MOSCOW lies in almost the only mountainous district in the center of Russia. Not that this word is to suggest the idea of Switzerland or Italy: the soil is uneven. Nothing more to it. But the contrast presented by these hills, rising in the middle of an expanse, where both the eye and the thoughts lose themselves as on the savannas of America or the steppes of Asia, produces an effect that is very striking. Moscow is the city of panoramas. With its commanding sites and its grotesque edifices, which might serve as models for the fantastic compositions of Martin, it recalls the idea which we form, without knowing why, of Persepolis, Baghdad, Babylon, or Palmyra,—romantic capitals of fabulous lands, whose history is a poem, and whose architecture is a dream. In a word, at Moscow, we forget Europe. This was what I did not know in France, although I had read nearly all the travelers’ descriptions of the city. They have, then, failed in their duty. There is one especially whom I cannot pardon for not having permitted others to enjoy his visit to Russia. No descriptions are equal to the sketches of a painter, exact, and, at the same time, picturesque, like Horace Vernet. What man was ever more gifted to perceive, and to make others perceive, the spirit that breathes in things? The truth of painting lies not so much in the form as in the expression of objects: he understood them like a poet, and transferred them like an artist; consequently, every time I feel the insufficiency of my words, I am inclined to be angry with Horace Vernet.
Here, every view is a landscape. If art has done little for Moscow, the whim of the builders and the force of circumstances have created marvels. The extraordinary forms of the edifices, and the grandeur of the masses, strongly impress the imagination. The enjoyment, it must be owned, is of an inferior order: Moscow is not the product of genius; connoisseurs will there find no monuments of art worthy of a minute examination: those monuments are rather the strange and deserted habitations of some race of giants; they are the works of the Cyclopes. In a city where no great artist has left the impress of his thoughts, we may feel astonishment, but nothing more, and astonishment is soon exhausted. However, there is nothing here, not even the disenchantment that follows the first surprise, from which I cannot draw a lesson: more particularly am I struck with the visible intimate connection between the aspect of the city and the character of the people. The Russians love all that dazzles; they are easily seduced by appearances: to excite envy, no matter at what price, constitutes their happiness. The English are gnawed by pride, the Russians are corroded with vanity.
I feel the necessity of here reminding the reader that generalities always pass for injustices. Once for all, I would state that my observations never exclude exceptions; and I avail myself of the occasion to express the respect and admiration I entertain for the merits and agreeable qualities of individuals to whom my criticisms do not apply.
Other travelers have observed before I did, that the less we know of a Russian the more amiable we find him. The Russians have retorted upon those travelers, that they spoke in their own disparagement, and that the coolness of which they complained only proved their want of merit. “We gave you a good reception,” they add, “because we are naturally hospitable; and if we afterwards changed in our manner towards you, it was because we thought more highly of you at first than you deserved.” Such an answer was made a considerable time ago to a French traveler, an able writer, but whose position obliged him to be excessively reserved. I do not mean here to cite either his name or his book. The few truths which, in his prudent recitals, he allowed himself to expose, placed him in a very disagreeable position. This was the penalty for denying himself the free exercise of his intellect, in order to submit to expectations which can never be satisfied; not any more by flattering them than by doing them justice. It would cost less to brave them; and on this opinion the reader will perceive I act.
Moscow prides herself on the progress of her manufactures. The Russian silks here contend with those of both East and West. The merchant quarter, the Kitaigorod, as well as the street called the Bridge of the Marshals, where the most elegant shops are found, are reckoned among the curiosities of the city. If I mention them it is because I think that the efforts the Russians are making to free themselves from the tribute which they pay to the industry of other nations, may produce important political consequences in Europe.
The liberty that reigns in Moscow is illusive; yet it cannot be denied that, in its streets, there are men who appear to move spontaneously, who think and act under an impulse of their own. Moscow is in this respect very different from Petersburg. Among the causes of the difference, I place in the first rank the vast extent and the varied surface of the territory in the midst of which it stands. Space and inequality (I here take this word in all its acceptations) are the elements of liberty; for absolute equality is the synonym of tyranny, though it is the minority who may be placed under the yoke: liberty and equality exclude each other by the operation of reserve and combinations, more or less abstruse, which neutralize the effect of things while preserving their names.
Moscow remains almost buried in the midst of a country of which it is the capital: hence the seal of originality impressed upon its buildings, the air of liberty which distinguishes its inhabitants, and the little inclination of the czars for a residence of which the aspect is so independent. The czars, ancient tyrants mitigated by the fashion which has metamorphosed them into emperors, and even into amiable men, fly Moscow. They prefer Petersburg, with all its inconveniences, for they wish to be in continual communication with the west of Europe. Russia, as formed by Peter the Great, does not trust to herself to live and to learn. At Moscow, they could not obtain, within a week’s time, the little importations of the current anecdotes and small gossip of Paris, nor the ephemeral literature of Europe. These details, contemptible as they appear to us, furnish the chief excitement of the Russian court, and consequently of Russia.
If the freezing or the melting snow did not render railroads useless in this land during six or eight months of the year, we should see the Russian government surpass all others in the construction of those roads, which are, as it were, lessening the size of earth; for that government suffers more than any other from the inconveniences of distance. But, notwithstanding acceleration of the speed of traveling, a vast extent of territory will always be the chief obstacle to the circulation of ideas: for the soil will not allow itself, like the sea, to be crossed in all directions. The water, which, at first sight, appears destined to separate the inhabitants of the world, is the medium which, in reality, unites them. Wonderful problem! Man, the prisoner of God, is yet allowed to be the king of nature.
Certainly, were Moscow a seaport, or the center of a vast network of those metal wheel tracks, those electric conductors of human thought, destined to satisfy, in some respects, the impatient spirit of our age, we should not see what I saw yesterday at the English club house—military men, and fashionables of all ages, serious persons and giddy youths, making the sign of the cross, and remaining silent for some moments before sitting down at table—not a family table, but a table d’hôte. Those who disclaim all religion (and there is here a considerable number of such) viewed the others without any surprise. It may still be seen that there are eight hundred good leagues between Paris and Moscow.
The palace belonging to the club is large and handsome. The entire establishment is well planned and skillfully directed; everything is about the same as in the clubs of other places. This did not surprise me; but the pious feeling of the Russians I sincerely admired, and said as much to the person who had introduced me.
We were talking together, after dinner, in the garden of the club.
“We must not be judged by appearances,” replied my companion, who is, as I am about to show, one of the most enlightened of the Russians.
“It is precisely these appearances,” I replied, “which inspire me with esteem for your nation. With us, people dread only hypocrisy; but the sneer of cynicism is even yet more injurious to society.”
“Yes, but it is less revolting to noble minds.”
“But, without further reference to general considerations, give me an idea of the actual state of religion in your country; tell me, how are the minds of the men who teach the Gospel in Russia cultivated?”
Although I addressed a man of superior mind, the question would have been an indiscreet one at Petersburg: at Moscow I felt I might risk it, confiding in that mysterious liberty that reigns in this city, though we can neither fully account for nor define it; and though the confidence which it inspires may sometimes have to be dearly paid for.[1] The following is the summary of my Russian philosopher’s reply: I use the word philosopher in its most favorable signification. After years passed in different European countries, he has returned to Russia very liberal, but very consistent. His reply then was as follows:—
“There has always been very little preaching in the schismatic churches; and among us, the political and religious authority has been opposed more than elsewhere to theological discussions. Whenever there has been a wish to commence the debate of the questions at issue between Rome and Byzantium, silence has been imposed upon both parties. The points in dispute are of so little moment that the quarrel can only be perpetuated by means of ignorance. In several public institutions for education some religious instruction has been from time to time given, but this is only tolerated, and often forbidden: it is a positive, although it may appear to you an incredible fact, that religion is not publicly taught in Russia. The result is a multitude of sects, of which the government would not endure that you should suspect the existence.
“There is one which tolerates polygamy; another goes farther, and maintains not only the principle but the practice of promiscuous intercourse between the sexes.
“Our priests are forbidden to write even historical scripture; our peasants are constantly interpreting passages from the Bible, which, taken separately, without the context, and falsely applied, frequently give rise to some new heresy, most generally Calvinistic in its character. Before the pope of the village discovers it, it has already gained a hold among the inhabitants, and often spread among the neighboring populations. Should the priest then treat the matter publicly, the contaminated peasants are sent to Siberia, which ruins the lord of the soil, who consequently, if previously aware of the circumstance, finds more than one way of causing the pastor to preserve a silence: so that, when at last the heresy does break out and attract the eyes of the supreme authority, the number of seceders is so considerable that it is no longer possible to act against them. Violence would divulge the mischief without stifling it; persuasion would open a door for discussion— the worst of all evils in the eyes of an absolute government: they can, therefore, do nothing but have recourse to silence, under whose veil the evil is concealed, without being cured; on the contrary it gradually spreads.
“It is by religious divisions that the Russian Empire will perish; therefore to envy in us, as you do, the power of faith, is to judge us without knowing us.”
Such is the opinion of the most clear-sighted and sincere men whom I have met in Russia.
A foreigner, worthy of credence and who has been long established in Moscow, has likewise informed me that he dined some years ago with a merchant of Petersburg and his three wives—not concubines, but legitimate wives. This merchant was a dissenter, a secret sectarian of some new church. I presume that the children borne him by his three helpmates would not be recognized as legitimate by the state; but his conscience as a Christian remained at ease.
If I had learnt this fact from a native, I might not have recounted it; for there are Russians who amuse themselves with lying, in order to perplex and lead astray too curious or too credulous travelers; a circumstance which tends to throw obstacles in the way of a pursuit, difficult everywhere, for those who would exercise it conscientiously, but doubly so here—I mean the pursuit of an observer.
The body of merchants is very powerful, very ancient, and very much esteemed in Moscow. The life of these rich dealers reminds us of the condition and manners of the Asiatic merchants, so well painted in the Arabian Nights. There are so many points of resemblance between Moscow and Baghdad, that in traveling through Russia we lose the curiosity to see Persia; we know it already.
I have just been present at a popular fête, held round the monastery of Deviche Pole. The actors are soldiers and peasants; the spectators people of the higher classes, who go there in great numbers. The tents and booths for drinking are placed close to the cemetery. The feast or fair is kept in commemoration of some Russian saint, whose relics and images are ceremoniously visited between two libations of kvass. This evening an inconceivable consumption of that national liquor has here taken place.
In general, the Russian convents have rather the appearance of a cluster of small houses, of a walled division of a city, than of a religious retreat. Being often destroyed and rebuilt, they have a modern look. In this climate nothing long resists the war of the elements. The whole country has the aspect of a colony founded but yesterday. The Kremlin alone seems destined to brave the storms, and to live as long as the empire, of which it is the emblem and the bulwark. The idea of the irrevocable is always solemn.
This evening, the tents where the holiday folks of Deviche Pole were congregated, emitted various scents, the mixture of which produced an atmosphere that was intolerable. There was perfumed Russian leather, spirituous liquors, sour beer, cabbages, the grease of the boots of Cossacks, and the musk and ambergris of numerous fashionable loiterers, who appeared determined to suffer from ennui, were it only out of aristocratic pride. I found it impossible long to breathe this mephitic air.
The greatest pleasure of the people is drunkenness; in other words, forgetfulness. Unfortunate beings! they must dream if they would be happy. As a proof of the good temper of the Russians, when the muzhiks get tipsy, these men, brutalized as they are, become softened, instead of infuriated. Unlike the drunkards of our country, who quarrel and fight, they weep and embrace each other. Curious and interesting nation! it would be delightful to make them happy. But the task is hard, if not impossible. Show me how to satisfy the vague desires of a giant, young, idle, ignorant, ambitious, and so shackled that he can scarcely stir hand or foot. Never do I pity this people without equally pitying the all-powerful man who is their master.
I soon left the taverns to walk in the square, where the promenaders raised clouds of dust. The summers of Athens are long, but the days are short, and, owing to the sea breeze, the air is scarcely hotter than it is at Moscow during the short northern heats. The unendurable summer of this year is, however, now nearly over; the nights return, and winter will soon follow. Beyond the fair, the view of the distant pine forests that surround the city with a girdle of mourning, the slowly decreasing tints of a long twilight, all tended to heighten the effect of the monotonous landscape of the North, upon the face of which poetry is written in a mystic tongue—a tongue that we do not understand.
I congratulate myself on having seen this festival, so devoid of gaiety, but, likewise, so different from those of other lands. The Cossacks were to be seen in great numbers among the promenaders and the drinkers who filled the square. They formed silent groups around singers, whose piercing voices chanted forth melancholy words set to a softly pleasing tune, although its rhythm was strongly marked. The air was the national song of the Don Cossacks. It has a kind of resemblance to some old Spanish melodies, but is more plaintive; it is soft, yet penetrating as the trill of the nightingale when heard at a distance, by night, in the depths of the woods. Now and then the bystanders repeated in chorus the last words of the strophe.
There is more melancholy than passion in the songs of the northern people; but the impression which they produce is never forgotten, whereas a more lively emotion soon vanishes. Melancholy is more abiding than passion. After having listened to this air for some time, I found it less monotonous and more expressive,—such is the ordinary effect of simple music; repetition imparts to it a new power.
[1]The reader will hereafter see the danger of such a confidence instanced by the arbitrary detention of a French citizen.