which the babies are received, washed, weighed, and numbered. It was
early in December when I was there, but the numbers on the ivory disks
suspended from the new arrivals' necks were a good many hundred above
seventeen thousand. As they begin each year with No. 1, I think the
whole number of foundlings for that particular year must have been
between eighteen and nineteen thousand. The children are put out to
board, after a short stay at the asylum, in peasant families, which
receive a small sum per month for taking care of them. When the boys
grow up they count as members of the family in a question of army
service, and the sons of the family can escape their turn, I was told,
if matters are rightly managed. The girls become uniformed servants in
the government institutions for the education of girls of the higher
classes, or marry peasants.
The most famous of the gates which lead from the White Town through the
white, machicolated walls into China Town* is the Iversky, or gate of
the Iberian Virgin. The gate has two entrances, and between these
tower-crowned openings stands a chapel of malachite and marble, gilded
bronze and painting. The Iversky Virgin who inhabits the chapel, though
"wonder-working," is only a copy of one in the monastery on Mount Athos.
She was brought to Russia in 1666, and this particular chapel was built
for her by Katherine II. Her garment and crown of gold weigh between
twenty-seven and twenty-eight pounds, and are studded with splendid
jewels. But the Virgin whom one sees in the chapel is not even this
copy, but a copy of the copy. The original Virgin, as we may call the
first copy for convenience, is in such great demand for visits to
convents and monasteries, to private houses and the shops of wealthy and
devout merchants, that she is never at home from early morn till late at
night, and the second copy represents her to the thousands of prayerful
people of all classes, literally, who stop to place a candle or utter a
petition. The original Virgin travels about the town, meanwhile, in a
blue coach adorned with her special device, like a coat of arms, and
drawn by six horses; and the persons whom she honors with a visit offer
liberal gifts. The heads of her coachman, postilions, and footman are
supposed to be respectfully bared in all weathers, but when it is very
cold these men wind woolen shawls, of the nondescript, dirt color, which
characterizes the hair of most peasants, adroitly round their heads,
allowing the fringe to hang and simulate long locks. The large image of
the Virgin, in its massive frame, occupies the seat of honor. A priest
and a deacon, clad in crimson velvet and gold vestments, their heads
unprotected, even in the most severe weather, by anything but their own
thick hair, sit respectfully with their backs to the horses. When the
Virgin drives along, passers-by pause, salute, and cross themselves.
Evidently, under these circumstances, it is difficult for a foreigner to
get a view of the original Virgin. We were fortunate, however. Our first
invitation in Moscow was from the Abbess of an important convent to be
present at one of the services which I have mentioned,--a sort of
invocation of the Virgin's blessing,--in her cell, and at the
conclusion of the service we were asked if we would not like to "salute
the Virgin" and take a sip of the holy water "for health." Of course we
did both, as courtesy demanded. Some time after that, as we were driving
along the principal street of China Town, I saw an imposing equipage
approaching, and remarked, "Here comes the Iversky Virgin."
* Ancient Moscow, lying in a walled semicircle just outside the walls of
the Kremlin. All the trading was done on the "Red Square," where the
Gostinny Dvor now stands, and all Oriental merchants were known by the
common designation of "Chinese." At the present day "Chinese" has been
replaced by "German," to designate foreigners in general.
"Excuse me, madam," said my cabman,--I had not addressed him, but as I
had spoken involuntarily in Russian he thought I had,--"it is not the
Virgin, it is only the Saviour. Don't you see that there are only four
horses?"
"Very true; and St. Sergius drives with three, and St. Pantaleimon with
two,--do they not? Tell me, which of them all would you ask to visit
you, if you wished a blessing?"
"St. Pantaleimon is a good, all-round saint, who helps well in most
cases," he replied thoughtfully. This seemed a good opportunity to get a
popular explanation of a point which had puzzled me.
"Which," I asked, "is the real miraculous Iversky Virgin?--the one in
the chapel, the one who rides in the carriage, or the original on Mount
Athos?"
"It is plain that you don't understand in the least," answered my
_izvostchik_, turning round in his seat and imperiling our lives by his
driving, while he plunged into the subject with profound earnestness.
"None of them is the Virgin, and all of them are the Virgin. All the
different Virgins are merely different manifestations of the Virgin to
men. The Virgin herself is in heaven, and communicates her power where
she wills. It is like the Life-giving Trinity." Assuming that as a
foreigner, and consequently a heretic, I did not understand the doctrine
of the Trinity, he proceeded to expound it, and did it extremely well. I
lent half an ear in amazement to him, and half an ear I reserved for the
objurgations of the drivers who were so good as to spare our lives in
that crowded thoroughfare while my theological lesson was in progress.
While I am speaking of this unusual cabman, I may mention some unusual
private coachmen in Moscow who use their masters' sledges and carriages
for public conveyances while their owners are safely engaged in theatre
or restaurant. I do not think that trick could be played in Petersburg.
I found it out by receiving an amazingly reasonable offer from a very
well-dressed man with a superb gray horse and a fine sledge. As we
dashed along at lightning speed, I asked the man whether he owned that
fine turnout or worked on wages. "I own it myself," he said curtly.
Therefore, when I alighted, I slipped round behind the sledge and
scrutinized it thoroughly under the gaslight. The back was decorated
with a monogram and a count's coronet in silver! After that I never
asked questions, but I always knew what had happened when I picked up
very comfortable equipages at very reasonable rates in places which were
between gas lanterns and near theatres and so forth.
I should not be doing my duty by a very important factor in Russian life
if I omitted an illustration of the all-pervading influence of
"official" rank, and the prestige which acquaintance with officialdom
lends even to modest travelers like ourselves. It was, most
appropriately, in the Kremlin, the heart of Russia, that we were favored
with the most amusing of the many manifestations of it which came within
our experience. We were looking at the objects of interest in the
Treasury, when I noticed a large, handsomely bound book, flanked by pen
and ink, on a side table. I opened the book, but before I could read a
word an attendant pounced upon me.
"Don't touch that," he said peremptorily.
"Why not? If you do not wish people to look at this collection of
ancient documents,--I suppose that is what it is,--you should lock
it up, or label it 'Hands off!'"
"It is n't ancient documents, and you are not to touch it," he said,
taking the book out of my hands. "It is strictly reserved for the
signatures of _distinguished_ visitors,--crowned heads, royal princes,
ambassadors, and the like."
"Then it does not interest me in the least, and if you would label it to
that effect, no one would care to disturb it," I said.
Very soon afterwards we were joined by one of the powerful officials of
the Kremlin. He had made an appointment to show us about, but was
detained for a few moments, and we had come on alone and were waiting
for him. As we went about with him the attendants hovered respectfully
in the rear, evidently much impressed with the friendly, unofficial tone
of the conversation. When we had made the round with much deliberation,
we excused our official friend to his duties, saying that we wished to
take another look at several objects.
No sooner was he gone than the guardian of the autograph album pounced
upon us again, and invited us to add our "illustrious" names to the
list. I refused; he entreated and argued. It ended in his fairly
dragging us to the table and standing guard over us while we signed the
sacred book. I did not condescend to examine the book, though I should
have been permitted then; but--I know which three royal princes
immediately preceded us.
As I am very much attached to the Russian Church, anything connected
with it always interested me deeply. One of the prominent features of
Moscow is the number of monasteries and convents. The Russian idea of
monastic life is prayer and contemplation, not activity in good works.
The ideal of devout secular life is much the same. To meet the wants in
that direction of people who do not care to join the community, many of
the convents have small houses within their inclosures, which they let
out to applicants, of whom there is always an abundance. The occupants
of these houses are under no restrictions whatever, except as to
observing the hours of entry and exit fixed by the opening and closing
of the convent gates; but, naturally, it is rather expected of them that
they will attend more church services than the busy people of "the
world." The sight of these little houses always oppressed me with a
sense of my inferiority in the matter of devoutness. I could not imagine
myself living in one of them, until I came across a group of their
occupants engaged in discussing some racy gossip with the nuns on one of
the doorsteps. Gossip is not my besetting weakness, but I felt relieved.
Convents are not aristocratic institutions in Russia as they are in
Roman Catholic countries, and very few ladies by birth and education
enter them. Those who do are apt to rise to the post of abbess,
influential connections not being superfluous in any calling in Russia
any more than in other countries.
If I were a nun I should prefer activity. I think that contemplation,
except in small doses, is calculated to produce stupidity. Illustration:
I was passing along a street in Moscow when my eye fell upon an elderly
nun seated at the gate of a convent, with a little table whereon stood a
lighted taper. Beside the taper, on a threadbare piece of black velvet,
decorated with the customary cross in gold braid, lay a few copper coins
before a dark and ancient _ikona_. Evidently, the public was solicited
to contribute in the name of the saint there portrayed, though I could
not recollect that the day was devoted to a saint of sufficient
importance to warrant the intrusion of that table on the narrow
sidewalk. I halted and asked the nun what day it was, and who was the
saint depicted in the image. She said she did not know. This seemed
incredible, and I persisted in my inquiry. She called a policeman from
the middle of the street, where he was regulating traffic as usual, and
asked him about the _ikona_ and the day, with the air of a helpless
child. Church and State set to work guessing with great heartiness and
good-will, but so awkwardly that it was the easiest thing in the world
for me to refute each successive guess. When we tired of that, I gave
the nun a kopek for the entertainment she had unconsciously afforded,
and thanked the policeman, after which the policeman and I left the good
nun sitting stolidly at the receipt of custom.
Quite at the opposite pole was my experience one hot summer day in the
Cathedral of the Assumption, where the emperors have been crowned for
centuries; or, to speak more accurately, the two poles met and embraced
in that church, the heart of the heart of Holy Russia. The early
Patriarchs and Metropolitans are buried in this cathedral in superb
silver-gilt coffins. Of these, the tomb and shrine of Metropolitan Jona
seems to be the goal of the most numerous pilgrimages. I stood near it,
in the rear corner of the church, one Sunday morning, while mass was in
progress. An unbroken stream of people, probably all of them pilgrims to
the Holy City, her saints and shrines, passed me, crossed themselves,
knelt in a "ground reverence," kissed the saint's coffin, then the hand
of the priest, who stood by to preserve order and bless each person as
he or she turned away. To my surprise, I heard many of them inquire the
name of the shrine's occupant _after_ they had finished their prayers.
After the service and a little chat with this priest, who seemed a very
sensible man, we went forward to take another look at the Vladimir
Virgin, the most famous and historical in all Russia, in her golden
case. A gray-haired old army colonel, who wore the Vladimir cross,
perceiving from our speech that we were foreigners, politely began to
explain to us the noteworthy points about the church and the Virgin. It
soon appeared, however, that we were far more familiar with them all
than he was, and we fell into conversation.
"I am stationed in Poland," he said, "and I have never been in Moscow
before. I am come on a pilgrimage to the Holy City, but everything is so
dear here that I must deny myself the pleasure of visiting many of the
shrines in the neighborhood. It is a great happiness to me to be present
thus at the mass in my own _pravoslavny_ church, and in Moscow."
"But there are Orthodox churches in Poland, surely," I said.
"Yes," he replied, "there are a few; and I go whenever I get a chance."
"What do you do when you have not the chance?"
"I go to whatever church there is,--the Roman Catholic, the Lutheran,
the Synagogue."
"Is that allowed?" I asked. I knew very well that Russians attend Roman
Catholic and Protestant churches when abroad, as a matter of course,
though I had not before heard of the Synagogue in the list, and I wished
to hear what the earnest old colonel would say.
"Why not? why should n't I?" he replied. "We all go to church to worship
God and to pray to Him. Does it matter about the form or the language? A
man has as much as he can do to be a Christian and an honest man,--
which are two very different things nowadays, apparently,--without
troubling himself about those petty details."
It is almost superfluous to say that we swore friendship with the
colonel on the spot, on those foundations. Our acquaintance ended with
our long talk there in the cathedral, since we could not well stop in
Poland to accept the delightful old officer's invitation to visit him
and his wife. But the friendship remains, I hope.
When he left us, a young fellow about seventeen years of age, who had
been standing near us and listening to the last part of our conversation
with an air of profound and respectful interest which obviated all trace
of impertinence, stepped up and said:--
"May I have the pleasure of showing you about the cathedral? You seem to
appreciate our Russian ways and thoughts. I have taken a good deal of
interest in studying the history and antiquities of my native city, and
I may be able to point out a few things to you here."
He was a pleasant-faced young fellow, with modest, engaging manners; a
student in one of the government institutions, it appeared. He looked
very cool and comfortable in a suit of coarse gray linen. He proved to
be an admirable cicerone, and we let him escort us about for the
pleasure of listening, though we had seen everything many times already.
I commented on his knowledge, and on the evident pride which he took in
his country, and especially in his church, remarking that he seemed to
be very well informed on many points concerning the latter, and able to
explain the reasons for things in an unusual way.
"Yes," he answered, "I am proud and fond of my country and my church.
We Russians do not study them as we should, I am ashamed to say. There,
for instance, is my cousin, Princess----, who is considered a very
well-informed young woman on all necessary points. She was to make her
communion, and so some one brought her to the church while the Hours
were being read, as is proper, though she usually comes very much later.
She had not been there ten minutes before she began to ask: 'When does
the Sacrament come? Is n't it pretty soon?' and she kept that up at
short intervals, despite all I could do to stop her. I am quite sure,"
he added, "that I need not explain to you, though you are a foreigner,
where the Hours and the Sacrament come in the service?"
"No: the Hours precede the Liturgy, and the administration of the
Sacrament comes very nearly at the end of all."
"Exactly. You understand what a disgrace such ignorance was on my
cousin's part."
He was charming, amusingly frank on many points which I had supposed to
be rather delicate with members of the "Orthodox" (as I must call it for
the lack of a possible English equivalent for _pravoslavny_) Russian
Church, but so well-bred and intelligent, withal, that we were sincerely
sorry to say good-by to him at the door of our hotel.
XIII.
THE NIZHNI NOVGOROD FAIR AND THE VOLGA.
The most picturesque and appropriate way of reaching Nizhni Novgorod is
by the Volga, with which its life is so intimately connected, and the
most characteristic time to see the Volga steamers is on the way
upstream during the Fair.
What an assortment of people we had on board! To begin with, our boat
was commanded by a Vice-Admiral in full uniform. His family was with
him, spending the summer on board sailing up and down the river between
Nizhni Novgorod and Astrakhan.
The passengers over whom the vice-admiral ruled were delightfully
varied. There were Russians from every quarter of the empire, and of as
many races, including Armenians. One of the latter, an old man with a
physiognomy not to be distinguished, even by our Russian friends who
were traveling with us, from that of a Jew, seemed to take no interest
in anything except in telling over a short rosary of amber beads, and
standing guard at all stopping-places over his cabin, which he was
determined to occupy alone, though he had paid but one fare. After he
had done this successfully at several landing-places and had consigned
several men to the second cabin, an energetic man appealed to the
admiral. It required some vigorous language and a threat to break open
the door if the key were not forthcoming, before the admiral could
overcome the resistance of the obstinate old Armenian, who protested, in
very bad Russian, that he was very ill indeed, and should certainly die
if any one entered his cabin. He was still alive when we reached the end
of our voyage, and had cleverly made his cabin-mate pay for all his
food.
Among the second-class passengers was a party of students returning to
the University of Kazan. They exhibited all degrees of shabbiness, but
this was only the modest plumage of the nightingale, apparently. For
hours they sang songs, all beautiful, all strange to us, and we listened
entranced until tea, cigarettes, and songs came to an end in time to
permit them a few hours of sleep before we reached their landing. The
third-class passengers, who were also lodged on the upper deck, aft,
included Tatars and other Mohammedans from the Orient, who spread their
prayer-rugs at sundown and went through their complicated devotions with
an air of being quite oblivious to spectators. Several got permission
from the admiral to ascend to the hurricane deck. But this, while
unnecessary as a precaution against crowding or interference from their
numerous Russian fellow-passengers, rendered them more conspicuous; and
even this was not sufficient to make the instinctively courteous
Russians stare at or notice them.
The fourth-class passengers were on the lower deck. Among them was a
company of soldiers in very shabby uniforms, who had been far down the
river earning a little money by working in the harvest fields, where
hands are always too few, and who were returning to garrison at Kazan.
Some enterprising passengers from Astrakhan had laid in a large stock of
the delicious round watermelons and luscious cantaloupe melons. By the
time we reached Kazan, there were not many melons left in that
improvised shop on the lower deck, Russians are as fond of watermelons
as are the American negroes.
At Samara we had seen enormous bales of camel's-hair, weighing upwards
of eight hundred pounds, in picturesque mats of red, yellow, and brown,
taken on board for the Fair. The porters seemed to find it easy to carry
them on their backs, aided only by a sort of small chair-back, with a
narrow, seat-like projection at the lower end, which was fastened by
straps passing over the shoulders and under the arms. When we left
Kazan, I noticed that a huge open barge was being towed upstream
alongside us, that it was being filled with these bales, to lighten the
steamer for the sand-bars and shallows of the upper river, and that a
monotonous but very musical cadence was being repeated at intervals, in
muffled tones, somewhere on board. I went down to the cargo department
of the lower deck and found the singers,--the herculean porters. One
after another they bent their backs, and two mates hoisted the huge
bales, chanting a refrain which enabled them to move and lift in unison.
The words were to the following effect: "If all don't grasp together, we
cannot lift the weight." The music was sad, but irresistibly sweet and
fascinating, and I stood listening and watching until the great barge
was filled and dropped behind, for the company's tug to pick up and tow
to Nizhni with a string of other barges.
It is probably a vulgar detail, but I must chronicle the fact that the
cooking on these Volga steamers--on the line we patronized, at least
--is among the very best to be found in Russia, in my experience. On
the voyage upstream, when they are well supplied with sterlet and other
fish, all alive, from Astrakhan, the dinners are treats for which one
may sigh in vain in the capitals of St. Petersburg and Moscow, with
their mongrel German-French-Russian cookery. The dishes are very
Russian, but they are very good.
I remember one particularly delicious concoction was composed of fresh
sterlet and sour cabbage, with white grapes on top, baked to a brown
crispness.
We arrived at our wharf on the Volga front of the old town of Nizhni
Novgorod about five o'clock in the afternoon. Above us rose the steep
green hills on whose crest stood the Kremlin, containing several ancient
churches, the governor's house, and so forth. On a lower terrace, to
right and left, stood monasteries and churches intermingled with shops
and mediocre dwellings. The only noteworthy church was that in front of
us, with its picturesque but un-Russian rococo plaster decoration on red
brick, crowned by genuine Russian domes and crosses of elaborately
beautiful patterns.
But we did not pause long to admire this part of the view, which was
already familiar to us. What a change had come over the scene since we
had bidden it farewell on our way downstream! Then everything was dead,
or slumbering, except the old town, the city proper; and that had not
seemed to be any too much awake or alive. The Fair town, situated on the
sand-spit between the Volga and the mouth of the Oka, stood locked up
and deserted, as it had stood since the close of last year's Fair. Now,
as we gazed over the prow of the steamer, we could see the bridge across
the Oka black with the swarming masses of pedestrians and equipages.
The steamer company allows its patrons to sleep (but not to eat) on
board the night after arrival and the night before starting, and we
availed ourselves of the privilege, having heard that it was often no
easy matter to secure accommodations in the Fair, and having no
intention of returning to our former hotel, miles from all the fun, in
the upper town, if we could help it.
The only vacant rooms in the Fair seemed to be at the "best hotel," to
which we had been recommended, with a smile of amusement which had
puzzled us, by a Moscow friend, an officer in the army. Prices were very
high at this hotel, which, like American summer hotels, is forced to
make its hay for the year during the season of six weeks, after which it
is locked up. Our room was small; the floor, of rough boards, was bare;
the beds were not comfortable. For the same price, in Petersburg or
Moscow, we should have had a spacious room on the _bel etage_,
handsomely furnished, with rugs on an inlaid floor.