DOES THE reader never remember having perceived, when approaching by land some seaport town in the Bay of Biscay or the British Channel, the masts of a fleet rising behind downs, just elevated enough to conceal the town, the piers, the flat shore, and the sea itself beyond? Above the natural rampart nothing can be discovered but a forest of poles bearing sails of a dazzling white, yards, many-colored flags, and floating streamers. A fleet, apparently on land, is the apparition with which my eye has been sometimes surprised in Holland, and once in England, after having penetrated into the interior of the country, between Gravesend and the mouth of the Thames. Exactly similar is the effect that has been produced upon me by the first view of Moscow: a multitude of spires gleamed alone above the dust of the road, the undulations of the soil, and the misty line that nearly always clothes the distance, under the summer sun of these parts.
The uneven, thinly inhabited, and only half-cultivated plain resembles downs dotted with a few stunted firs. It was out of the midst of this solitude that I saw, as it were, suddenly spring up thousands of pointed steeples, star-spangled belfries, airy turrets, strangely shaped towers, palaces, and old convents, the bodies of which all remained entirely concealed.
This first view of the capital of the Slavs, rising brightly in the cold solitudes of the Christian East, produces an impression that cannot easily be forgotten.
Before the eye spreads a landscape, wild and gloomy, but grand as the ocean; and to animate the dreary void, there rises a poetical city, whose architecture is without either a designating name or a known model.
To understand the peculiarity of the picture, it is necessary to remind the reader of the orthodox plan of every Greek church. The summit of these sacred edifices is always composed of several towers, which vary in form and height, but the number of which is five at the least—a sacramental number, that is often greatly exceeded. The middle steeple is the most lofty; the four others respectfully surround this principal tower. Their form varies: the summits of some resemble pointed caps placed upon a head; the great towers of certain churches, painted and gilded externally, may be severally compared to a bishop’s miter, a tiara adorned with gems, a Chinese pavilion, a minaret, and a clergyman’s hat. They often consist of a simple cupola, in the shape of a bowl, and terminating in a point. All these more or less whimsical figures are crowned with large, open-worked copper crosses, gilt, and the complicated designs of which look like work of filigree. The number and disposition of the steeples have always a symbolical religious meaning: they signify the ranks in the ecclesiastical hierarchy. They image the patriarch, surrounded by his priests, his deacons, and subdeacons, lifting between heaven and earth his radiant head. A fanciful variety characterizes this more or less richly adorned roof work; but the primitive intention, the theological idea, is always scrupulously respected.
Bright chains of gilded or plated metal unite the crosses of the inferior steeples to the principal tower; and this metallic net, spread over an entire city, produces an effect that it would be impossible to convey, even in a picture. The holy legion of steeples, without having any precise resemblance to the human form, represent a grotesque assemblage of personages gathered together on the summits of the churches and chapels,—a phalanx of phantoms hovering over the city.
The exteriors of the mystic domes of the Russian churches are worked in a most elaborate manner. They remind the stranger of a cuirass of Damascus steel; and the sight of so many scaly, enameled, spangled, striped, and checkered roofs, shining in the sun with various but always brilliant colors, strikes him with the most lively astonishment. The desert, with its dull sea-green tint, is, as it were, illuminated by this magical network of carbuncles. The play of light, in the aerial city, produces a species of phantasmagoria, in broad day, which reminds one of the reflected brilliance of lamps in the shop of a lapidary. These changing hues impart to Moscow an aspect altogether different from that of the other great European cities. The sky, when viewed from the middle of such a city, is a golden glory, similar to those seen in old paintings. Schnitzler states that, in 1730, Weber counted at Moscow 1,500 churches. Coxe, in 1778, fixes the number at 484. As for myself, I am content with endeavoring to describe the aspect of things. I admire without counting,—I must, therefore, refer the lovers of catalogs to books made up entirely of numbers.
I have, however, said enough, I hope, to impart to the reader a portion of the surprise which the first view of Moscow produced in me. To add to that surprise, he must recollect, what he will have often read, that this city is a country within itself, and that fields, lakes, and woods, enclosed within its limits, place a considerable distance between the different edifices that adorn it. The objects being so scattered, tends greatly to increase the effect. The whole plain is covered with a silver gauze. Three or four hundred churches, thus spread, present to the eye an immense semicircle, so that when approaching the city, towards sunset on a stormy evening, it would be easy to fancy you saw a rainbow of fire impending above the churches of Moscow: this is the halo of the holy city. But at about three quarters of a league from the gate, the illusion vanishes. Here the very real and heavy brick palace of Petrovsky arrests the attention. It was built by Catherine after an odd modern design: the ornaments with which it is profusely covered stand in white against the red walls. These decorations, which are formed, I think, of plaster, are in a style of extravagant Gothic. The building is as square as a die, which by no means renders its general effect more imposing. It is here that the sovereign stops, when he means to make a solemn entrance into Moscow. A summer theater, a ballroom, and a garden have been established, so as to form a kind of public café, which I shall return to see, as it is the rendezvous of the city loungers during the summer season.
After passing Petrovsky, the enchantment gradually disperses, so that by the time of entering Moscow, we feel as if waking from a brilliant dream to a very dull and prosaic reality—a vast city without any real monuments of art, that is to say, without a single object worthy of a discriminative and thoughtful approbation. Before so heavy and awkward a copy of Europe, we ask, with wonder, what has become of the Asia, whose apparition had struck us with admiration so short a time before? Moscow, viewed from without and as a whole, is a creation of sylphs, a world of chimeras; when inspected close at hand and in detail, it is a vast trading city, without regularity, dusty, ill paved, ill built, thinly peopled; in short, though it unquestionably exhibits the work of a powerful hand, it betrays also the conceptions of a head whose idea of the beautiful has failed to produce one single chef d’oeuvre. The Russian people are strong in arms, that is in numbers, but in the strength of imagination they are altogether deficient.
Without genius for architecture, without taste for sculpture, they can heap together stones, and create objects enormous in dimension; but they can produce nothing harmonious, nothing great in the perfection of its proportions. Happy privilege of art! masterpieces survive themselves, subsisting in the memory of men ages after they have been devastated by time; they share, by the inspiration which they kindle even in their latest ruin, the immortality of the minds that created them; whereas shapeless masses are forgotten while yet untouched by time. Art, when in its perfection, gives a soul to stone; it is a mystic power. This we learn in Greece, where each fragment of sculpture conduces to the general effect of each monument. In architecture, as in the other arts, it is from the superior execution of the smallest details, and from their skillfully interwoven connection with the general plan, that the sentiment of the beautiful springs. Nothing in Russia inspires this sentiment.
Nevertheless, amid the chaos of plaster, brick, and boards that is called Moscow, two points never cease to attract the eye—the church of St. Basil, and the Kremlin,—the Kremlin, of which Napoleon himself was only able to disturb a few stones! This prodigious monument, with its white irregular walls, and its battlements rising above battlements, is in itself large as a city. At the close of day when I first entered Moscow, the grotesque piles of churches and palaces embraced within the citadel rose in light against a dimly portrayed background, poor in design and cold in coloring, though we are still burning with heat, suffocating with dust, and devoured by mosquitoes. It is the long continuance of the hot season which gives the color to southern scenery; in the North, we feel the effects of the summer, but we do not see them; in vain does the air become heated for a moment, the earth remains always discolored.
I shall never forget the chilly shudder which came over me on first seeing the cradle of the modern Russian Empire: the Kremlin alone is worth the journey to Moscow.
At the gate of this fortress, but beyond its precincts—at least, according to my Feldjäger, for I have not yet been able to visit it—stands the church of St. Basil, Vasily Blagennoi; it is also known under the name of the Cathedral of the Protection of the Holy Virgin. In the Greek church, they are lavish of the title of cathedral; every ward, every monastery has one of its own; every city possesses several. That of Vasily is certainly the most singular, if it is not the most beautiful edifice in Russia. I have as yet only seen it at a distance. Thus viewed, it appears as an immense cluster of little turrets forming a bush, or rather giving the idea of a cantaloupe with an embroidered skin, some kind of tropical fruit all bristled over with excrescences: a crystallization of a thousand rays, the scales of a golden fish, the enameled skin of a serpent, the changeful hues of the lizard, the glossy rose and azure of the pigeon’s neck, would all, as regards color, serve as comparisons: above, rise minarets of a brownish red. The effect of the whole dazzles the eye, and fascinates the imagination. Surely, the land in which such a building is called a house of prayer is not Europe; it must be India, Persia, or China!—and the men who go to worship God in this box of confectionary work, can they be Christians? Such was the exclamation that escaped me at the first view of the church of Vasily. That building must indeed possess an extraordinary style of architecture to have drawn my attention, as it did, from the Kremlin, at the moment when the mighty castle for the first time met my eyes.
Soon, however, my ideas took another turn. Where is the Frenchman who could resist an emotion of respect and of pride (for misfortune has its pride, and it is the most legitimate kind), on entering into the only city where, in our own times, took place a public event, a scene, as imposing as the most striking occurrences of ancient history?
The means that the Asiatic city took to repel its enemy was a sublime deed of despair; and thenceforward the name of Moscow became fatally united with that of the greatest captain of modern times. The sacred bird of the Greeks consumed itself in order to escape the talons of the eagle, and, like the phoenix, the mystic dove also rises again from its ashes.
God was willing to furnish the chroniclers of the age—an age the most prosaic that the world has ever seen—with one epic story. Moscow was voluntarily sacrificed, and the flames of that sacred conflagration became the signal for the revolution of Germany and the deliverance of Europe. The nations felt at last that they would have no rest until they had annihilated the indefatigable conqueror who sought peace by means of perpetual war.
Such were the recollections that absorbed my thoughts at the first view of the Kremlin. To have worthily recompensed Moscow, the emperor of Russia ought to have re-established his residence in that twice holy city.
The Kremlin is not like any other palace, it is a city in itself; a city that forms the root of Moscow, and that serves as the frontier fortress between two quarters of the world. Under the successors of Genghis Khan, Asia made her last rush upon Europe: in turning to retreat, she struck the earth with her foot, and from thence rose the Kremlin!
On first entering the city of Moscow, I forgot poetry, and even history; I thought only of what I saw, which was not very striking, for I found myself in streets similar to those in the outskirts of all great cities: I crossed a boulevard which resembled other boulevards, and then, after driving down a gentle descent, found myself amongst straight and handsome lines of houses built of stone. At last I reached the Dmitry Donskoi Street, where a handsome and comfortable chamber had been engaged for me in an excellent English hotel. I had, at Petersburg, been commended to Madame Howard, who without this introduction would not have received me into her house. I took care not to reproach her for being so scrupulous, for it is owing to this precaution that one can sleep comfortably in her establishment. The means by which she has succeeded in maintaining there a cleanliness rarely seen anywhere, and which is an absolute miracle in Russia, is the having had erected, in her courtyard, a separate building, in which the Russian servants are obliged to sleep. These men never enter the principal edifice except to wait upon their masters. In her judicious precautions, Madame Howard goes yet further. She will scarcely admit any Russian guest: consequently, neither my Feldjäger nor coachman knew her house, and we had some difficulty in finding it; although it is, notwithstanding its want of a sign, the best inn in Moscow and in Russia. Immediately on being installed, I sat down to write. Night is now approaching, and as there is a bright moon, I lay aside my pen in order to take a ramble over the city, which promenade I will describe on my return.
I commenced my perambulations at about ten o’clock, without guide or companion, and strolled at random from street to street, according to my usual custom. I first followed several long and wide streets, more hilly than most of those in Russia, but laid out with equal regularity. There can be no complaint of the want of straight lines in the architecture of this country, nevertheless, the line and rule have less spoilt Moscow than Petersburg. In the latter, the imbecile tyrants of modern cities found a level surface ready prepared for them; here, they had to struggle with the inequalities of the soil, and with the ancient national edifices. Thanks to these invincible obstacles presented by nature and history, the aspect of Moscow is still that of an ancient city. It is more picturesque than any other in the empire, which continues to recognize it as its capital, in spite of the almost supernatural efforts of the Czar Peter and his successors: so strong is the law of circumstances against the will of men—men even the most powerful. Despoiled of its religious honors, deprived of its patriarch, abandoned by its sovereign, and by the most courtly of its ancient boyars, without any other attractive association than that of an heroic event, too modern to be as yet duly appreciated, Moscow has been obliged to have recourse to commerce and industry. They boast of its silk manufactories. But the history and the architecture are still here to preserve its imprescriptible rights to political supremacy. The Russian government favors the pursuits of industry: being unable altogether to stem the torrent of the age, it prefers enriching the people to enfranchising them.
This evening, towards ten o’clock, the sun sank, and the moon rose. The turrets of the convents, the spires of the chapels, the towers, the battlements, the palaces, and all the irregular and frowning masses of buildings that form the Kremlin, were here and there swathed with wreaths of light as resplendent as golden fringes, while the body of the city was seen only by the remaining beams of day, which momentarily faded on the painted tiles, the copper cupolas, the gilded chains, and the metallic roofs, that make the firmament of Moscow. These edifices, the general grouping of which gives the idea of some rich tapestry, still however stood in richly colored relief against the faint blue ground of heaven. It seemed as though the sun were willing to give a parting salute to the ancient capital of Russia. This adieu appeared to me magnificent; although clouds of mosquitoes buzzed about my ears, and my eyes were filled with the dust of the streets, kept in continual motion by the thousands of vehicles moving about, at a gallop, in all directions.
The most numerous were the truly national droshkies, those tiny summer sledges, which being unable conveniently to carry more than one person at a time, are multiplied to infinity in order to meet the wants of an active population, numerous, but lost in the circuit of so immense a city. The dust of Moscow is excessively troublesome, being fine as the lightest ashes. We have still a burning temperature. The Russians are astonished at the intensity and duration of the heat of this summer.
The first thing that struck me in the streets of Moscow was the more lively, free, and careless bearing of the population as compared with that of Petersburg. An air of liberty is here breathed that is unknown to the rest of the empire. It is this which explains to me the secret aversion of the sovereigns to the old city, which they flatter, fear, and fly. The Emperor Nicholas, who is a good Russian, says he is very fond of it: but I cannot see that he resides in it more than did his predecessors, who detested it.
This evening, a few streets were partially illuminated. It is difficult to understand the taste of the Russians for illuminations, when we recollect that during the short season, when they can alone enjoy this kind of spectacle, there is scarcely any night in the latitude of Moscow, and still less in that of Petersburg.
On returning to my lodgings, I asked the cause of these moderate demonstrations of joy, and was informed that the illumination was in honor of the anniversaries of the births or baptisms of all the members of the Imperial family. There are, in Russia, so many permanent fêtes of this sort, that they pass almost unnoticed. This indifference proves to me that fear can be sometimes imprudent, that it does not always know how to flatter so well as it would wish to do. Love is the only really skillful flatterer, because its praises, even when most exaggerated, are sincere. This is a truth which conscience vainly preaches in the ear of despots.
I slowly followed the promenaders of the streets, and after having ascended and descended several declivities in the wake of a wave of idle loungers, whom I mechanically took for guides, I reached the center of the city, a shapeless square, adjoining which was a garden, with alleys of trees brilliantly lighted, and under the shade of which could be heard the sound of distant music. Several open cafés tended further to remind me of Europe; but I could not interest myself in these amusements: I was beneath the walls of the Krelim,— that colossal mountain raised for tyranny by the hands of slaves. For the modern city a public promenade has been made, a species of garden planted, in the English taste, round the walls of the ancient fortress of Moscow.
How am I to describe the walls of the Kremlin? The word wall gives an idea of quite too ordinary an object; it would deceive the reader: the walls of the Kremlin are a chain of mountains. This citadel, reared on the confines of Europe and Asia, is, as compared with ordinary ramparts, what the Alps are to our hills: the Kremlin is the Mont Blanc of fortresses. If the giant that is called the Russian Empire had a heart, I should say that the Kremlin was the heart of the monster; but, as it is, I would call it the head.
I wish I could give an idea of this mighty pile of stones, reared step by step into the heavens; this asylum of despotism, raised in the name of liberty: for the Kremlin was a barrier opposed to the Kalmyks by the Russians: its walls have equally aided the independence of the state and the tyranny of the sovereign. They are boldly carried over the deep sinuosities of the soil. When the declivities of the hillocks become too precipitous, the rampart is lowered by steps: these steps, rising between heaven and earth, are enormous; they are the ladders of the giants who make war against the gods.
The line of the first girdle of structures is broken by fantastic towers, so elevated, strong, and grotesque in appearance as to remind one of the peaks in Switzerland, with their many-shaped rocks, and their many-colored glaciers. The obscurity no doubt contributed to increase the size of objects, and to give them unusual forms and tints,—I say tints, for night, like engravings, has its coloring. To behold gentlemen and ladies, dressed à la parisienne, promenading at the feet of this fabulous palace, was to fancy myself in a dream. What would Ivan III, the restorer, or it might be said the founder of the Kremlin, have thought, could he have beheld at the foot of the sacred fortress his old Muscovites, shaved, curled, and dressed in frock coats, white pantaloons, and yellow gloves, eating ices, seated before a brightly lighted café? He would have said, as I do, it is impossible! and yet this is now seen every summer evening in Moscow.
I have, then, wandered in the public gardens planted on the glacis of the ancient citadel of the czars; I have seen the towers, wall above wall, the platforms, terrace upon terrace, and my eyes have swept over an enchanted city. It would need the eloquence of youth, which everything astonishes and surprises, to find words analogous to these prodigious things. Above a long vault through which I passed, I perceived a raised viaduct, by which carriages and foot passengers entered the holy city. The spectacle was bewildering; nothing but towers, gates, and terraces, raised one above the other, steep slopes and piled arches, all serving to form the road by which the Moscow of the present day, the vulgar Moscow, is left for the Kremlin—the Moscow of miracle and of history. These aqueducts, without water, support other stories of more fantastic edifices. I observed, raised upon one of the hanging passages, a low round tower, all bristling with battlements of spearheads. The silver brightness of this ornament contrasted singularly with the blood red of the walls. The tower seemed like a crowned giant standing before the fortress of which he was the guardian. What is there that one could not see when wandering by the light of the moon at the foot of the Kremlin? There, everything is supernatural; the mind believes in specters in spite of itself. Who could approach without a religious terror this sacred bulwark, a stone of which, disturbed by Bonaparte, rebounded even to St. Helena, and crushed the conqueror in the bosom of the ocean! Pardon, reader, I am born in the age of grandiloquence.
The newest of the new schools is endeavoring to banish it, and to simplify language upon the principle that people the most devoid of imagination are those who most carefully shun the errors of a faculty which they do not possess. I can admire a puritanical style when it is employed by superior talents, talents capable of divesting it of all monotony, but I cannot imitate it.
After having seen all that I have gazed upon this evening, it would be wise to return straight to one’s own country: the excitement of the journey is exhausted.