St. Petersburg.
From Novogorod to Petersburg, you see scarcely anything but marshes,
and you arrive in one of the finest cities in the world, as if, with
a magic wand, an enchanter had made all the wonders of Europe and
Asia start up from the middle of the deserts. The foundation of
Petersburg offers the greatest proof of that ardor of Russian will,
which recognizes nothing as impossible: everything in the environs
is humble; the city is built upon a marsh, and even the marble rests
on piles; but you forget when looking at these superb edifices,
their frail foundations, and cannot help meditating on the miracle
of so fine a city being built in so short a time. This people which
must always be described by contrasts, possesses an unheard of
perseverance in its struggles with nature or with hostile armies.
Necessity always found the Russians patient and invincible, but in
the ordinary course of life they are very unsteady. The same men,
the same masters, do not long inspire them with enthusiasm;
reflection alone can guarantee the duration of feelings and opinions
in the habitual quiet of life, and the Russians, like all people
subject to despotism, are more capable of dissimulation than
reflection.
On my arrival at Petersburg my first sentiment was to return thanks
to heaven for being on the borders of the sea. I saw waving on the
Neva the English flag, the symbol of liberty, and I felt that on
committing myself to the ocean, I might return under the immediate
power of the Deity; it is an illusion which one cannot help
entertaining, to believe one's self more under the hand of
Providence, when delivered to the elements than when depending on
men, and especially on that man who appears to be a revelation of
the evil principle on this earth.
Just facing the house which I inhabited at Petersburg was the statue
of Peter I.; he is represented on horseback climbing a steep
mountain, in the midst of serpents who try to stop the progress of
his horse. These serpents, it is true, are put there to support the
immense weight of the horse and his rider; but the idea is not a
happy one: for in fact it is not envy which a sovereign can have to
dread: neither are his adulators his enemies: and Peter I.
especially had nothing to fear during his life, but from Russians
who regretted the ancient customs of their country. The admiration
of him, however, which is still preserved is the best proof of the
good he did to Russia: for despots have no flatterers a hundred
years after their death. On the pedestal of the statue is written:
To Peter the First, Catherine the Second. This simple, yet proud,
inscription has the merit of truth. These two great monarchs have
elevated the Russian pride to the highest pitch; and to teach a
nation to regard itself as invincible, is to make it such, at least
within its own territory: for conquest is a chance which probably
depends more upon the faults of the vanquished than upon the genius
of the victor,
It is said, and properly, that you cannot, at Petersburg, say of a
woman, that she is as old as the streets, the streets themselves are
so modern. The buildings still possess a dazzling whiteness, and at
night when they are lighted by the moon, they look like large white
phantoms regarding, immoveable, the course of the Neva. I know not
what there is particularly beautiful in this river, but the waves of
no other I had yet seen ever appeared to me so limpid. A succession
of granite quays, thirty versts in length, borders its course, and
this magnificent labour of man is worthy of the transparent water
which it adorns. Had Peter I. directed similar undertakings towards
the South of his empire, he would not have obtained what he wished,
a navy; but he would perhaps have better conformed to the character
of his nation. The Russian inhabitants of Petersburg have the look
of a people of the South condemned to live in the North, and making
every effort to struggle with a climate at variance 'with their
nature. The inhabitants of the North are generally very indolent,
and dread the cold, precisely because he is their daily enemy. The
lower classes of the Russians have none of these habits; the
coachmen wait for ten hours at the gate, during winter, without
complaining; they sleep upon the snow, under their carriage, and
transport the manners of the Lazzaroni of Naples to the Sixtieth
degree of latitude. You may see them laying on the steps of
staircases, like the Germans in their down; sometimes they sleep
standing, with their head reclined against the wall. By turns
indolent and impetuous, they give themselves up alternately to
sleep, or to the most fatiguing employments. Some of them get drunk,
in which they differ from the people of the South, who are very
sober; but the Russians are so also, and to an extent hardly
credible, when the difficulties of war require it.
The great Russian noblemen also show, in their way, the tastes of
inhabitants of the South. You must go and see the different country
houses which they have built in the middle of an island formed by
the Neva, in the centre of Petersburg. The plants of the South, the
perfumes of the East, and the divans of Asia, embellish these
residences. By immense hot houses, in which the fruits of all
countries are ripened, an artificial climate is created. The
possessors of these palaces endeavour not to lose the least ray of
sun while he appears on their horizon; they treat him like a friend
who is about to take his departure, whom they have known formerly in
a more fortunate country.
The day after my arrival, I went to dine with one of the most
considerable merchants of the city, who exercised hospitality a la
Russe; that is to say, he placed a flag on the top of his house to
signify that he dined at home, and this invitation was sufficient
for all his friends. He made us dine in the open air, so much
pleasure was felt from these poor days of summer, of which a few yet
remained, to which we should have scarcely given the name in the
South of Europe. The garden was very agreeable; it was embellished
with trees and flowers; but at four paces from the house the deserts
and the marshes were again to be seen. In the environs of
Petersburg, nature has the look of an enemy who resumes his
advantages, when man ceases for a moment to struggle with him.
The next morning I repaired to the church of Our Lady of Casan,
built by Paul I. on the model of St. Peter's at Rome. The interior
of this church, decorated with a great number of columns of granite
is exceedingly beautiful; but the building itself displeases,
precisely because it reminds us of St. Peter's: and because it
differs from it so much the more, from the mere wish of imitation.
It is impossible to create in two years what cost the labour of a
century to the first artists of the universe. The Russians would by
rapidity escape from time as they do from space: but time only
preserves what it has founded, and the fine arts, of which
inspiration seems the first source, cannot nevertheless dispense
with reflection.
From Our Lady of Casan I went to the convent of St. Alexander
Newski, a place consecrated to one of the sovereign heroes of
Russia, who extended his conquests to the borders of the Neva. The
empress Elizabeth, daughter of Peter I. had a silver coffin made for
him, upon which it is customary to put a piece of money, as a pledge
of the vow which is recommended to the Saint. The tomb of Suwarow is
in this convent of Alexander Newski, but his name is its only
decoration; it is enough for him, but not for the Russians, to whom
he rendered such important services. This nation, however, is so
thoroughly military, that lofty achievements of that description
excite less astonishment in it than other nations.
The greatest families of Russia have erected tombs to their
relatives in the cemetery which belongs to the church of Newski, but
none of these monuments are worthy of remark; they are not
beautiful, regarded as objects of art, and no grand idea there
strikes the imagination. It is certain that the idea of death
produces little effect on the Russians; whether it is from courage,
or from the inconstancy of their impressions, long regrets are
hardly in their character; they are more susceptible of superstition
than emotion: superstition attaches to this life, and religion to
another; superstition is allied to fatality, and religion to virtue;
it is from the vivacity of earthly desires that we become
superstitious, and it is on the contrary by the sacrifice of these
same desires, that we are religious.
M. de Romanzow, the minister of foreign affairs in Russia, loaded me
with the most amiable attentions, and it was with regret that I
considered him as so implicated in the system of the emperor
Napoleon, that he must necessarily retire, like the English
ministers, when that system was abandoned. Doubtless, in an absolute
monarchy, the will of the master explains every thing; but the
dignity of a prime minister perhaps requires that words of an
opposite tendency should not proceed from the same mouth. The
sovereign represents the state, and the state may change its system
of politics whenever circumstances require it; but the minister is
only a man, and a man, on questions of this nature, ought to have
but one opinion in the course of his life. It is impossible to have
better manners than Count Romanzow, or to receive strangers more
nobly. I was at his house when the English envoy, Lord Tyrconnel,
and Admiral Bentinck were announced, both of them men of remarkably
fine appearance: they were the first English who had re-appeared on
that continent, from which the tyranny of one man had banished them.
After ten years of such fearful struggle, after ten years during
which victories and disasters had always found the English true to
the compass of their politics' conscience, they returned at last
into the country which first emancipated itself from the universal
monarchy. Their accent, their simplicity, their fierte, all awakened
in the soul that sentiment of truth in all things, which Napoleon
has discovered the art of obscuring in the eyes of those who have
only read his journals, and listened to his agents. I do not even
know if Napoleon's adversaries on the continent, constantly
surrounded with a false opinion which never ceases to deafen them,
can venture to trust themselves without apprehension to their own
feelings. If I can judge of them by myself, I know that frequently,
after having heard all the advices of prudence or meanness with
which one is overwhelmed in the Bonapartist atmosphere, I scarcely
knew what to think of my own opinion; my blood forbid me to renounce
it, but my reason was not always sufficient to preserve me from so
many sophisms. It was therefore with the most lively emotion that I
heard once more the voice of that England, with which we are almost
always sure to agree, when we endeavour to deserve our own esteem,
and that of persons of integrity.
The following day, I was invited by Count Orloff to come and spend
the day in the island which bears his name, and which is the most
agreeable of all those formed by the Neva; oaks, a rare production
in this country, overshadow the garden. The Count and Countess
Orloff employ their fortune in receiving strangers with equal
facility and magnificence; you are at your ease with them, as in a
country retreat, and you enjoy there all the luxury of cities. Count
Orloff is one of the most learned noblemen to be met with in Russia,
and his love of his country bears a profound character, with which
it is impossible to help being affected. The first day I passed at
his house, peace had just been proclaimed with England; it was a
Sunday; and in his garden, which was on that day opened to all
comers, we saw a great number of these long-bearded merchants, who
keep up in Russia the costume of the Moujiks, that is to say of the
peasants. A number of them collected to hear the delightful band of
music of Count Orloff; it gave us the English air of God save the
King, which is the song of liberty in a country, of which the
monarch is its first guardian. We were all much affected, and
applauded this air, which is become national for all Europeans; for
there are no longer but two kinds of men in Europe, those who serve
tyranny, and those who have learned to hate it. Count Orloff went up
to the Russian merchants, and told them that the peace between
England and Russia was celebrating; they immediately made the sign
of the cross, and thanked heaven that the sea was once more open to
them.
The isle Orloff is in the centre of all those which the great
noblemen of Petersburg, and the emperor and empress themselves, have
selected for their residence during summer. Not far from it is the
isle Strogonoff, the rich owner of which has brought from Greece
antiquities of great value. His house was open every day during his
life, and whoever had once been presented might return when they
chose; he never invited any one to dinner or supper on a particular
day; it was understood that once admitted, you were always welcome;
he frequently knew not half the persons who dined at his table: but
this luxurious hospitality pleased him like any other kind of
magnificence. The same practice prevails in many other houses at
Petersburg; it is natural to conclude from that, that what we call
in France the pleasures of conversation cannot be there met with:
the company is much too numerous to allow a conversation of any
interest even to be kept up in it. In the best society the most
perfect good manners prevail, but there is neither sufficient
information among the nobility, nor sufficient confidence among
persons living habitually under the influence of a despotic court
and government, to allow them to know any thing of the charms of
intimacy. The greater part of the great noblemen of Russia express
themselves with so much elegance and propriety, that one frequently
deceives one's self at the outset about the degree of wit and
acquirements of those with whom you are conversing. The debut is
almost always that of a gentleman or lady of fine understanding: but
sometimes also, in the long run, you discover nothing but the debut.
They are not accustomed in Russia to speak from the bottom of their
heart or understanding; they had in former times such fear of their
masters, that they have not yet been able to accustom themselves to
that wise freedom, for which they are indebted to the character of
Alexander.
Some Russian gentlemen have tried to distinguish themselves in
literature, and have given proofs of considerable talent in this
career; but knowledge is not yet sufficiently diffused to create a
public judgment formed by individual opinions. The character of the
Russians is too passionate to allow them to like ideas in the least
degree abstract; it is by facts only that they are amused; they have
not yet had time or inclination to reduce facts to general ideas. In
addition, every significant idea is always more or less dangerous,
in the midst of a court where mutual observation, and more
frequently envy are the predominant feelings.
The silence of the East is here transformed into amiable words, but
which generally never penetrate beyond the surface. One feels
pleasure for a moment in this brilliant atmosphere, which is an
agreeable dissipation of life; but in the long run no information is
acquired in it, no faculties are developed in it, and men who pass
their life in this manner never acquire any capacity for study or
business. Far otherwise was it with the society of Paris; there we
have seen men whose characters have been entirely formed by the
lively or serious conversation to which the intercourse between the
nobility and men of letters gave birth.