ONCE AGAIN, a delay on the road, and always from the same cause!—we break down regularly every twenty leagues. Of a truth, the Russian officer at Pomerania was a gettatore!
There are moments when, notwithstanding my protestations, and the reiterated word tischné (gently), the drivers proceed at a rate that obliges me to close my eyes in order to avoid giddiness. Among them, I have not seen one deficient in skill, and some of them possess a dexterity that is extraordinary. The Neapolitans and the Russians are the first coachmen in the world; the best among them are old men and children: the children especially surprise me. The first time that I saw my carriage and my life about to be entrusted to the care of an child of ten years old, I protested against such imprudence; but my Feldjäger assured me it was the custom, and as his person was exposed as much as mine, I believed him. Our four horses, whose fiery eagerness and wild appearance were by no means adapted to reassure me, set off at a gallop. The experienced child knew better than to endeavor to stop them; on the contrary, he urged them to their utmost speed, and the carriage followed as it best might. This pace, which accorded better with the temperament of the animals than the qualities of the calèche, was kept up throughout the stage, although, at the end of the first verst, the breathless horses began to tire, and the coachman to become the most impatient. Each time they relaxed their pace, he applied the whip until they resumed their former speed. The emulation which easily establishes itself between four spirited animals harnessed abreast, soon brought us to the end of the stage. These horses would rather die than give in. After observing their character, and that of their drivers, I soon perceived that the word tischné, which I had learned to pronounce with so much care, was utterly useless in this journey, and that I should even expose myself to accident if I persisted in checking the ordinary rate of driving. The Russians have the gift of equilibrium; men and horses would lose their balance in a slow trot. Their mode of getting over the ground would greatly divert me if my carriage were of more solid construction, but at each turn of the wheels I expect it to fall to pieces; and we break down so often that my apprehensions are only too well justified. Without my Italian valet, who officiates also as wheelwright and smith, we should already have come to a standstill. I cannot cease admiring the air of nonchalance with which the coachmen take their seats; there is a grace about it far preferable to the studied elegance of civilized drivers. In descending the hills, they rise on their feet, and drive standing, the body slightly bent, the arms stretched forward, and the eight reins drawn well up. In this attitude, which may be seen in ancient bas-reliefs, they might be taken for charioteers of the circus. When thus driving, we rush through the air amid clouds of dust, and seem scarcely to touch the earth. The English springs cause the body of the coach to sway like a vessel in a heavy gale, and there appears then to be established between the will of man and the instinct of the animals, a relation which I cannot understand. It is not by a mechanical impulse that the equipage is guided!— there seems to be an interchange of thoughts and sentiments, an animal magic, a real magnetic influence. The coachman is miraculously obeyed; he guides his four steeds abreast as if they were but one horse. Sometimes he draws them together into scarcely more space than is commonly occupied by two-wheelers; sometimes he so spreads them out that they cover the half of the highway. In point of civilization, everything is incomplete in Russia, because everything is modern. On the finest road in the world, there are still frequent interruptions; repairs going on, or temporary bridges in place of broken ones, which oblige us to turn off the road; this the driver does without for a moment slackening the pace. The road is also much obstructed by the little carts and wagons of carriers, ten of which are often guided by one man, who cannot possibly keep them all in line. Without great dexterity on the part of the Russian coachmen, it would be difficult to find a passage through such moving labyrinths. The bodies of these carriers’ carts resemble large casks cut in half lengthways, and open at the top; they are each drawn by one small horse, who, without much capacity as a draft horse, is full of courage and spirit, and will pull until he falls on the road: his life is, therefore, as short as it is devoted: in Russia, a horse twelve years old is a phenomenon.
Nothing can be more original, more different to what is seen elsewhere, than the various vehicles, the men, and the horses that are met on the highways of this country. Everything that the people touch, wear, or carry, takes, unknown to themselves, a picturesque appearance: condemn a race of men, less naturally elegant, to make use of the houses, dress, and utensils of the Russians, and all these things would appear hideous; but here I find them, though foreign and unusual, striking and deserving of being painted. Oblige the Russians to wear the costume of the Paris workmen, and they would make something out of it agreeable to the eye, though never would a Russian have imagined an attire so devoid of taste. The life of this people is amusing, if not for themselves, at least for a spectator; the ingenious turn of their minds has found means to triumph over the climate, and every other obstacle that nature has opposed to social existence in a desert without poetic imagery. The contrast of the blind political submission of a people attached to the soil, with the energetic and continual struggle of that same people against the tyranny of a climate hostile to life, their conquests over nature achieved while they themselves remain under the yoke of despotism, present an inexhaustible store for both lively pictures and serious meditations. To make a journey through Russia with full advantage, it would be necessary to be accompanied by a Montesquieu and a Horace Vernet.
In none of my travels have I so much regretted my little talent for sketching. Russia is less known than India; it has been less-often described and pictorially illustrated; it is nevertheless as curious a country as any in Asia, even as relates to the arts, to poetry, and to history.
Every mind seriously occupied with the ideas which ferment in the political world, cannot but profit by examining, on the spot, a community, governed on the principles which directed the most ancient states named in the annals of the world, and yet, already imbued with the ideas that are common among the most modern and revolutionary nations. The patriarchal tyranny of the Asiatic governments, in contact with the theories of modern philanthropy, the character of the people of the East and West, incompatible by nature, yet united together by coercion in a state of society semibarbarous, but kept in order by fear, present a spectacle that can be only seen in Russia, and, assuredly, one which no man who thinks, would regret the trouble of going to contemplate.
The social, intellectual, and political state of present Russia is the result, and, so to speak, the résumé of the reigns of Ivan IV, surnamed, by Russia herself, the Terrible; of Peter the First, called the Great, by the men who glory in aping Europe; and of Catherine II, deified by a people that dreams of the conquest of the world. Such is the formidable heritage over which the Emperor Nicholas holds sway—God knows to what purpose, and our posterity will know also!
The seesaw is the favorite amusement of the Russian peasants. This exercise develops their natural talent for adjusting the equilibrium of the body; in addition to which, it is a silent pleasure, and quiet diversions best accord with the feelings of a people rendered prudent by fear.
Silence presides over all the festivals of the Russian villagers. They drink plentifully, speak little, and shout less; they either remain silent, or sing in chorus, with a nasal voice, melancholy and prolonged notes, which form a harmonious, but by no means noisy accord. I have been surprised, however, to observe that almost all these melodies are deficient in simplicity.
On Sunday, in passing through populous villages, I observed rows of from four to eight young girls balancing themselves, by a scarcely perceptible movement of their bodies, on boards suspended by ropes, while, at a little distance beyond, an equal number of boys were fixed in the same manner, in face of the females. Their mute game lasted a long time; I have never had patience to wait its conclusion. Such gentle balancing is only a kind of interlude, which serves as a relaxation in the intervals of the animated diversion of their real swing or seesaw. This is a very lively game; it even renders the spectator nervous. Four cords hang from a lofty cross-beam, and, at about two feet from the earth, sustain a plank, on the extremities of which two persons place themselves. This plank, and the four posts which support it, are placed in such a manner that the balancing may be performed either backwards or forwards, or from side to side. The two performers, sometimes of the same, sometimes of the opposite sexes, place themselves, always standing, and with legs firmly planted, on the two extremities of the plank, where they preserve their balance by taking hold of the cords. In this attitude they are impelled through the air to a frightful height, for at every swing the machine reaches the point beyond which it would turn completely over, and its occupiers be dashed to the earth from a height of thirty or forty feet, for I have seen posts at least twenty feet high. The Russians, whose frames are singularly supple, easily maintain a balance that is to us astonishing; they exhibit much grace, boldness, and agility in this exercise.
I have purposely stopped in several villages to observe the girls and young men thus amuse themselves together; and I have at last seen some female faces perfectly beautiful. Their complexion is of a delicate whiteness; their color is, so to speak, under the skin, which is transparent and exquisitely smooth. Their teeth are brilliantly white; and—rarely seen beauty!—their mouths are perfectly formed copies of the antique; their eyes, generally blue, have nevertheless the Oriental cast of expression, with also that unquiet and furtive glance natural to the Slavs, who can in general look sideways, and even behind, without turning their heads. Their whole appearance possesses a great charm; but, whether from a caprice of nature, or the effects of costume, these beauties are much less often seen united in the women than in the men. Among a hundred female peasants, we perhaps meet with but one really beautiful, whilst the great majority of the men are remarkable for the form of their heads and the gracefulness of their features. Among the old men, there are faces with rosy cheeks and silver hair and beard, of which it may be said that time has imparted of dignity more than it has taken of youth. There are heads that would be more beautiful in pictures than anything that I have seen of Rubens’ or Titian’s, but I have never observed an elderly female face worthy of being painted.
As a protection against the short but fervent heats of summer, a sort of veranda, a large covered open balcony, runs round some cottages, and serves as a bed for the family, who even sometimes prefer sleeping on the naked earth. Recollections of the East pursue the traveler everywhere. At all the post-houses into which I have entered at night, I have invariably found, ranged in the street before the door, numerous bundles of black sheepskins. These fleeces, which I at first took for sacks, were men, sleeping under the bright canopy of heaven. We have, this year, heats such as have not been known in the memory of man in Russia.
The sheepskins, cut out as little overcoats, serve not only for clothes, but likewise for beds, carpets, and tents to the Russian peasants. The workmen, when, during the heat of the day, they take their siesta in the fields, make a picturesque tent of these garments to protect themselves from the rays of the sun. With the ingenious address which distinguishes the Russian laborers from those of the west of Europe, they pass the sleeves of their coat over the two handles of their wheelbarrows, and then, turning this moveable roof towards the sun, they sleep tranquilly under the rustic drapery. The sheepskin coats are graceful in shape, and would be pretty if they were not generally so old and greasy. A poor peasant cannot often renew a vesture which costs so much. They wear it until it is completely worn-out.
The Russian laborer is industrious, and is ready for every difficulty in which he may be placed. He never goes out without his small hatchet, which is useful for a hundred purposes in the hands of a dexterous man in a country not yet without woods. With a Russian by your side, were you to lose yourself in a forest, you would in a very few hours have a house to pass the night in, perhaps more commodious, and assuredly more clean, than the houses of the old villages. But if the traveler possessed small articles of leather among his baggage, they would be safe nowhere. The Russians steal, with the address which they exhibit on all occasions, the straps, girths, and leather aprons of your trunks and carriages, though the same men show every sign of being extremely devout.
I have never traveled a stage without my coachman making at least twenty signs of the cross to salute as many little chapels. Ready to fulfill with the same punctilio his obligations of politeness, he salutes also with his hat every wagoner that he meets, and their number is great. These formalities accomplished, we arrive at the end of the stage, when it is invariably found that, either in putting-to or detaching the horses, the adroit, pious, polite rogue has abstracted something, perhaps a leather pouch, a strap, or a wrapper; perhaps only a nail, a screw, or a wax candle from the lamps: in short, he never leaves with altogether clean hands.
These men are extremely greedy of money; but they dare not complain when ill paid, which has often been the case with those who have driven us the last few days, for my Feldjäger retains for himself a portion of the postilion’s fees, which, together with the hire of the horses for the entire journey, I paid him in advance at Petersburg. Having once observed this trick, I compensated out of my own pocket the unfortunate postilion, thus deprived of a part of the wages which, according to the ordinary custom of travelers, he had a right to expect from me; but the knavish Feldjäger, having perceived my generosity (for this was the name he gave to my justice), had the audacity to complain to me openly,—saying that he could no longer act for me on the journey, if I continued to thwart him in the legitimate exercise of his power.
But how can we be surprised at the want of proper principles among the common people, in a country where the great regard the most simple rules of probity as laws fit for plebeians, but which cannot extend to persons of their rank? Let it not be supposed that I exaggerate; I state what I perceive: an aristocratic pride, degenerated in its character, and at variance with the true sentiment of honor, reigns in Russia among the greater number of influential families. Recently a great lady made to me, little knowing it, an ingenious confession: it the more surprised me, because such sentiments, sufficiently common here among the men, are less so among the women, who have generally preserved better than their husbands and brothers the traditions of just and noble feelings. “It is impossible for us,” she said, “to form any clear idea of a social state like that of yours in France. They tell me that, at present, the highest noble there can be put in prison for a debt of two hundred francs; this is revolting: how different from our country! There is not in all Russia a tradesman who would dare to refuse us credit for an unlimited period. With your aristocratic notions,” she added, “you must surely find yourself more at home among us. There is greater similarity between the French of the old regime and us, than between any other of the European nations.”
I cannot describe the effort of self-command that it required on my part to prevent myself from suddenly and loudly protesting against the affinity of which this lady boasted. Notwithstanding my obligatory prudence, I could not help saying, that a man who would now pass among ourselves for an ultra-aristocrat, might be easily classed at Petersburg with the violent liberals; and I concluded by observing, “When you assure me that, among your families, people do not think it necessary to pay their debts, I must not take you at your word.”
“Many of us have enormous fortunes, but they would be ruined if they were to pay all they owed.”
In order to explain to me the extent to which the fashionable world is imbued with the French genius and spirit, the same lady related to me instances of impromptu answers in verse, made, in a game, at the house of one of her relatives. “You see how completely French we are,” she added, with a pride that made me laugh silently. “Yes, more so than we ourselves,” I replied; and we changed the subject of discourse. I can picture to myself the astonishment with which this Franco-Russian lady would enter the salons of Madame ———, in Paris, and inquire of our actual France what has become of the France of Louis XV?
Under the Empress Catherine, the conversation of the palace, and of some of the nobility, resembled that of the drawing rooms of Paris. In the present day, our discourse is more serious, or, at least, more bold than that of any of the other European people; and, in this respect, our modern Frenchmen are far from resembling the Russians, for we talk of everything, and the Russians speak of nothing.
The reign of Catherine is profoundly impressed on the memories of several Russian ladies. These fair aspirantes to the title of female statesmen have a talent for politics: and, as some of them add to that gift manners which altogether remind us of the eighteenth century, they are so many traveling empresses, with the reports of whose profligacy Europe resounds, but who, under this unfeminine conduct, conceal a commanding and profoundly observing mind. By virtue of the spirit of intrigue that distinguishes these Aspasias of the North, there is scarcely a capital in Europe without two or three Russian ambassadors: the one, public, accredited, recognized, and clothed with all the insignia of office; the others, secret, irresponsible, and playing, in bonnet and petticoat, the double part of independent ambassador, and spy upon the official envoy.
In all ages, women have been employed with success in political negotiations. Many of our modern revolutionists have availed themselves of female aid to conspire more skillfully, more secretly, and more safely. Spain has seen these unfortunate women become heroines in the courage with which they have submitted to the punishment entailed by their tender devotion—for love always forms a great part of the courage of a Spanish woman.
Among the Russian women, love is only the accessory. Russia possesses a completely organized female diplomacy; and Europe is not, perhaps, sufficiently attentive to so singular a means of influence. With its concealed army of amphibious agents, its political Amazons with acute masculine minds and feminine language, the Russian court collects information, obtains reports, and even receives advice, which, if better known, would explain many mysteries, furnish a key to many inconsistencies, and reveal many petty acts, otherwise inexplicable.
The political preoccupation of mind of the greater number of Russian women renders their conversation, interesting as it might be, insipid. This is more especially the case with the most distinguished women, who are naturally the most absent when the conversation does not turn upon important subjects. There is a world between their thoughts and their discourse, from whence there results a want of accord, an absence of natural manner, in short, a duplicity, that is disagreeable in the ordinary relations of social life. Politics are, from their nature, but poor amusement; their tediousness is supported by a sense of duty, and sometimes, when statesmen speak, by flashes of mind which animate conversation; but the fraudulent politics of the amateur are the curses of conversation.
I have been assured that the moral sentiment is scarcely developed among the Russian peasants, and my daily experience confirms the accounts that I have received.
A nobleman has related to me, that a man belonging to him, who was skillful in some particular handicraft, had permission to remain in Petersburg, in order to exercise his talent there. After the expiration of two years, he was allowed to return for a few weeks to his native village, to visit his wife. He came back to Petersburg on the day appointed.
“Are you satisfied with having seen your family?” asked his master. “Perfectly so,” answered the workman, with great simplicity; “my wife has presented me with two more children in my absence, and the sight of them gave me great pleasure.”
These poor people have nothing of their own; neither their cottages, their wives, their children, nor even their own hearts; they have, therefore, no jealousy. Of what could they be jealous?—Of an accident? Love among them is nothing better. Such, however, is the existence of the happiest men in Russia—the serfs! I have often heard the great express envy of their lot, and perhaps not without reason.
They have no cares, they say; we take all the charge of them and their families (God knows how this charge is acquitted when the peasants become old and useless). Assured of the necessaries of life for themselves and their children, they are a hundred times less to be pitied than the free peasants are among you.
I did not reply to this panegyric on servitude; but I thought, if they have no cares, they have also no families, and therefore no affections, no pleasures, no moral sentiment, no compensation for the physical evils of life. They possess nothing; though it is individual property which makes the social man, because it alone constitutes the divisions of family.
Moral truth is the only principle that merits our devotion; to grasp it, all the efforts of the human mind tend, whatever may be their sphere of action. If, in my journeys, I take every pains to describe the world as it is, my object is to excite in the breasts of others, and in my own, regret that it is not as it should be, to arouse in human minds the sentiment of immortality, by recalling, at the sight of every injustice, every abuse inherent in the things of earth, the words of Jesus Christ, “My kingdom is not of this world.”
Never have I had so frequent occasion to apply these words as since my sojourn in Russia; they occur to me at every moment. Under a despotism, all the laws are calculated to assist oppression; that is to say, the more the oppressed has reason to complain, the less has he the legal right or the temerity to do so. Surely, before God, the evil actions of a free citizen are more criminal than the evil actions of a serf. He who sees everything, takes into account the insensibility of conscience in the man debased by the spectacle of iniquity always triumphant.
It will be said that evil is evil, wherever committed; and that the man who steals at Moscow, is just as much a thief as the pickpocket in Paris. It is precisely this which I deny. On the general education that a people receives, depends in a great measure the morality of each individual; from whence it follows that a fearful and mysterious relativeness of merits and of demerits has been established by Providence between governments and subjects, and that moments arrive in the history of communities when the state is judged, condemned, and destroyed, as though it were a single individual.
The virtues, the faults, and the crimes of slaves have not the same signification as those of freemen; therefore, when I examine the character of the Russian people, I can assert as a fact which does not imply the same blame as it would with us, that in general they are deficient in spirit, delicacy, and elevation of sentiment, and that they supply the want of these qualities by patience and artifice.
“The Russian people are gentle,” is often said to me. To this I answer, “I cannot give them any credit for being so: it is their habit of submission.” Others say, “The Russian people are only gentle because they dare not show what is in their hearts; their fundamental sentiments are superstition and ferocity.” To this I reply, “Poor creatures! they are so ill educated!”
From all that I see in this world, and especially in this country, I conclude that happiness is not the real object for which man was placed here upon earth. That object is purely religious in its character: it is moral improvement—the struggle and the victory.
The Russian people are in our days the most believing among all the Christian nations: the chief cause of the little efficacy of their faith is easily seen. When the church abdicates its liberty, it loses its moral virtuality:—a slave, it can only give birth to slavery. It cannot be too often repeated that the only church really independent, is the Catholic church, which has alone preserved the trust of true charity. All the other churches form constituent parts of the state, which uses them as political instruments for maintaining its power. These churches are excellent auxiliaries of the government; complaisant towards the princes or magistrates who are the depositaries of the temporal power, hard upon the subjects, they call in Deity to aid the police. The immediate result is sure; it is in good order in society: but the Catholic church, quite as powerful politically, looks higher and reaches farther. The national churches make citizens; the church universal makes men. Among the sectarians, a respect for the church is confounded with a love of country; among the Catholics, the church and regenerated humanity are one and the same thing. In Russia, respect for authority continues still the only spring of the social machine. This respect is necessary, no doubt; but, in order radically to civilize the human heart, it is necessary to teach it something more than blind obedience.
The longer I stay in this country the more am I impressed with the fact that contempt for the weak is contagious. This sentiment is so natural here, that those who most severely blame it come finally to partake of it. I am myself a proof in question.
In Russia, the desire of traveling fast becomes a passion, and this passion serves as a pretext for every species of inhumanity. My courier has communicated it to me, and I often render myself, without at the time perceiving it, an accomplice in his acts of injustice. He is exceedingly angry whenever the coachman leaves his seat to readjust any portion of the harness, or when he stops on the road under any other pretext.
Yesterday evening, at the onset of a stage, a child who drove us had been several times threatened with blows by the Feldjäger for a fault of the kind, and I participated in the impatience and wrath of this man. Suddenly, a foal, not many days old, and well known by the boy, escaped from an enclosure bordering upon the road, and began neighing and galloping after my carriage, for he took one of the mares that drew us for his mother. The young coachman, already guilty of delay, wanted once again to stop and go to the aid of the colt, which he saw every moment in danger of being crushed under the wheels of the carriage. My courier angrily forbade him to leave his seat: the child obeyed like a good Russian, and continued to drive us at a gallop without proffering a complaint. I supported the severity of the Feldjäger. I thought to myself, “It is necessary to sustain authority even when it is in fault; this is the spirit of the Russian government: my Feldjäger is not overzealous; if I discourage him when he exhibits energy in performing his duty, he will leave everything to come and go as it pleases, and be of no use to me at all: besides, it is the custom of the country; why should I be less in haste than another? my dignity as a traveler is involved; to have time to spare would be to lose my consequence in this country: here, to be important, we must be impatient.” While I was thus reasoning, night had come on. I accuse myself with having been more hard-hearted even than the Russians (for I have not, like them, the habits of early life as an excuse), thus to leave the poor colt and the unhappy child to mourn in concert; the one by neighing with all his might, the other by crying silently—a difference which gave to the brute a real advantage over the human being. I ought to have interposed my authority to cause this double punishment to cease; but no, I assisted, I contributed to the martyrdom. It was a long one, for the stage was six leagues in length. The boy, obliged to torture the animal that he wished to save, suffered with a resignation that would have touched me, had not my heart been already hardened by my abode in this country. Every time that a peasant appeared on the road, the hope of rescuing his beloved foal again revived in the bosom of the child: he made signs from afar off; he shouted when a hundred paces distant from the foot passenger, but not daring to slacken the unmerciful gallop of our horses, he never succeeded in making himself understood in time. If ever a peasant, more quick-sighted than the others, endeavored of himself to turn the foal, the speed of the carriage disconcerted him, and the young animal passed on close to the flank of one of our horses. The case was the same in the villages, and at last the despair of our youthful coachman became so great, that he no longer opened his mouth. The persevering little animal, only eight days old, according to our driver, had the spirit and muscle necessary to perform six leagues at a gallop!
When this was accomplished, our slave—it is of the boy that I speak—seeing himself at length released from the rigorous yoke of discipline, called the whole village to the rescue of the foal. The energy of this spirited little creature was so great, that, notwithstanding the fatigue of such a course, notwithstanding the stiffness of his limbs, ruined before they were formed, he was still very difficult to catch. They could only take him by driving him into a stable after the mare he had mistaken for his dam. When they had placed a halter round him, they shut him up with another mare, that gave him her milk; but he had not strength left to suck. Some said he would come round by and by, others that he was foundered and could not live. I begin to understand a little Russian, and heard this sentence pronounced by one of the elders of the village. Our little coachman completely identified himself with the young animal. Foreseeing, no doubt, the treatment that the keeper of the foals would have to suffer, he appeared in as great a consternation as if he was himself to receive the blows with which his comrade would be overwhelmed. Never have I seen the expression of despair more profoundly imprinted on the face of a child; but not one look, not one gesture of reproach against my cruel courier, escaped him. So great an empire over self, so much restraint of feeling at such an age, inspired me with fear and pity.
Meanwhile the courier, without troubling himself for a moment about the foal, or taking the least notice of the disconsolate child, proceeded gravely to make the necessary arrangements for procuring a fresh relay.
On this road, which is the finest and the most frequented in Russia, the villages where relays may be obtained are peopled with peasants purposely established there to attend to the posting. Upon the arrival of a carriage, the Imperial director sends from house to house to seek for horses and a disengaged coachman. Sometimes the distances are great enough to cause a considerable delay to the traveler. I should prefer more promptness in the changing of horses, and a little less speed in the driving. At the moment of leaving the broken-down foal and the forlorn young postilion, I felt no remorse; it came only upon reflection, and especially upon recording the circumstances in writing: shame then awoke repentance. Thus easily may those who breathe the air of despotism be corrupted. What do I say? In Russia, despotism is only upon the throne, but tyranny pervades the country.
Education and circumstances considered, it must be acknowledged that a Russian lord, the most accustomed to submit to, and to exercise arbitrary power, could not have committed, in the seclusion of his province, an act of cruelty more blamable than that of which I, yesterday evening, rendered myself guilty by my silence.
I, a Frenchman, who believe myself to possess a naturally kind disposition, who have been educated under a civilization of ancient date, who travel among a people of whose manners I am a severe observer,—lo! even I, upon the first opportunity for practicing a petty act of unnecessary cruelty, yield to the temptation. The Parisian acts like a Tartar! The evil is in the atmosphere.
In France, where they respect life, even that of the brute creation, if my postilion had not thought of rescuing the colt, I should have obliged him to stop. I should myself have appealed to the peasants for aid, and should not have proceeded on my journey until I had seen the animal in safety. Here, I have aided in destroying him by an unmerciful silence. Who would be proud of his virtues, when forced to acknowledge that they depend upon circumstances more than upon self?
A great Russian lord, who, in his fits of passion, does not beat to death any of his peasants, merits praise: he is in such case humane; whilst I, a Frenchman, may be cruel for having simply suffered a foal to gallop on the road.
Even Moscow will not recompense me for the trouble I am taking to see it. Shall I give up the idea of Moscow, order the coachman to turn, and depart in all haste for Paris? To this had my reveries brought me when the day dawned. My calèche had remained open, and in my protracted doze I had not been concious of the baneful influence of the dews of the North; my clothes were saturated; my hair in a state as if dripping with perspiration; all the leather about my carriage was steeped in noxious moisture; my eyes hurt me, a veil seemed to obscure my sight; I remembered the Prince ———, who became blind in twenty-four hours after a bivouac in Poland, under the same latitude, in a moist prairie.
My servant has just entered to announce that my carriage is mended; I am therefore again about to take the road: and unless some new accident detain me, and destine me to make my entrance into Moscow in a cart, or on foot, my next chapter will be written in the holy city of the Russians, where they give me hopes of arriving in a few hours.
I must, however, first set about concealing my papers, for each chapter, even those that will appear the most inoffensive to the friends who receive them in the form of letters, would be sufficient to send me to Siberia. I take care to shut myself up when writing; and if my Feldjäger or one of the coachmen knock at the door, I put up my papers before opening it, and appear to be reading. I am going to slip this sheet between the crown and the lining of my hat. These precautions are, I hope, superfluous, but I think it necessary to take them; they at any rate suffice to give an idea of the Russian government.