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FROM PARIS TO PEKIN OVER SIBERIAN SNOWS.
[Illustration: THE MONASTERY OF TROITSA.
[_Frontispiece._]
FROM PARIS TO PEKIN OVER SIBERIAN SNOWS.
A Narrative of a Journey by Sledge over the Snows of European
Russia and Siberia, by Caravan Through Mongolia,
Across the Gobi Desert and the Great Wall,
and by Mule Palanquin Through
China to Pekin.
by
VICTOR MEIGNAN,
Edited from the French by William Conn.
With supplementary notes not contained in the original edition.
[Illustration]
With a Map and Numerous Illustrations from
Sketches by the Author and Others.
London:
W. Swan Sonnenschein and Co.,
Paternoster Square.
1885.
Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Limited, London and Aylesbury.
PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION.
Embarrassed readers, who delight in books of travel, whether for the
recreation or the useful information they afford, are not relieved of
their difficulty when the title of the work, instead of indicating
the nature of the subject, only presents an enigma for them to solve.
How, for instance, is the reader to gauge the nature of the contents
of “Voyage en Zigzag?” It might mean the itinerary of some crooked
course among the Alps, or, perhaps, the log-book of a yacht chopping
about the Channel, or the record of anything but a straightforward
journey. Again, “By Land and Sea” might simply be the diary of a
holiday trip from London to Paris, or a _réchauffé_ of impressions of
a “globe-trotter,” who went to see what everybody talked about that
he also might talk about what he had seen. Then there are a host of
others, such as “Travels West,” “The Land of the North Wind”--which
one has to discover vaguely by ascertaining first where it does not
blow,--“Loin de Paris,” “Dans les Nuages,” “On Blue Water;” all of
which might be strictly applicable to the metropolitan area if the
water were only just a little bluer. But “Voyage Autour de ma Femme”
is still less intelligible. Is it a book of travel at all, or only
a romance, or a _comédie-vaudeville_? It may not be a _fantaisie_
like “Voyage Autour de ma Chambre,” nor even the record of a journey
necessarily performed within four walls, for--though I have not looked
at the book--it may be the narrative of an unsentimental journey, in
which the tourist had taken a holiday trip all around picturesque
Europe and his wife, leaving her at home; or it may be a sentimental
journey as touching as Sterne’s--a kind of circular tour _en petit_,
circumscribed by the ordinary length of the apron-string; in which
event, a very subjective turn of the _impressions de voyage_ would be
evident; and consequently would not suit readers who decidedly prefer
to regard what is presented from the objective side.
The reader will naturally discover from the title of this book the
traveller’s course, but he will at the same time, no doubt, desire to
know something of the character of the book.
It may gratify him to be told that essentially it is a personal
narrative, that cannot fail to interest those who like in a book of
travel a tale of life full of incident and adventure: it is one in
which his sympathies will be awakened and sustained in following the
traveller in his movements from day to day and from place to place, his
imagination being vividly stirred by the illusion that the participator
is, as it were, in the changing scenes and events passing before his
eyes like the tableaux of a diorama. And yet it must not be supposed,
because the writer’s chief object has been to give an interesting
personal narrative, that it is deficient in useful information: far
from it; but, instead of overcharging his book with minute details,
he has seized the more salient features of men and things. These are
presented from his own point of view as the result of intelligent
observation or discriminating hearsay.
The traveller, who is evidently a most genial companion, passes
lightly and rapidly over the well-known route from Paris to St.
Petersburg and Moscow in the short space of thirty pages. After taking
a glance at the wonders of the Kremlin and the monastery of Troïtsa,
probably the richest religious community in the world, with its heaps
of precious pearls and various gems, he passes on to the famous mart of
Nijni-Novgorod, along the frozen Oka and the Volga, through the country
of the Votiaks, and across the Ural Mountains into Siberia. Posting at
full gallop over the snowy way, sleeping, living altogether in fact, in
his sledge (for the luxury of beds is unknown in Siberian hotels), he
falls in with a series of adventures, sometimes amusing and sometimes
even tragic, in his progress over that vast territory that presents so
many strange races, and, in winter, so many remarkable scenes. At one
time he is in imminent peril of being lost in a snowstorm on the steppe
of Omsk, and at another on the frozen surface of the Baikal. He makes
an excursion on the way amid the wild Kirghiz, gets a peep at the life
of the Polish exiles, and at the gold miners and the people of Irkutsk
in their amusements and occupations. The grand scenes of nature,
particularly at this season, are all duly depicted with the emotion
of one alive to the beautiful and sublime: the wonderful atmospheric
effects of light at a very low temperature, the novel and changing
aspects of the steppes; the startling spectacle of the frozen Angara
and Lake Baikal, the grotesque aspect of the snow-capped forests, and
then, later, the picturesque, verdant valleys of China. In the course
of his journey through Mongolia, he enables us to get a glimpse at
those strange people the Mongols, their tent life, their city of tents,
their incessant prayer-turning as a chief occupation, and the fearful
character of some of their ceremonies. Then, after a caravan journey of
eighteen days across the trackless Desert of Gobi, he arrives at the
great Wall of China, and finally at Pekin, where he contemplates its
curiosities, its works of art, its people, their institutions and their
daily life.
Having thus given an outline of the book and its contents for the
reader’s guidance, I will proceed to explain why I have thought it
advisable to depart from a close imitation throughout of the original,
and to present, in fact, a modified version rather than a strict
translation.
The style of the original, though simple and unadorned, is frequently
slipshod; and the author--contrary to many French travellers, who often
make, and perhaps still oftener attempt to make, the subject of their
narrative a vehicle for epigram and sparkling and spirited diction--has
evidently thought more of conveying a truthful picture to the reader,
than of the mode of expression by which this could be most effectively
done. In many novel and interesting descriptions, for example, the
effect they are capable of producing is almost wholly lost through the
want of a more just co-ordination of parts and subordination of minor
details, and, occasionally, through the want of sufficient expansion,
lest the reader should not have time to contemplate and realize a quick
succession of fleeting images.
These, consequently, are some of the chief points I have attempted to
correct; though in making the attempt, I hope I may not have exposed
myself to an unpleasant suspicion, in the first place, of having
assumed too much assurance in undertaking uninvited to revise the
writing of another, and, in the next place, in certain _tableaux_,
which would be unattractive if obscure or colourless, of having
indulged in a taste for fine writing, when the sole object has been to
place the matter before the reader as lucidly and vividly as possible.
But it will probably more concern the reader to be assured that
the truthfulness of these descriptions, such as represented by the
traveller, has not been distorted in this manner of treating them. On
this point he may readily satisfy himself on taking the trouble to
compare some of them with those in the original edition. He will find,
I hope, that my work has not been in vain, and that I have contributed
something towards rendering more attractive this interesting narrative,
chiefly relating to that land over which Madame Cottin, Xavier de
Maistre, and other writers have thrown a glow of romance.
WILLIAM CONN.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
FROM PARIS TO ST. PETERSBURG.
PAGE
_En route_ by rail--Berlin--Annoyances at the Russian Custom
House--First aspect of European Russia--An evening on the
banks of the Neva 1
CHAPTER II.
ST. PETERSBURG TO MOSCOW.
Letters of recommendation for Siberia--M. Pfaffius, frontier
commissary at Kiachta--Russian music--Arrival at Moscow 19
CHAPTER III.
MOSCOW--NIJNI-NOVGOROD.
The Kremlin--Equipage and visits of the Virgin of Inverski--
Origin of Christianity in Russia--A few words about Troïtsa--
A travelling companion--Purchase of furs--Passage of the Oka
in a sledge--Feeling of terror on first travelling in a sledge
over a frozen river 30
CHAPTER IV.
FROM NIJNI-NOVGOROD TO KAZAN.
The Volga in winter--Varieties of podarojnaia--What is
necessary for a long sledge journey--Departure from Nijni--
Posting relays--A momentary thaw--The snow--Arrival at
Kazan 51
CHAPTER V.
KAZAN--JOURNEY TO PERM.
The Virgin of Kazan--Russian manner of expressing disapproval--
Dining with a grandee--His description of the enfranchisement
of the serfs--The Tartars--Journey in a sledge--Caravan of
exiles--The Votiaks--Aspect of European Russia 73
CHAPTER VI.
PERM--THE ROAD TO CATHERINEBURG.
Hotel accommodation in Siberia--A councillor--Opinions and
examples of Russian administration--National music--The
passion for aggrandizement of territory--Entry into Asia 98
CHAPTER VII.
OUR PARTY ON THE ROAD TO TUMEN.
Trade and manufactures at Catherineburg--Carolling cherubs--
Christmas at Kamechlof--Grand gala at a posting stage--Tumen
--Its situation--Its gipsies--Fruit preserved in ice 113
CHAPTER VIII.
A PERILOUS NIGHT ADVENTURE ON THE STEPPE OF OMSK.
An ostentatious Siberian custom--The steppe--The cemeteries
--Omsk--Its situation--Its society--The emancipation of
the serfs related by a citizen--M. Kroupinikof--Visit to an
encampment of Kirghiz--Masquerade at Omsk 128
CHAPTER IX.
THE COLD ON THE WAY TO TOMSK.
The intense cold--Its inconveniences--The fine effects of light
at a very low temperature--The baptismal fête of Christ on the
Obi--Tomsk--Its commerce--An evening on the banks of the
Tom 156
CHAPTER X.
THE GOVERNMENT OF YENISSEISK AND KRASNOIARSK.
Wretched aspect of the villages of this province--The country
at last becomes hilly--The night watchers at Krasnoiarsk--M.
Lovatine’s three collections--A Polish exile’s ball 171
CHAPTER XI.
KRASNOIARSK TO IRKUTSK.
Social position and education of the country people and citizens--
Uselessness of Siberian forests--Journey to Irkutsk--A pack
of wolves--Cleanliness of the villages--Congelation of the
Angara--The government of Irkutsk--The college--The prison
--The fire brigade 184
CHAPTER XII.
IRKUTSK.
The gold miners--Their luxury; their wealth; their wives--A few
words about the clergy, and the code of religion--The Polish
exiles--Travelling maniacs--A dinner _en famille_ 202
CHAPTER XIII.
ATTEMPT AT ESCAPE BY A POLISH EXILE.
Why the Polish exiles cannot escape--Narrative of an attempt by
M. Bohdanovitch--Encounter with a bear--Sanitary arrangements
in Siberia--Wolf hunts--A blue fox--Different values of
furs--A few words on the passion for displaying riches 222
CHAPTER XIV.
IRKUTSK TO LAKE BAIKAL.
The natives--The Olkhonese--Shamanism--The Buriats--The
Tungus--The Samoyeds--The Carnival at Irkutsk--Pablo--
Adieu to Constantine--Another perilous night on the ice of Lake
Baikal 244
CHAPTER XV.
LAKE BAIKAL TO KIACHTA.
Observations on Eastern Siberia and its inhabitants--Their dream
of independence--Motives that might contribute to independence
--Example of the Chinese--The Yakuts and the inhabitants of
Kamtchatka 266
CHAPTER XVI.
KIACHTA TO MAIMATCHIN.
The tarantass--Tea merchants--Their competition--The Sienzy
--Aspect of Maimatchin--A dinner at the Chinese Governor’s--
Preparations for crossing the Gobi desert 285
CHAPTER XVII.
MAIMATCHIN TO URGA.
First Stage in Mongolia--The Mongols--Their tents; their life
--How they steer their way in the desert--The Caravan--A
Sacrilege--The Russian Consul at Urga--The Koutoukta 304
CHAPTER XVIII.
URGA AND THE ENTRY INTO THE DESERT OF GOBI.
Urga--Mongol religion--Praying wheels--Burial ceremonies--
The Holy Mountain--My travelling companions in the desert--
Departure from Urga--First halt--A Mongolian repast--Easter
Eve 321
CHAPTER XIX.
CARAVAN ACROSS THE DESERT OF GOBI.
A Mongolian Prince and his Court--Prayer turning--Our life in
the desert--The sandy plain--Want of water--Lunar mirage--
Three executions--A traveller astray in the desert--Arrival
at Kalkann and the Great Wall of China 341
CHAPTER XX.
FROM THE GREAT WALL TO TCHAH TAO.
First view of China proper--Last Russian hospitality--The
Palankeen--The streets of Kalkann--Travelling along the Great
Wall--The Secret Societies--Chinese art--How order is
maintained--Origin of the tress--How the titles of Chinese
nobility become extinct 362
CHAPTER XXI.
TCHAH-TAO TO PEKIN.
An exciting incident--The Pass of Nang-kao--Picturesqueness
of the gorge--A young married couple--The levy of taxes--
Toun-cheh-ouh--The last solitude--Entry into Pekin--Arrival
at the Legation 379
CHAPTER XXII.
PEKIN--DEPARTURE.
The Marble Bridge--The Tartar City--Objects of Art--Japanese
lacquering--Interments--The Observatory--The Imperial
Palace--The Temples--The four harvests--Kinds of tea--
Departure from Pekin--Tien-tsin--The sea at last 395
NOTES 417
[Illustration: MAP TO ACCOMPANY “FROM PARIS TO PEKIN OVER SIBERIAN
SNOWS.”
London: W. Swan Sonnenschein & Co.]
FROM PARIS TO PEKIN.
CHAPTER I.
FROM PARIS TO ST. PETERSBURG.
_En route_ by rail--Berlin--Annoyances at the Russian Custom
House--First aspect of European Russia--An evening on the banks
of the Neva.
When I had quite made up my mind to pass my winter in Siberia and to
proceed in the following spring to Pekin by Mongolia and the Desert
of Gobi, my friends, hearing of my project, were incredulous of
the steadfastness of my resolution; they shrugged their shoulders,
quivering, perhaps at the prospect of frost-nipped limbs, and wondered
what could induce me to quit the comfortably warmed salons at this
season merely to brave the boreal blasts of so rigorous a climate. So
far as it concerned me, however, this anticipatory cold was not at all
catching, for, indeed, my resolution was then too firmly set to be
shaken by a quivering void of sympathetic influence, or to yield to the
allurements of the most inviting-Parisian _cercle_ or boudoir.
Having therefore already well considered my project, I had decided
on attempting to accomplish it for this reason: I had seen Syria and
Nubia, lands of the Sun, in their full-blown summer radiance and glory,
and I now longed to gaze on Siberia, the region of snow and ice, in
its wondrous winter garb. When I am in the humour for a tour, I like
to visit countries in their typical season, just as one likes to see a
man in the exercise of his proper vocation. There is, undoubtedly, a
feeling of satisfaction in contemplating the animate or inanimate world
merely in its habitual phases, in so far as these are the normal and
appropriate expression of a condition of established law and order--the
harmonies of nature as well as the moral fitness of things. Siberia,
as it is pictured to our imagination, is vividly associated with the
stirring incidents of a rigorous arctic winter; it is in this, its most
characteristic aspect, that we delight to regard it and muse over
it; moreover, in winter only is it so remarkably dissimilar from the
nature we are accustomed to see in milder and more genial climates, and
in this season alone, with its mighty ice-bound rivers and boundless
snow-capped forests, does it present to the wondering eye of the
stranger the interest and attractiveness of a striking novelty.
I was in excellent spirits from the exhilarating anticipation of
so much adventure, as the reader may imagine, and, busy with final
preparations, my friends seeing me thus occupied, amused me with their
diverse questions and suggestions. Every one puts questions in his own
way according to his habitual ideas or occupation. The doctor with
a grave look asks, “Are you sure your constitution is robust enough
to bear so much cold?” the druggist, whether you have a good supply
of quinine or chilblain ointment, or somebody’s magic pills--some
comprehensive remedy for all human weaknesses, corporeal and mental,
excepting, of course, the incurable one of belief in its efficacy; then
ladies suggest a good supply of warm worsted stockings and knitted
comforters; then others inquire whether you have a passport duly
_visé_, a six-shot revolver, maps, a telescope, letters of credit,
a belt for gold, and I really don’t know with what they would not
considerately provide me. Some perhaps might have gone so far as to
suggest a warming pan; and for my part, I think that a warming pan
would not have been the least useful article suggested, inasmuch as it
might serve as a stewing pan, and then I should be assured of a hot
supper and a warm bed; then in inns its sonorous capacity might supply
the want of bells, and on a journey serve to scare away the wolves,
and finally, having no further use for this accommodating vade mecum,
I might sell it in Mongolia, a land of honey, for a purpose to which,
I have heard, it is sometimes applied in England, that is for swarming
bees with its deep musical note, and this failing, at all events,
dispose of it in China, on taking out the handle, as the latest novelty
in gongs in _articles de Paris_.
But not one of my friends, not even the druggist, who sells _mort aux
mouches_ and other insect killers, thought of the _chasses_ one is
occasionally, though not so often now, obliged to devote himself to in
foreign inns; probably they were not lovers of the chase, at least of
such small game; but when one has once been _bien mangé_, the _piqures_
leave their marks on the memory when they have been long effaced
elsewhere, and not knowing what sport I might fall in with, I took care
to secure the completeness of my _gréement de chasse_, and having at
last made all my arrangements, I was ready to start.
Accordingly on the 25th of October, 1873, at eight in the morning, I
left the Gare du Nord, and no sooner had I taken my seat than inquiries
recommenced in another form by a talkative traveller. This traveller
was a Belgian, and Belgians are generally loquacious and free in making
acquaintances. “Where are you going, monsieur?” said he. “As for me, I
am going as far as Cologne; it is a very long journey, you know, and
I like to have some one to talk to, to pass away these twelve long
hours in a carriage.” “And so am I going to Cologne,” I replied. “Oh!
you are going to Cologne, are you? Is it to buy horses? That is what I
am going there for,” he explained. “I am accustomed to buy my horses
in Prussia.” “No,” I said, “I am not going to Cologne for that.”
“What for, then?” “Well, it is to start again from there, for I go
to Berlin.” “Oh! you are going to Berlin? Why then are you going to
Berlin? Nobody goes there, neither tourists nor men of business.” “I
go there to start again, for I go from there to St. Petersburg.” These
questions succeeded one another in this way from stage to stage, till
the moment we had finished the tour of the world. His simple Flemish
countenance then took a curious expression of droll astonishment. He
could say no more till after the lapse of some moments, and then it was
to exclaim, opening his large mouth as wide as possible and vigorously
thumping the cushion with his heavy fist, “Oh! Ah! Then you are really
going round the world. Dear me! round the world!” “Yes, almost,” I
replied, smiling, “and therefore when I want horses I must buy them
elsewhere than in Cologne.”
As soon as Cologne and the Rhine are passed, a little favoured spot
of this dull country--at least, as it appears to the traveller _en
route_--you traverse an endless plain, neither picturesque nor
interesting. Berlin redeems with no artistic beauty its sterile
situation. But a Parisian could not be expected to find much attraction
in Berlin, and accordingly I found it very dull. Its streets are badly
paved; enormous gutters, separating the roadway from the pavement,
expose carriages to danger and exhale noxious odours, filled as they
are with filthy water and refuse of every kind.
What strikes one in this city is a general aspect of gloominess. They
have tried in all the public buildings to imitate the Grecian Doric,
and have only too well succeeded in it. I do not understand at all why
the Prussians have adopted this cold style, more sepulchral even than
the Egyptian, under a sky so dull, and almost as foggy as that of Old
England. In the places of amusement, in the interior of the Opera for
instance, they have replaced the Doric style with the Corinthian, that
is to say, mourning with half-mourning. The national colours, white
and black, profusely distributed everywhere, complete its funereal
character.
The finest avenue, Unter den Linden, leads from the Museum to the
exterior promenades, but the colour of the houses bordering this
boulevard spoils the effect; it suggested a mixture of iron and saffron
or something like the sickly hue of jaundice. The general impression is
anything but cheerful. One is almost disposed to say to every one he
meets: “Frère, il faut mourir!” but I said to myself, “Il faut partir,”
and, after a short halt, I accordingly took my departure.
The following day the express train, without any incident worthy of
note, took me to the Russian frontier.
Though there are custom houses at the frontiers of every civilized
state, their character and methods of proceeding have not, in spite of
the levelling tendencies of railways, yet arrived at much approach to
uniformity; and since these characteristics differ widely from China to
Peru, they frequently give some sign of the political and social status
of the people into whose country one enters.
At the custom house of this colossal empire of Russia, with a national
budget so overcharged, the treasury is especially solicitous of filling
the imperial coffers. Money is sorely needed.
The stranger there must first prove his identity by producing his
passport duly _visé_ at the consulates of all the places he has passed.
The passport is returned to him, bearing a word written on the back.
This word leaves every uninitiated traveller in complete ignorance
of its meaning or object; it is written in Russian characters, and,
moreover, badly written in a language which, in conformity with good
taste, one is expected not to know.
When I received my passport marked with the mystic word, my
embarrassment was painful. I walked up and down the waiting room,
showing the word to every one I met. They all looked at me with
astonishment, and kept clear of me without offering any explanation.
I, at last, heard some one speaking French near me; it was a gentleman
whose moustaches of immoderate length and dark whiskers white at the
tips, something like the fur of the blue fox, indicated him to be of
Northern nationality. I hastened to be enlightened, and at once learnt
that this important word was the name of the officer appointed to
examine my baggage. After some difficulty, I found the functionary,
who, fortunately, spoke French. “Monsieur,” he said, “qu’avez-vous
à déclarer?” “Rien,” I promptly replied, with all the freedom of
innocence; “what I bring with me is for my personal use, and if some
of the packages appear to you very bulky, it is because I am on a
very long, a very distant journey.” “Be good enough to open them.” I
accordingly began, feeling assured that everything would go on well and
soon end. “It is my personal clothing,” I explained; “there is nothing
but clothes in this trunk. Here is a pair of trousers that seems new;
I have had it these three years. It looks, however, new; that is to
my credit; you see, I do not wear out my clothes much,” I remarked
merrily. “But,” he rejoined, “it seems too new; we will weigh it; this
will be paid for.” My mortification was about to begin. He commenced
putting into the scales all the clothing which he considered had not
been worn. “What are these?” “They are memorandum books.” “Is there
anything written in them?” “Nothing yet,” and then they also go into
the scales. But he was not disposed to end there; far from it; I was
obliged to open the chest I had got packed in Paris with the greatest
care, containing my sporting equipment and many things for use only in
Siberia. Perceiving that he was inexorable in his determination to turn
out everything, I entreated him to put the case, just as it was, into
the scales, preferring to pay more to having the contents turned upside
down in the greatest disorder after they had been so artistically
arranged. But I was much deceived, for this gentleman was too much
of a Cossack to forego the pleasure of examining Parisian objects.
Everything was turned out, and, if possible, inside out, and put into
the scales. I was enraged.
In the midst of this intolerable annoyance, there was for me a gleam
of malicious satisfaction. I had brought with me an enormous box of
vermin-killer in powder, which was considered to be invaluable for my
long journey through Asia. The box could not easily be opened; far
from it. The officer tried in vain for some time, but at last, the
cover yielding suddenly to his efforts, the powder was violently flung
into his face, penetrating into his eyes, his nostrils, and mouth, and
completely covering his coat. “What is this?” he demanded. “A very
violent poison,” I replied, with an affectation of terror, to add to
his discomfiture, which had due effect. He turned pale, and, at once,
fixed the duty on my effects at the highest possible rate. But I had
some unexpected sport with large game, and, my revenge having afforded
me full satisfaction, I drew from my pocket my louis d’or.
But, alas! Russia, the country that produces at present so much gold,
is the one where it has the least currency. I was obliged to go and
change my twenty-franc pieces for paper roubles; and thus I paid at
this custom house more than a hundred francs, merely to pass my old
clothes--this sum being as much as they were worth--and my memorandum
books, which I could not make up my mind to abandon, because they were
my only companions to be entrusted with my _impressions de voyage_.
Before getting into the train, I observed a newsvendor on the platform.
“Have you the _Figaro_?” I asked. “Yes, sir.” “How much?” “Thirty
kopecks” (one shilling). “Then give me a newspaper of your own
country printed in French.” “Here is one, sir, the _Journal de St.
Pétersbourg_.” “How much?” “Fifteen kopecks.” “But why is it so dear,
printed in Russia?” “It is, sir, because here there are enormous duties
on the manufacture of paper.” This kind of tax, in my opinion, is, for
one thing, to be fully appreciated. The Russians should thus be guarded
against a propensity for scribbling, which, alas! is so rampant in
France. And then again, when universal suffrage is to appear in Russia,
who knows whether the exorbitant price of paper will not hinder the
candidates from distributing the voting papers, and the electors from
procuring them at their own expense? The exercise of this new power
will then be the cause of a fresh charge and become consequently an
obstacle. Such a state of things perhaps will cause universal suffrage
to succumb and disappear--an institution apparently just and attractive
in theory, but amusingly droll in practice to those who have witnessed
its working, especially in the country districts. This first experience
reconciled me with the administration of this vast country, almost even
with its custom house, and I climbed up into my carriage, where two
stoves, though it had not yet commenced to freeze, kept up a tropical
heat. There I installed myself in one of the immense easy seats with
which it was furnished, and which was transformed at night, with the
aid of a mechanical arrangement, into a kind of bed, where one may be
tolerably comfortable, and there I waited the signal of departure,
prepared to observe the aspect of the country through which I was about
to pass.
The part of Russia between Wilna and St. Petersburg is simply
melancholy. When I passed over it, the absence of snow, of sun, and
leaves on the trees, rendered this character, which is proper to it,
still more striking. Unlimited forests, that are no longer copse and
not yet arrived at full growth, and as impenetrable as a jungle,
especially in autumn, from the swampy nature of the soil; a long
undulating range of land, of an outline the ocean would assume in the
monstrous swell of a tempest, sending back the horizon to an enormous
distance; the appearance of a few habitations, at long intervals, and
whose presence at all in such a spot suggests utter desolation more
than absolute solitude:--this is what is presented to the traveller on
entering Russia, immensity, impenetrability, and silent gloom.
It is true that autumn is the least favourable season for visiting
Russia; it is, in a certain way, the period of inactivity for the whole
race, a people scattered over an immense space, whose special character
needs a rapid and continual locomotion. The land in autumn becomes too
swampy for wheeled carriages, and travelling in sledges has not yet
commenced. Soon, however, the snow, falling probably in abundance,
will permit the Russians their favourite mode of travelling; and the
intense cold, dissipating the clouds, will give to its white mantle
unparalleled purity and brilliancy.
We will hasten to arrive at St. Petersburg, of which, however, as well
as of Moscow, I will say but little, because I have to describe regions
more remote and much less known. When one has a long journey before
him, he should not linger at the first stages, for fear of feeling too
sensibly the difficulties of the enterprise, and consequently of being
tempted to abandon it in spite of a brave resolution at the outset.
I alighted at the Hôtel de France, and, almost immediately, went out
afoot. It was six in the evening and quite dark. A mild and refreshing
temperature was inviting to a walk. The sky was serene, and the moon
shone brilliantly. It was one of those fine evenings described by
Joseph de Maistre, although we were still in November. Chance led me
towards the Neva, and I was much delighted, for, from the bridge of
boats thrown across it, I was able to contemplate a spectacle truly
magnificent. It is not a river, but rather an inlet of the sea. Four
or five times wider than the Garonne at Bordeaux, this piece of water
makes a bend in the middle of the city; and along its banks is exposed
the principal architectural magnificence of St. Petersburg. The
Emperor’s palace, the Senate, the Fortress, the Hermitage, the Academy
of Fine Arts, are all along its banks, as well as an immense number of
churches, each surmounted with five or six Byzantine domes.
At the moment I was there, the moon’s rays were reflected from all
these gilded domes, and again these glittering beams were flashed like
dazzling fireworks from the surface of the water; the gilded cupola
of the Cathedral St. Isaac rose majestically above the others, and
surpassed them in splendour. Black barges, resembling somewhat, at
this hour of the night, Venetian gondolas, passed to and fro, leaving
their luminous trails glittering on the surface of the water. The great
mass of water of Lake Ladoga was gliding onward in its full flood with
rapidity, but without noise, for nothing opposed its passage. The
bells, which gave an idea of enormous size from their deep, solemn, and
prolonged tone, alone broke the religious silence of the scene by the
call to prayer. It was grand, solemn, and inspiring. This night at St.
Petersburg, God revealed Himself to man by the splendour of the heavens
and the mystery of the hour, and man’s thoughts were drawn to God by
the imposing towering of His temples and the awe-inspiring sound of the
bells.
Though I was much moved by this scene and its associations, I knew I
could not adequately enjoy Russia in its aspect of the mild season.
A little later, however, the Neva would be arrested in its course by
the frost, the domes of the churches, as well as the land everywhere,
would be dressed in a thick mantle of snow, and then I should no longer
behold this country as it now was, but buried under its winter shroud.
I remained therefore long contemplating this spectacle, the real beauty
of which was enhanced in my imagination by the reflection that it was
to be but of short duration.