ST. PETERSBURG TO MOSCOW.
Letters of recommendation for Siberia--M. Pfaffius, frontier
commissary at Kiachta--Russian music--Arrival at Moscow.
During my sojourn at St. Petersburg, I went of course, and more than
once, to see the curiosities with which the city is filled, but it was
necessary to remember that I had set out for a much longer journey,
and that my chief occupation at St. Petersburg was to search for a
_compagnon de voyage_. With this object, I availed myself of all the
letters of recommendation I had obtained in Paris, hoping thereby to
secure the useful as well as agreeable society either of a tourist or
of a functionary returning to his post in Eastern Siberia.
In the first _réunions_ where I had the honour to be invited, I
invariably spoke of my intended journey, hoping thereby to find a
travelling companion, but in doing so, I was always answered with a
frown or met with a deaf ear.
The reason was this: at St. Petersburg, it is not in good taste to
travel in the direction of the East. The inhabitants of this city of
pleasure seem to regret their origin; this society, so fastidious
and refined, appears really to fear being still taken for a horde of
barbarians. Women in the highest social rank have said to me sometimes:
“Whatever I may do or say, you will nevertheless have your own opinion
of me; you will regard me as a Cossack.” Everything associated with
Asia is in disfavour, and, perhaps, those who exaggerate the sentiment
would willingly cede Siberia to the Chinese Government, in order to
have nothing in common with the East. To speak French is indispensable;
when you are French and are received in society in St. Petersburg,
it is surprising to see how much France is _à la mode_: French is
habitually spoken, and read in newspapers and books; the _cuisine_ is
French as well as the costumes, and so are many of the plays at the
theatres. It is quite the _ton_ to have arrived from Paris, Luchon, or
Trouville, and to have brought the latest _cancans_ from the _boudoirs
à la mode_.
As soon as the frost appeared, I began busying myself with the
arrangements for my journey. I was aided in this difficult task by
M. Bartholdy, then _chargé d’affaires_ at the French Embassy. This
obliging Frenchman succeeded with the Imperial Government in enabling
me to traverse Siberia in a manner somewhat official, and the ministers
accordingly gave me letters of recommendation to the governors of the
various provinces I was about to visit.
I obtained also from M. Michaelof, the contractor for the posting
between Nijni-Novgorod and Tumen, a circular order requiring each
postmaster on the route to give me the best horses at the shortest
notice.
Many persons recommended me to their friends in Siberia. In less than a
fortnight I was provided with thirty-two of these recommendations, but
I had not yet found either a companion or a servant.
The frost, however, was becoming every day more severe. The
thermometer varied between 10° and 12° Centigrade below zero (14° to
10° Fahr.).[1]
[1] See note 1 at end of book.
The canal of the Moïka, which my windows overlooked, was already half
frozen; enormous blocks of ice were drifting on the Neva; the snow,
though not yet very deep, fell often enough to lead me to hope for
sledging very shortly. I was about to decide to start alone for Moscow,
when I received a letter from the head of the Asiatic Government.
This letter informed me that the Russian frontier commissary at
Kiachta, M. Pfaffius, was at St. Petersburg at the Hotel Démouth, and
was about to join his post.
Without losing a moment, I gathered up all the letters, those even the
addresses of which I could not read, and hastened to the Hotel Démouth.
I did not yet know what it was to travel through Siberia; I had not the
least idea of many things that were required, nor that so many things
even were necessary, and was therefore not a little surprised, on my
entry into M. Pfaffius’s apartment, at the sight that there awaited me.
In the middle of the room lay on the floor a heap of pillows, furs,
mattresses, blankets, and ropes. This was not all, for I soon perceived
also a loaf of sugar, felt boots, a bottle of brandy, and bags and
sacks of every shape and size.
The functionary, wearing a ring on the second finger of his right hand,
a sign of his office, was seated at table breakfasting. At his side
stood a Buriat servant, with half-Mongol, half-Tartar features, clad
in a _touloupe_ of offensive odour, watching his master’s slightest
gesture to satisfy the most trifling desire. As soon as I appeared,
the commissary ordered a chair for me, but since unluckily, perhaps
through accident, no chair could be found in the room, it was necessary
to search for one elsewhere. I was obliged to remain standing some
moments while rage became apparent on the countenance of my host,
who, however, as I afterwards found, was gentle enough. He became red
and pale alternately. When the Buriat returned he rated him pretty
smartly in words almost inarticulate, though of perfectly intelligible
significance, and finished by raising his hand to strike him.
Accustomed as I was to Oriental manners, I anticipated the scene that
was about to take place, and took little notice of it, when, to my
great astonishment, the servant raised his head, and looking sternly at
the commissary, addressed him in these simple words: “You forget then,
sir, that I am _a subject of the Emperor_!”
This man well knew that an article of the decree enfranchising the
serfs interdicted landowners and functionaries, under penalty of
disgrace and even imprisonment, from having recourse to blows against
any subject whomsoever of the Emperor, whether naturalized Russian or
native of a conquered country, like the Kirghiz, the Buriats, or the
Samoyeds.
These words were sufficient, in fact, to cause the lifted fist of the
official to drop harmlessly by his side. What passion, indeed, is there
in a Russian, when roused even to exasperation, that would venture to
offend against the will of the Czar?
When this little scene had ended, M. Pfaffius became again perfectly
calm and self-possessed,--quite a man of the world. I showed him my
letters of recommendation. As soon as his eye caught the seal of the
Imperial Ministry--and this for a Russian official was much more than
was required--he showed me the highest consideration. One of these
letters was personally addressed to him. I was accordingly from that
moment his friend, and we resolved to travel together.
The reader will learn, from what took place later, that this plan was
only partially carried out, in consequence of my having made at last an
acquaintance at Moscow. Being unable at this moment to anticipate the
number of travelling companions that subsequently presented themselves,
I regarded my commissary as a great acquisition. He had to go to Kiew
before the organization of the sledging took place. I allowed him to
depart only after every precaution taken to ensure our rendezvous, and,
filled with enthusiasm, I set out on my _visites d’adieux_.
I will speak of one of them only, which took place in a box of the
Russian Opera, not so much on account of the very agreeable people who
had invited me there to see the Opera, as on account of the character
of the music and the manner of the representation of which I was a
witness. It was the chef-d’œuvre of Glinka--_Life for the Czar_.
Without, however, detaining the reader with the details of the manner
of the representation, which probably would interest him but slightly,
I will give my impression of the character of the music.
The Russians, who are not an inventive people, have, however, a
national music of a kind special and original.
Those who appreciate French operas, even plaintive, would feel little
interest in listening to long lamentations and mournful melodies, so
characteristic of this music. It may, however, move very much amateurs
of grave music, especially in the country where it originates.
The phrases of Glinka’s opera, gloomy and lugubrious, as uniform as
nature in Russia, as profound as its horizons, succeed one another
monotonously without ever seeming to reach a distinct solution.
At the moment when the impatient ear at last waits to dwell on
the fundamental note, a renewed expression of grief comes forth
unexpectedly, and the phrase is prolonged without changing its
character. I cannot better compare Glinka’s inspirations than with the
permanent efforts of the sea to assume its desired repose in struggling
against the incessant succession of waves. This music therefore is
void of the attraction of gaiety, and, on account of its uniformity,
does not give rise to lively emotions, but it has all the charm of
melancholy and vague reverie.
The flow of soul seems to wander and become bewildered and enervated
in the prolonged thrilling notes of this endless melody; all the past
comes back to the memory, and when the last note dies away, one wakes
up, as if from a touching dream, with a tear starting in the eye.
I had postponed my departure from day to day, notwithstanding the snow
that was falling and the hard frost so favourable to my journey, but
having at last quitted the Russian capital, my thoughts returned to it
in this way. One prefers, no doubt, the first enjoyment of a pleasure
to the mere remembrance of it, and yet, perhaps, one separates himself
less willingly from the souvenir than from the reality, because he
feels that when this prolonged pleasure ends, it has vanished both from
the senses and the memory.
When I left St. Petersburg, it was the 20th of November, and on the
21st, at ten o’clock in the morning, in a frost of 24° Centigrade (11°
below zero Fahr.), I made my entry into the holy city of Moscow.
The temperature I had to bear this day was very moderate in comparison
with that which I subsequently experienced in Siberia; I could,
however, appreciate some of the effects produced by intense cold.
You feel that everything shrinks, tightens, and contracts. The
horses that perspire, on account of the rapid pace at which they are
driven, have their coats covered with congealed perspiration that
resembles a petrifaction. The drivers’ faces are puffed, spongy, and
repulsive-looking. The sun, in the absence of snow, seems alone to
rejoice or enliven what it touches. Under its caressing beams, the
houses, with their varied hues, assume a brighter and more joyous
aspect, that strikingly contrasts with the hooded personages afoot. I
took care at once to provide myself with the usual winter clothing of
Russians. I bought goloshes to march over the snow without suffering
from cold or humidity; a _bachelique_, a kind of hood in camel hair to
protect the ears and neck; and, finally, a cloak of _jenotte_, a fur
not at all expensive and yet elegant.
The choice of fur is an important matter, especially at Moscow, where
one’s individual value is appreciated by the value of the animal’s skin
he wears. There is indeed a Russian proverb that seems to discredit
this observation. “On vous reçoit selon votre habit, et l’on vous
reconduit selon votre esprit.” But this apophthegm rarely serves as a
precept in a society fond of showiness and imposing magnificence--a
society that is closed against the most cultivated mind if the body be
not decked in the skins of certain beasts.