give me every facility for making the journey.
Facility! Good heavens! to what trouble had my curiosity exposed me, and what a lesson of discretion had they given me, by the exhibition of so much ceremony, qualified by so much politeness! Not to avail myself of the permission, when orders had been sent respecting me throughout the route, would have been to incur the charge of ingratitude; yet to examine the sluices with Russian minuteness, without even seeing the castle of Schlüsselburg, was to fall with my eyes open into the snare, and to lose a day; a serious loss, at this already advanced season, if I am to see all that I purpose seeing in Russia, without altogether passing the winter there.
I state facts. The reader can draw the conclusions. They have not here yet ventured to speak freely of the iniquities of the reign of Elizabeth. Anything that might lead to reflection on the nature of the legitimacy of the present power passes for an impiety. It was on this account necessary to represent my request to the emperor. He would neither grant it nor directly refuse it; he therefore modified it, and gave me permission to admire a wonder of industry which I had no intention of seeing. From the emperor, this permission was forwarded to the minister, from the minister to the director-general, from the director-general to a chief engineer, and, finally, to a petty officer commissioned to accompany me, to officiate as my guide, and to answer for my safety during the entire journey: a favor which rather reminds one of the janissary with whom they honored foreigners in Turkey. Such protection appears too much like a mark of distrust to flatter me as much as it irks me, and, while crushing in my hands the minister’s letter, I think on the justice of the words of the prince whom I met on the Travemünde steamboat, and with him am ready to exclaim, that “Russia is the land of useless formalities!”
I proceeded to the aide-de-camp general director, &c. &c. &c., to claim the execution of the supreme command. The director was not at home; I must call tomorrow. Not wishing to lose another day, I persisted, and was told to return in the evening, when I was received with the usual politeness, and after a visit of a quarter of an hour, was dismissed with the necessary orders for the engineer of Schlüsselburg, but none for the governor of the castle. In accompanying me to the antechamber, he promised that a petty officer should be at my door on the morrow, at four o’clock in the morning.
I did not sleep. I became possessed with an idea that will appear quite mad; the idea that my guard might become my jailer. If this man, instead of conducting me to Schlüsselburg, eighteen leagues from Petersburg, should, when we had left the city, exhibit an order to transport me to Siberia, that I might there expiate my inconvenient curiosity, what should I say or do? The manifestations of politeness by no means reassured me: on the contrary, I had not forgotten the smiles and gracious words of Alexander, addressed to one of his ministers, who was seized by the Feldjäger, at the door even of the emperor’s cabinet, and carried direct from the palace to Siberia.
Many other examples of sentences and executions of the same character occurred to justify my presentiments and to disturb my imagination.
The being a foreigner was not, I felt, sufficient guarantee. I called to mind the carrying off of Kotzebue, who, at the beginning of this century, was also seized by a Feldjäger, and transported, under circumstances similar to mine (for I already felt as if on the road), from Petersburg to Tobolsk. What had been the offense of Kotzebue? The German dramatist had made himself obnoxious because he had published his opinions, and because they were not all thought equally favorable to the order of things established in Russia. Now, who could assure me that I had not incurred the same reproach? or, which would be sufficient, the same suspicion? If I give the least umbrage here, can I hope that they will have more regard for me than they have had for others? Besides, I am watched by spies—every foreigner is. They know, therefore, that I write, and carefully conceal my papers; they are, perhaps, curious to know what these papers are about. If they seize me, my ambassador shall inquire about me. If I am judged too indesirable, they will answer that I have capsized in Lake Ladoga. These accidents happen every day. Will my ambassador try to fish me out? No. One will let him know that all efforts to recover my body have been in vain. The dignity of our nation shall be preserved and I lost forever.
Such were the fancies that possessed me the whole of the night before last; and though I visited yesterday, without any accident, the fortress of Schlüsselburg, they are not so entirely unreasonable as to make me feel quite beyond all danger for the remainder of my journey. I often say to myself, that the Russian police, prudent, enlightened, well informed, would not have recourse to any coup d’état, unless they believed it necessary, and that it would be attaching too much importance to my person and my remarks, to suppose that they could be capable of making uneasy the men who govern so great an empire. Nevertheless, these reasons for feeling secure, and many others that present themselves, are more specious than solid: experience only too clearly proves the spirit of minutia which actuates those who have too much power: everything is of importance to him who would conceal the fact that he governs by fear, and whoever depends on opinion must not despise that of any independent man who writes: a government which lives by mystery, and whose strength lies in dissimulation, is afraid of everything—everything appears to it of consequence: in short, my vanity accords with my reflection and my memory of past events, to persuade me that I here run some danger.
If I lay any stress upon these inquietudes, it is simply because they describe the country. As regards my own feelings, they dissipate as soon as it is necessary to act. The phantoms of a sleepless night do not follow me upon the road: I am more adventurous in action than in thought; it is more difficult for me to think than to act with energy. Motion imparts to me as much courage as rest inspires me with doubt.
Yesterday, at five in the morning, I set out in a calèche, drawn by four horses harnessed abreast. Whenever they journey into the country, the Russian coachmen adopt this ancient mode of driving, in which they display much boldness and dexterity. My Feldjäger placed himself before me, by the side of the coachman, and we quickly traversed St. Petersburg, soon leaving behind us the handsome part of the city, and next passing through that of the manufactures, among which are magnificent glass works and immense mills for the spinning of cotton and other factories, for the most part directed by Englishmen. This quarter of the city resembles a colony. As a man is only appreciated here according to his standing with the government, the presence of the Feldjäger on my carriage had a great effect. Such a mark of supreme protection made me a person of consequence in the eyes of my own coachman, who had driven me the whole of the time that I had been in Petersburg. He appeared suddenly to discover and to glory in the too long concealed dignity of his master; his looks testified a respect that they had never done before: it seemed as though he wished to indemnify me for all the honors of which he had, mentally and in ignorance, hitherto deprived me.
The people on foot, the drivers of the carts and droshkies, all bowed to the mystic influence of my petty officer, who, with a simple sign of his finger, made every obstruction of the road vanish like magic. The crowd was, as it were, annihilated before him; and I could not but think, if he had such power to protect me, what would be his power to destroy me, if he had received an order to that effect. The difficulty attending an entrance into this country wearies more than it awes me; the difficulty of flying from it would be more formidable. People say, “To enter Russia, the gates are wide; to leave it, they become narrow.”
The appearance of several villages surprised me; they display signs of wealth, and even a sort of rustic elegance, which is very pleasing. The neat wooden houses form the line of a single street. They are painted, and their roofs are loaded with ornaments which might be considered rather ostentatious, if a comparison were made between the exterior luxury and the internal lack of conveniences and cleanliness in these architectural toys. One regrets to see a taste for superfluities among a people not yet acquainted with necessaries; besides, on examining them more closely, the habitations are discovered to be ill built.
Always the same taste for what addresses the eye! Both peasants and lords take more pleasure in ornamenting the road, than in beautifying the interior of their dwellings. They feed here upon the admiration, or perhaps the envy, which they excite. But enjoyment, real enjoyment, where is it? The Russians themselves would be puzzled to answer the question.
Wealth in Russia is the food of vanity. The only magnificence that pleases me is that which makes no show, and I therefore find fault with everything here which they wish me to admire. A nation of decorators will never inspire me with any other feeling than that of fearing lest I should become their dupe. On entering the theater where their artificial representations are exhibited, I have but one desire; that, namely, of looking behind the curtain, a corner of which I am ever tempted to lift up. I came to see a country, I find only a theater.
I had ordered a relay of horses ten leagues from Petersburg. Four, ready harnessed, awaited me in a village, where I found a kind of Russian venta,[1] which I entered. It was the first time I had seen the peasants in their own houses.
An immense wooden shed, plank walls on three sides, plank flooring, and plank ceiling, formed the hall of entrance, and occupied the greater part of the rustic dwelling. Notwithstanding the free currents of air, I found it redolent of that odor of onions, cabbages, and old greasy leather, which Russian villages and Russian villagers invariably exhale.
A superb stallion, tied to a post, occupied the attention of several men, who were engaged in the difficult task of shoeing him. The magnificent but untractable animal belonged, I was told, to the stud of a neighboring lord: the eight persons who were endeavoring to manage him, all displayed a figure, a costume, and a countenance, that were striking. The population of the provinces adjoining the capital is not, however, handsome: it is not even Russian, being much mixed with the race of the Finns, who resemble the Laplanders.
They tell me that, in the interior of the empire, I shall find perfect models of Grecian statues, several of which I have indeed already seen in Petersburg, where the nobles are often attended by the men born on their distant estates.
A low and confined room adjoined this immense shed; it reminded me of the cabin of some riverboat; walls, ceiling, floor, seats, and tables, were all made of wood rudely hewn. The smell of cabbage and pitch was extremely powerful.
In this retreat, almost deprived of air and light, for the doors were low, and the windows extremely small, I found an old woman busy serving tea to four or five bearded peasants, clothed in pelisses of sheepskin, the wool of which was turned inwards, for it has already, and for some days past, become rather cold.[2] These men were of short stature. Their leather pelisses were rather tasteful in form, but they were very ill scented: I know nothing except the perfumes of the nobles that could be more so. On the table stood a bright copper kettle and a teapot. The tea is always of good quality, well made, and, if it is not preferred pure, good milk is everywhere to be obtained. This elegant beverage served up in barns, I say barns for politeness’ sake, reminds me of the chocolate of the Spaniards. It forms one of the thousand strange contrasts with which the traveler is struck at every step he takes among these two people, equally singular, though in most of their ways as different as the climates they inhabit.
I have often said that the Russian people have a sentiment of the picturesque: among the groups of men and animals that surrounded me in this interior of a Russian farmhouse, a painter would have found subjects for several charming pictures.
The red or blue shirt of the peasants is buttoned over the collarbone, and drawn close round the loins by a sash, above which it lies in antique folds, and below, forms an open tunic that falls over the pantaloon. The long Persian robe, often left open, which, when the men do not work, partly covers this blouse, the hair worn long and parted on the forehead, but cut close behind rather higher than the nape, so as to discover all the strength of the neck—does not this form an original and graceful picture? The wild, yet, at the same time, gentle expression of the Russian peasants also possesses grace; their elegant forms, their suppleness, their broad shoulders, the sweet smile of the mouth, the mixture of tenderness and ferocity which is discernible in their wild and melancholy look, render their general appearance as different from that of our laborers as the land they cultivate differs from the rest of Europe. Everything is new here to a stranger. The natives possess a certain charm which can be felt though not expressed: it is the Oriental languor combined with the romantic reverie of a northern people; and all this is exhibited in an uncultured yet noble form, which imparts to it the merit of a primitive endowment. These people inspire much more interest than confidence. The common orders in Russia are amusing knaves: they may be easily led if they are not deceived; but as soon as they see that their masters or their masters’ agents lie more than themselves, they plunge into the lowest depths of falsehood and meanness. They who would civilize a people must themselves possess worth of character—the barbarism of the serf accuses the corruptness of the noble.
Dirtiness is very conspicuous in the country, but that of the houses and the clothes strikes me more than that of the individuals. The Russians take much care of their persons. Their steam baths, it is true, appear to us disgusting; and I should for myself much prefer the contact of pure water; still, these boiling fogs cleanse and strengthen the body, though they wrinkle the skin prematurely. By virtue of their use, the peasants may be often seen with clean beards and hair, when as much cannot be said for their garments. Warm clothing costs money, and has to be worn a long time; the rooms also, in which they think only of protecting themselves from the cold, are necessarily less aired than those of southern people. Of the air that purifies, the Russians are deprived for nine months in the year, so that their dirtiness is rather the inevitable effect of their climate than of their negligence.
In some districts the workpeople wear a cap of blue cloth, bulging out in the shape of a balloon. They have several other species of headdress, all pleasing to the eye, and showing good taste as compared with the saucy affectation of negligence, visible among the lower orders in the environs of Paris.
When they work bareheaded, they remedy the inconvenience of their long hair by binding it with a kind of diadem, or fillet made of a riband, a wreath of rushes, or of some other simple material, always placed with care, and which looks well on the young people; for the men of this race have in general finely formed oval heads, so that their working head-dress becomes an ornament. But what shall I say of the women? All whom I have hitherto seen have appeared to me repulsive: I had hoped in this excursion to have met some fair villagers; but here, as at Petersburg, they are broad and short in figure, and they gird their forms at the shoulders, a little above the bosom, which spreads freely under the petticoat. It is hideous! Add to this voluntary deformity, large men’s boots, and a species of riding coat, or jacket of sheepskin, similar to the pelisses of their husbands, but, doubtless through a laudable economy, much less gracefully cut, and far more worn; falling indeed literally in rags—such is their toilette. Assuredly, there is no part of the world where the fair sex so completely dispenses with coquettish finery as in Russia (I speak only of the female peasants, and of the corner of the land that I have seen). Nevertheless, these women are the mothers of the soldiers of which the emperor is so proud, and of the handsome coachmen of the streets of Petersburg.
It should be observed that the greater number of the women in the government of Petersburg are of Finnish extraction. I am told that in the interior of the country I shall see very good-looking female peasants.
The road from Petersburg to Schlüsselburg is bad in many parts: there are sometimes deep beds of sand, sometimes holes of mud to be passed, over which planks have been very uselessly thrown. Still worse are the small logs of wood rudely laid across each other, on certain marshy portions of the route, which would swallow up any other foundation. This rustic, ill-joined, and movable flooring dances under the wheels; and frequent broken bones and broken carriages on Russian grandes routes, testify to the wisdom of reducing equipages to their most simple forms, to something about as primitive as the telega. I observed also several dilapidated bridges, one of which seemed dangerous to pass over. Human life is a small matter in Russia. With sixty millions of children, how can one have the heart of a father?
On my arrival at Schlüsselburg, where I was expected, the engineer who has the direction of the sluices, received me.
The weather was raw and gloomy. My carriage stopped before the comfortable woodhouse of the engineer, who led me himself into a parlor, where he offered me a light collation, and presented me, with a kind of conjugal pride, to a young and handsome person, his wife. She sat all alone upon a sofa, from which she did not rise on my entering. Not understanding French, she remained silent, and also motionless, I cannot tell why, unless she mistook immovability for good breeding, and starched airs for taste. Her object seemed to be to represent, before me, the statue of hospitality clothed in white muslin over a pink petticoat. I ate and warmed myself in silence: she watched me without daring to turn away her eyes, for this would be to move them, and immobility was the part she had to perform. If I had suspected there could be timidity at the bottom of this singular reception, I should have experienced sympathy, and felt only surprise; but I could hardly be deceived in such a case, for I am familiar with timidity.
My host suffered me to contemplate at leisure this curious image of rosy waxwork, dressed up in order to dazzle the stranger, though it confirmed him only in his opinion that the women of the North are seldom natural. The worthy engineer seemed flattered with the effect that his wife produced on me. He took my wonder for admiration; nevertheless, desirous of conscientiously acquitting himself of his duty, he at length said, “I regret to disturb you, but we have scarcely sufficient time to visit the works which I have received an order to show you in detail.”
I had foreseen the blow, without being able to parry it. I therefore submitted with resignation, and suffered myself to be led from sluice to sluice, my mind still dwelling with useless regret upon the fortress, that tomb of the youthful Ivan, which they would not suffer me to approach. It will be seen shortly how this secret object of my journey was attained.
To enumerate all the structures of granite that I have seen this morning, the floodgates fixed in grooves worked in blocks of that stone, the flags, of the same material, employed as the pavement of a gigantic canal, would fortunately little interest the reader; it will suffice him to know that during the ten years that have elapsed since the first sluices were finished, they have required no repairs. This is an astonishing instance of stability in a climate like that of Lake Ladoga. The object of the magnificent work is to equalize the difference of the level between the canal of Ladoga and the course of the Neva near to its source. With this object, sluices have been multiplied without reference to cost, in order to render as easy and prompt as possible a navigation that the rigor of the seasons leaves open for only three or four months in the year.
Nothing has been spared to perfect the solidity and the precision of the work. The granite of Finland has been used for the bridges, the parapets, and even, I repeat it with admiration, for lining the bed of the canal; in short, all the improvements of modern science have been had recourse to, in order to complete, at Schlüsselburg, a work as perfect in its kind as the rigors of the climate will permit.
The interior navigation of Russia deserves the attention of all scientific and commercial men; it constitutes one of the principal sources of the riches of the land. By means of a series of canals, the entire extent of which is, like every other undertaking in the country, colossal, they have, since the reign of Peter the Great, succeeded in joining, so as to form a safe navigation for boats, the Caspian with the Baltic, by the Volga, Lake Ladoga, and the Neva. This enterprise, bold in conception, prodigious in execution, is now completed, and forms one of the wonders of the civilized world. Although thus magnificent to contemplate, I found it rather tedious to inspect, especially under the conduct of one of the executors of the chef d’oeuvre. The professional man invests his work with the importance which no doubt it merits; but for a mere general observer, like myself, admiration is extinguished under minute details,—details which, in the present case, I will spare the reader.
When I believed I had strictly accorded the time and the praise that were due to the wonders I was obliged to pass in review, I returned to the original motive of my journey, and, disguising my object in order the better to attain it, I asked permission to see the source of the Neva. This wish, the apparent innocence of which could not conceal the indiscretion, was at first eluded by the engineer, who replied, “It rises up, under the water, at the outlet of Lake Ladoga, near the island on which stands the fortress.”
I knew this already, but replied: “It is one of the natural curiosities of Russia. Are there no means of approaching the spring?”
“The wind is too high; we could not see the bubbling up of the waters. It is necessary that the weather be calm in order that the eye may distinguish a fountain which rises from the bottom of the waves; nevertheless I will do what I can in order to satisfy your curiosity.”
At these words, the engineer ordered a very pretty boat to be manned with six rowers, who were handsomely clad. We immediately proceeded, as was said, to visit the source of the Neva, but, in reality, to approach the walls of the strong castle, or rather the enchanted prison to which I had been refused access with so artful a politeness. But the difficulties only served to excite my desire: had I had the power to give deliverance to some unhappy prisoner, my impatience could scarcely have been more lively.
The fortress of Schlüsselburg is built on a flat island, a kind of rock, very little elevated above the level of the water. This rock divides the river in two parts; it also serves, properly speaking, to separate the river from the lake, for it indicates the point where the waters mingle. We rowed round the fortress in order, as we said, to approach as nearly as possible the source of the Neva. Our rowers soon brought us immediately over the vortex. They handled their oars so well that, notwithstanding the rough weather and the smallness of our boat, we scarcely felt the heave of the waves, which, nevertheless, rolled at this spot as much as in the open sea. Being unable to distinguish the source, which was concealed by the motion of the billows, we took a turn on the lake; after which, the wind, having rather lulled, permitted our seeing, at a considerable depth, a few waves of foam. This was the spring of the Neva, above which our boat rode.
When the west wind drives back the waters of the lake, the channel which serves as its outlet remains almost dry, and then this beautiful spring is fully exposed. On such occasions, which are fortunately very rare, the inhabitants of Schlüsselburg know that Petersburg is under water. The news of such catastrophe never fails to reach them on the morrow; for the same west wind which causes the reflux of the waters of Lake Ladoga, and leaves dry the channel of the Neva near its source, drives also, when it is violent, the waters of the Gulf of Finland into the mouth of the river. The course of this stream is therefore stopped, and the water, finding its passage obstructed by the sea, makes a way by overflowing Petersburg and its environs.
When I had sufficiently admired the site of Schlüsselburg, sufficiently surveyed, with a spyglass, the position of the battery which Peter the Great raised to bombard the strong fort of the Swedes, and sufficiently praised everything which scarcely interested me, I said, in the most careless manner imaginable, “Let us go and see the interior of the fortress:”— “its situation appears extremely picturesque,” I added, a little less adroitly; for in matters of finesse it is, above all, necessary to avoid overshooting the mark. The Russian cast upon me a scrutinizing look, of which I felt the full force. This diplomatic mathematician answered:—
“The fortress, sir, possesses no object of curiosity for a foreigner.”
“Never mind: everything is curious in so interesting a land as yours.”
“But if the governor does not expect us, we shall not be suffered to enter.”
“You can ask his permission to introduce a traveler into the fortress; besides, I rather believe he does expect us.”
In fact, we were admitted at the first application of the engineer; which leads me to surmise that my visit, if not announced as certain, was indicated as probable.
We were received with military ceremony, conducted under a vault, through a gate ill defended, and after crossing a court overgrown with grass, we were introduced into— the prison? Alas! no: into the apartments of the governor. He scarcely spoke a word of French, but he received me with civility, affecting to take my visit as an act of politeness of which he himself was the object, and expressing to me his acknowledgments through the engineer, accordingly. These crafty compliments were by no means satisfactory. There I was, obliged to talk to the wife of the commandant, who spoke little more French than her husband, to sip chocolate, in short, to do everything except visit the prison of Ivan— that imaginary prize, for the sake of which I had endured all the toils, the artifices, and the wearisome civilities of the day.
At length, when the reasonable time for a call had expired, I asked my companion if it was possible to see the interior of the fortress. Several words and significant glances were here-upon exchanged between the commandant and the engineer, and we all left the chamber.
I fancied myself at the crowning point of all my labors. The fortress of Schlüsselburg is not picturesque: it is a girdle of Swedish walls of small elevation, and the interior of which forms a kind of orchard, wherein are dispersed several very low buildings; including a church, a house for the commandant, a barrack, and the dungeons, masked by windows the height of which does not exceed that of the rampart. Nothing announces violence or mystery. The appearance of this quiet state prison is more terrible to the imagination than to the eye. Gratings, drawbridges, battlements, and all the somewhat theatrical apparatus of the castles of the Middle Ages, are not here to be seen. The governor commenced by showing me the superb ornaments of the church! The four copes, which were solemnly displayed before me, cost, as the governor himself took the trouble to say, thirty thousand rubles. Tired of such sights, I simply asked for the tomb of Ivan VI. They replied by showing me a breach made in the wall by the cannon of the Czar Peter, when he conducted in person the siege of the key of the Baltic.
“The tomb of Ivan,” I continued, without suffering myself to be disconcerted, “where is it?” This time they conducted me behind the church, and, pointing to a rose brier, said, “It is here.”
I conclude that victims are allowed no tomb in Russia.
“And the chamber of Ivan,” I continued with a pertinacity which must have appeared as singular to my guides, as their scruples, reserve, and tergiversations appeared to me.
The engineer answered in a low voice that they could not show the chamber of Ivan, because it lay in a part of the fortress then occupied by state prisoners.
The excuse was legitimate; I had expected it; but what surprised me was the wrath of the commandant. Whether it was that he understood French better than he spoke it, or that he had only feigned ignorance of our language, he severely reprimanded my guide, whose indiscretion, he added, would someday ruin him. This, the latter, annoyed with the lecture he had received, found a favorable opportunity of telling me, stating also that the governor had warned him, in a very significant manner, to abstain henceforward from speaking of public affairs, and from introducing foreigners into state prisons. This engineer has all the qualities necessary to constitute a good Russian; but he is young, and does not yet understand the mysteries of his trade—it is not of his profession as an engineer that I speak.
I found it was necessary to yield; I was the weakest; and, therefore, owning myself vanquished, I renounced the hope of visiting the room where the unhappy heir of the throne of Russia died an imbecile, because it was found more convenient to make him an idiot than an emperor. I cannot sufficiently express my astonishment at the manner in which the Russian government is served by its agents. I remember the countenance of the minister of war, the first time that I ventured to testify a wish to visit a castle that had become historical by a crime committed in the times of the Empress Elizabeth; and I compare, with a wonder mixed with fear, the disorder of ideas that reigns among us, with the absence of all private views, of all personal opinion—the blind submission, in short, which forms the rule of conduct among all, whether heads or subordinates, who carry on the administration of affairs in Russia. The unity of action observable in this government astounds me. I admire, while I shudder, the tacit accord with which both superior and inferior employees act in making war against ideas and even events. At the time, this sentiment made me as impatient to leave the fortress of Schlüsselburg as I had been eager to enter it. I began to fear lest I should become by force one of the inmates of that abode of secret tears and unknown sorrows. In my ever-increasing sense of its oppressive influence, I longed only for the physical pleasure of walking and breathing beyond its limits. I forgot that the country into which I should return was in itself a prison; a prison whose vast size only makes it the more formidable.
A Russian fortress!—this word produces on the imagination an impression very different to that which is felt in visiting the strongholds of people really civilized, sincerely humane. The puerile precaution taken in Russia to hide what are called secrets of state, confirms me, more than would open acts of barbarity, in the idea that this government is nothing more than a hypocritical tyranny.
After having myself penetrated into a Russian state prison, and found there the impossibility of speaking of things which every stranger would naturally inquire about in such a place, I argue with myself that such dissimulation must serve as mask to a profound inhumanity: it is not that which is commendable that people conceal with so much care.
I am assured, on good authority, that the underwater dungeons of Kronstadt contain, among other state prisoners, miserable beings who were placed there in the reign of Alexander. These unhappy creatures are reduced to a state below that of the brute, by a punishment the atrocity of which nothing can justify. Could they now come forth out of the earth, they would rise like so many avenging specters, whose appearance would make the despot himself recoil with horror, and shake the fabric of despotism to its center. Everything may be defended by plausible words, and even by good reasons: not one of the opinions that divide the political, the literary, or the religious world, lacks argument by which to maintain itself: but, let them say what they please, a system, the violence of which requires such means of support, must be radically and intensely vicious.
The victims of this odious policy are no longer men. Those unfortunate beings, denied the commonest rights, cut off from the world, forgotten by everyone, abandoned to themselves in the night of their captivity, during which imbecility becomes the fruit, and the only remaining consolation of their never-ending misery, have lost all memory, as well as all that gift of reason, that light of humanity, which no one has a right to extinguish in the breast of his fellow-being. They have even forgotten their own names, which the keepers amuse themselves by asking with a brutal derision, for which there is none to call them to account; for there reigns such confusion in the depths of these abysses of iniquity, the shades are so thick, that all traces of justice are effaced.
Even the crimes of some of the prisoners are not recollected; they are, therefore, retained forever, because it is not known to whom they should be delivered; and it is deemed less inconvenient to perpetuate the mistake than to publish it. The bad effect of so tardy a justice is feared; and thus the evil is aggravated, that its excess may not require to be justified. Infamous pusillanimity, which is called expediency, respect for appearances, prudence, obedience, wisdom, a sacrifice to the public good, a reason of state! Words are never wanted by oppressors; and are there not two names for everything that exists under the sun? We are unceasingly told that there is no punishment of death in Russia. To bury alive, then, is not to kill! In reflecting on so many miseries on one side, and so much injustice and hypocrisy on the other, the guilt of the prisoners is lost sight of, the judge alone seems criminal. My indignation is at its height, when I consider that this iniquitous judge is not cruel by choice. To such an extent may a bad government pervert men interested in its duration! But Russia marches in advance of her destiny. This must explain all. If we are to measure the greatness of the end by the extent of the sacrifices, we must, without doubt, prognosticate for this nation the empire of the world.
On returning from my melancholy visit, a new labor awaited me at the engineer’s: a ceremonious dinner with persons of the middle classes. The engineer had gathered around him, in order to do me honor, his wife’s relations and a few of the neighboring landholders. This society would have interested me as an observer, had I not at the first moment perceived that it would furnish me with no new ideas. There is no middle class in Russia; but the petty employees and the small, though ennobled, landed proprietors, represent there the middle orders of other lands. Envying the great, and themselves envied by the little, these men vainly call themselves nobles. They are exactly in the position of the French bourgeois before the Revolution: the same data produce everywhere the same results.
I could see that there reigned in this society a hostility, ill disguised, against real greatness and true elegance, to whatever land they might belong.
That starchness of manners, that acrimony of sentiment, ill concealed under an air of preciseness and propriety, recalled to my mind, only too well, the epoch in which we live, and which I had a little forgotten in Russia, where I had hitherto only seen the society of courtiers. I was now among aspiring subalterns, uneasy as to what might be thought of them; and these people are the same everywhere.
The men did not speak to me, and appeared to take little notice of me; they did not understand French, beyond perhaps being able to read it with difficulty; they therefore formed a circle in a corner of the room, and talked Russian. One or two females of the family bore all the weight of the French conversation. I was surprised to find that they were acquainted with all that portion of our literature that the Russian police suffers to penetrate into their land. The toilette of these ladies, who, with the exception of the mistress of the house, were all elderly, was wanting in taste; the dress of the men was yet more negligent; large brown topcoats, almost trailing upon the ground, had taken the place of the national costume. But what surprised me more than the careless attire, was the caustic and captious tone of the conversation. The Russian feeling, carefully disguised by the tact of the higher orders, exhibited itself here openly. This society was more candid, though less polite, than that of the court; and I clearly saw what I had only felt elsewhere, namely, that the spirit of curiosity, sarcasm, and carping criticism influences the Russians in their intercourse with strangers. They hate us as every imitator hates his model; their scrutinizing looks seek faults in us with the desire of finding them. As soon as I recognized this disposition I felt no inclination to be indulgent myself. I had thought it necessary to offer a few words of excuse for my ignorance of the Russian tongue, and I finished my speech by remarking that every traveler ought to know the language of the country he visits, as it is more natural that he should give himself the trouble of learning to speak the language of those whom he seeks, than of imposing upon them the trouble of speaking as he does.
This compliment was answered by the observation, that I must nevertheless resign myself to hearing French murdered by the Russians, unless I would travel as a mute.
“It is of this I complain,” I replied; “if I knew how to murder Russian as I ought to do, I would not force you to change your habits in order to speak my language.”
“Formerly, we spoke only French.”
“That was wrong.”
“It is not for you to reproach us.”
“I invariably speak my real opinions.”
“Truth, then, is still thought something of in France?”
“I cannot tell; but I know that it ought to be loved for its own intrinsic merits.”
“Such love does not belong to our age.”
“In Russia?”
“Nowhere; and especially in no country governed by newspapers.”
I was of the same opinion as the lady, which made me desirous of changing the conversation, for I would not speak contrary to my own sentiments, nor yet acquiesce with those of a person who, when she even thought with me, expressed her views with a causticity that was capable of disgusting me with my own.
The dinner did not pass over without constraint, but it was not long, and appeared to me sufficiently good, with the exception of the soup, the originality of which passed all bounds. This soup was cold, and consisted of pieces of fish, which swam in a broth of strong, highly seasoned, and highly sweetened vinegar. With the exception of this infernal ragout, and of the sour kvass, a species of beer which is a national beverage, I ate and drank with good appetite. There was excellent claret and champagne on the table, but I saw clearly that they had put themselves out of the way on my account, which produced mutual formality and constraint. The engineer did not participate in this feeling; though a great man at his sluices, he was nothing at all in his own house, and left his mother-in-law to do its honors, with the grace of which the reader may judge.
At six in the evening my entertainers and myself parted, with a satisfaction that was reciprocal, and, it must be owned, ill-disguised. I left for the castle of ———, where I was expected. The frankness of the fair plebeians had reconciled me to the mincing affectations of certain great ladies. One may hope to triumph over affectation, but natural dispositions are invincible.
It was yet light when I reached ———, which is six or eight leagues from Schlüsselburg. I spent there the rest of the evening, walking in the twilight, in a garden, which, for Russia, is very handsome, sailing in a little boat on the Neva, and enjoying the refined and agreeable conversation of a member of the fashionable circles. What I have seen at Schlüsselburg will make me cautious how I place myself again in a position where it is necessary to face such interrogations as I submitted to in that society. Such drawing rooms resemble fields of battle. The circles of fashion, with all their vices, seem preferable to this petty world, with all its precise virtues.
I was again in Petersburg soon after midnight, having traveled during the day about thirty-six leagues, through sandy and miry roads, with two sets of hired horses.
The demands upon the animals are in proportion to those made upon the men. The Russian horses seldom last more than eight or ten years. The pavement of Petersburg is as fatal to them as it is to the carriages, and, it may be said, to the riders, whose heads nearly split as soon as they are off the few streets where the pavement is improved by two lines of wooden blocks laid down on each side of the way. It is true that the Russians have laid their detestable pavement in regularly figured compartments of large stones,—an ornament which only increases the evil, for it makes riding in the streets yet more jolting. A certain appearance of elegance or magnificence—a boastful display of wealth and grandeur, is all that the Russians care for: they have commenced the work of civilization by creating its superfluities. If such be the right way of proceeding, let us cry, “Long live vanity, and down with common sense.”
[1]Venta, a Spanish country inn.—Trans.
[2]This is the 1st of August.