_Letter from an English Architect_
ST. PETERSBURG, _July, 1715_.
Dear Sir,
Although it is almost six weeks ago that I arrived at St. Petersburg,
I have not until this moment had leisure to write you my impressions.
And now before I impart these to you I must advert to a conversation
which I had in Berlin with X----, who, as you know, spent many years in
Russia, before the accession of the present Czar, and who is an eminent
Russian scholar. He assured me that in entering the Russian service at
the present moment I was doing a foolish and perilous thing. Russia, he
said, was on the eve of a grave crisis, which might very probably lead
to the dismemberment of the nation. This was owing to the character
of the present Sovereign. The Czar was inspired with inordinate
ambition and blind obstinacy; he was, moreover, pursued by a demon
of restlessness, and a desire to change and reform everything that
was old. This love of improvement was no doubt in itself a laudable
ambition; yet in view of the peculiar circumstances of the case, the
ignorance of the great mass of Russians, the fundamental conservatism
of the educated class, the deficiency and the inadequacy of all
necessary material and instruments, the designs of the Czar were akin
to madness.
He was attempting to make bricks without straw, and this could only
have one result--the disruption of the kingdom of Russia and the
consequent rise of a large and powerful Poland. Poland would once again
reduce Russia to servitude, and all civilized Europe would once more be
revolted by the spectacle of civil and religious tyranny. Moreover, a
powerful Poland was, as far as all European countries were concerned,
far less to be desired than a powerful Russia. I will comment on these
remarks in due time. At present I must resume my narrative.
On arriving at St. Petersburg I went straight to the Summer Palace. I
was told that the Czar had gone to Cronstot. He had left orders that
I was to follow him thither as soon as I arrived, in a snow which was
waiting to convey the Dutch Minister. It was a fine, sultry day when
we started from St. Petersburg. I was much impressed by the sight of
the city, which possesses already many thousands of houses and some
fine churches and palaces. We started with a fair wind, but soon a
storm arose, and our condition was the more perilous owing to the
lack of experience of the captain and the mate. The Dutch Minister
was prostrate with sea-sickness, and upon his asking whether there
was any chance of escape--and he seemed, such were his pains, to hope
for a negative answer--the captain, who was facing the emergency by
doing nothing at all, kept on repeating in a soothing voice the word
_Nichevo_ (which means “all is well”) “we shall arrive.” All seemed
to be very far from well. The mate, when consulted, folded his hands
together and said _Bog Znaet_, which means “God knows.” At last, after
two days and three nights, which we spent without fire or provisions,
we arrived at Cronstot. We were forthwith bidden to the Czar’s
pleasure-house, Peterhof, on the coast of Ingria, whither a fair wind
took us without further mishap.
We were at once taken into the Czar’s presence. Anything less like the
state and formal etiquette of Paris, Berlin, or Madrid, it would be
difficult to imagine. To speak of the simplicity of the Czar would
be to understate my meaning. He seemed to be divested not only of the
formality of sovereigns, but of the ordinary convention and reserve
which unwittingly hang over every human being like a cloak. He greeted
us as if he had known us all his life, and as if he were continuing a
conversation but lately interrupted. His dress--which was dark, plain,
and sober--his demeanour, his manner, were not only free from all trace
of pomp but would have struck one as simple in a common sailor. And yet
the overwhelming mastery and intelligence and power of the man were
instantly apparent in the swiftness of his look and the stamp of his
countenance. It was clear from the first moment that he was a man who
went straight to the point and had the knack of eliminating and casting
aside the unessential and the superfluous with the quick decision with
which a skilful gardener removes dead flowers from a tree with his
garden knife.
This was evident when speaking of the concern he had felt for us owing
to the storm. The Dutch Minister launched out into a diffuse narrative.
The Czar at once seized on the essential fact that the skipper was
incapable and deftly changed the subject, keeping the garrulous
Minister charmed all the while. He welcomed me to Russia and said that
he had been awaiting my arrival with impatience, as he had much work
for me to do. “But we will talk of that later,” he said, “at present
you must be hungry.”
We then followed him into another room, where we were presented to the
Czarina. The Czarina, who is of humble origin, has that peculiar grace,
that intangible beauty and charm, which baffle verbal description
and cause the painter to burn his canvas. She is the embodiment of
spontaneous and untaught refinement, and her manner, like that art
which consists in concealing all art, proceeds from the certain
instinct which bids her make the right gestures and say the right word
without either effort or forethought.
We proceeded to dinner, which was served punctually at noon. The first
course consisted of many cold meats, followed by a second hot course,
and then by a third course of fruits. During dinner we were all of
us plied with Tockay wine. His Majesty himself partook of it freely
but forebore drinking too much; but we by the end of the meal could
scarcely stand, and the Dutch Minister was obliged nevertheless to
empty a bowl holding a full quart of brandy which he received at the
Czarina’s hand. The result was he rolled under the table, and was
carried away by two men to a quiet place where he could sleep.
The Czar laughed and talked without ceasing, and asked many pertinent
questions concerning England and Scotland, and was thoroughly posted
in all the latest news. Talking of the Stuarts, he said they would
never return, because, apart from their talent for mismanagement, the
English people did not feel strongly enough on the subject to make a
rising in their favour, however popular such a restoration would be if
it could be effected by a _Deus ex machina_. The Stuarts, he said, had
always had the people on their side and the oligarchy against them. He
blamed the English people with regard to Ireland, saying the English
had neither annihilated the Irish nor made them happy. He compared this
to the action of the Poles in Russia in the past, and pointed to the
result.
After dinner I retired to sleep, but at four o’clock we were awakened
and brought back to the Czar’s presence. He gave us each a hatchet and
orders to follow him. He led us into a wood of young trees, where he
marked a walk of a hundred yards to be cut to the seashore. He fell to
work, and we (there were seven of us) followed; (the Dutch Minister
found such a work in his half-dazed condition hard) and in three hours’
time the path was cut. At supper, to which we were bidden, more Tockay
was consumed, and the Czar joked with the Dutch Minister about the
violent exercise he had caused him to take. We retired early, but about
eight the next morning, I was bidden to Court to partake of breakfast,
which consisted, instead of coffee or tea, of large cups of brandy and
pickled cucumbers.
After dinner we were taken on board the Czar’s vessel. The Czarina and
her ladies sought the cabin, but the Czar remained with us in the open
air, laughing and joking. A strong wind was blowing, which in two hours
became a gale, and the Czar himself took the helm and showed the utmost
skill in working a ship as well as huge strength of body. After being
tossed about for seven hours we at last reached the port of Cronstot,
where the Czar left us with the words: “Good night, gentlemen. I fear I
have carried the jest too far.”
The next day I returned to St. Petersburg, and was lodged in the Summer
Palace so as to be near the Czar. The Czar sent for me early in the
morning, and discoursed for two hours on various buildings he wished
me to design. He went into every detail, and soon showed me that he was
as skilled an architect as he was a sailor. He also talked on various
other subjects, including theology, mechanics, music, painting, the
English Navy, and the German Army. England, he said, was his model as
far as the Navy was concerned, Germany for the Army, and France for
architecture. At the same time he was not disposed slavishly to follow
any particular models, and force on his people those details of any
system which might not be in concord with the genius of the Russian
character. It is undeniable that the Germans have far the best system
of military discipline, he said, but it would be quite impossible to
get Russian soldiers to act with the mathematical precision of the
Prussians.
“I adopt the system as far as I can, and adapt it to my material. That
is why I get as many Scotch officers as I can, and English architects,
because it is difficult to make a Frenchman understand that Russia
isn’t France, and that a Russian workman must work in his own way.”
I had not been in St. Petersburg long before I realized that X----’s
forebodings are baseless. He is right in saying that the Czar is
ambitious. He is right in saying that he is actuated by restlessness,
if by restlessness he means a ceaseless and indefatigable energy. He is
right in saying that the Czar’s materials are bad and scanty and that
the Czar thus had to make bricks without straw. He is right in saying
that the Russians are fundamentally conservative and regard all reforms
with distrust.
But what he has not realized is this, that a man of genius can make
bricks without straw. The Czar has proved it. He has built St.
Petersburg on a marsh. He has built a fleet and organized an army. He
has made palaces, schools, academies, factories, and dockyards, and he
has inspired others with his fever for work. Like all great workers he
never gives one an impression of hurry. He seems always to have leisure
to see whom he wants, to have his say out, and to indulge in recreation
when he feels so inclined. He rises every morning at four o’clock. From
eleven to twelve he receives petitions from all ranks of his subjects,
who have access to him during that hour. He dines at twelve o’clock.
At one he sleeps for an hour; the afternoon and evening he spends in
diversions, and at ten he goes to bed.
He seems to delight in finding out a project which appears to be
impossible, and in achieving it forthwith. No scheme is too large for
him to devise, and no detail of it too small for him to attend to. He
has the gift of discovering any useful scrap of knowledge either in
men or books. At his balls and entertainments, which he now gives at
the Summer Palace or, on extraordinary occasions, at the Senate House,
all degrees of persons are invited. Different tables are arranged in
separate rooms for the clergy, the officers of the Army, those of
the Navy, the merchants, the ship-builders, the foreign skippers.
After dinner the Czar goes from room to room and talks to everybody,
especially with the masters of foreign trading vessels. The Dutch and
English skippers treat him with familiarity, and call him by no other
name than Skipper Peter, which delights him, and the whole time he
marks down any points which interest him in a note-book.
In conversing with these men, various in rank and condition, he never
appears to be courting popularity or to be ingeniously fencing with
subjects of which he is ignorant. On the contrary, he makes it manifest
that he is talking on a subject because it interests him and because he
is thoroughly acquainted with it. And any man who is an expert at any
trade or profession cannot converse with him for a few moments without
realizing that he knows what he is talking about and that his knowledge
is the result of practical experience. He has a hatred of baseless
theory, a contempt for convention, and an insatiable passion for fact
and reality. He has no respect for inherited rank or for the glory of
lineage; merit is to him the only rank. He will at a moment’s notice,
should he think it necessary, degrade a nobleman into a peasant or make
a pastry-cook into a Minister. Indeed he has done this in the case of
Prince Menzikoff.
It is useless to pretend that he is as popular with the Russian people
as he is with foreigners. Many of the ignorant peasantry regard him
as the Antichrist, and they worship his utterly worthless son, the
Czarevitch, because they consider that he respects and embodies
their ancient customs. In spite of this there is no danger that
what the Czar has accomplished will be overturned in the immediate
future. He has done something which cannot be undone, like putting
salt into a pudding. Moreover, his genius and his versatility, his
extraordinarily varied talents, are based on a soundness of judgement,
a level-headedness and a sanity of instinct which, while they lead him
to do things which are seemingly impossible, justify him, in that
success is achieved, and prevent him from undertaking what, owing
either to the backwardness of the population or the temper of popular
feeling, would in reality and of necessity end in failure. He knows
exactly where to draw the line. In a speech he made to the Senate some
time ago he said that the ancient seat of all sciences was Greece,
whence they were expelled and dispersed over Europe and hindered from
penetrating further than into Poland. The transmigration of sciences
was like the circulation of the blood, and he prognosticated that
they would some time or other quit their abode in Western Europe and
settle for some centuries in Russia, and afterwards perhaps return to
their original home in Greece. In the meantime he recommended to their
practice the Latin saying _ora et labora_.
Now what the Czar has already achieved is that he has made such a
circulation possible. He has broken down the barrier which was between
Russia and Western Europe, and let in to the great veins of his country
a new drop of blood which nothing can either expel or destroy.
“HAMLET” AND DR. DODD
_Letter from a Frenchman, translated from the French_
LONDON, _June 28, 1777_.
Sir,
It is now three days since I arrived in London. I am still bewildered
by the noise of the carriages and overwhelmed by an admiration which
any foreigner must feel when for the first time he beholds the streets,
the lanterns, and the pavements of London. Nothing could be better than
these three things. The streets are wide; the manner in which they are
lit up at night, and the commodity of the ways made for foot-passengers
so that they may be safe from vehicles in the most dangerous
thoroughfares are astonishing. There is nothing to compare with it
in Europe. It is only in London that such thoroughfares and such
superb nightly illumination are to be found, and where so careful an
attention is paid to the safety of the public. And all this decoration,
and indeed half of the city, are not more than twenty years old!
I have already become an adopted Englishman. I drink my tea twice a
day, I eat my “tostes” well buttered. I read my Gazette scrupulously
every morning and every evening. I have been waiting with impatience
for one of those plays to be performed which have obtained universal
applause, such as those, for instance, of the “divine” Shakespeare.
I have at last been rewarded. Yesterday I read on the playbill
(_affiche_), “Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.” So I said to my sister, who
is with me, “We must go and see ‘Hamlet.’” We set out, therefore, for
Covent Garden.
We had intended to take tickets for the boxes, but there were none
left. We tried to get into the first gallery (our _premières loges_),
but there were no seats to be had there. I proposed then that we should
try the upper gallery, but we were advised not to. There remained the
pit. This was also full. I remained standing, and my sister obtained
half a seat at the end of a crowded bench. It was all most brilliant.
The house, which is square and partly gray and partly gilded, without
harmony of ornament or design, is not imposing in itself. But the
crowd of spectators, the quantity of lights, the rapt attention of the
coloured crowd, make a striking _ensemble_.
No sooner had we seated ourselves than to my extreme astonishment
something fell on to my sister’s hat. It turned out to be a piece of
orange peel. Here I must mention that an essential part of a lady’s
_coiffure_ in London is a flat round hat, which is a most ingenious
device of coquetry. It heightens beauty and diminishes ugliness; it
confers grace and play to the features. It is impossible to tell
you all the varied effects an Englishwoman can derive from her hat.
Curiously enough, the hat is not worn on State occasions, and neither
at Court nor at assemblies, nor even in the _premières loges_ of
the theatre, and its place is taken by French feathers. I was just
wondering whence the piece of orange peel had proceeded when I saw a
man come from behind the scenes with a large broom in his hand. Knowing
that Shakespeare makes use of everything that pertains to human life,
I thought that “Hamlet” was going to begin by a sweeping scene. I was
mistaken. It was only a servant who was cleaning the front of the
stage, which I now noticed was covered with the remains of the feast of
oranges and apples which was taking place in the upper gallery, and of
which my sister had received a small sample on her hat.
At last the play began. Not having the good fortune to understand the
English language, I could not follow one word of the dialogue. But I am
told that the play gains rather than loses by being translated, though
our Anglomaniacs say it is untranslatable. But I have now read the
play in M. Letourneur’s translation. The play is sheer madness--nay,
more, it is the wildest and most extravagant thing that a madman could
devise in a fit of delirium. Towards the end of the play only six
characters remain alive, and they all die a violent death. The King and
the Queen are poisoned on the stage. Hamlet, after having assassinated
the Lord Chamberlain and his son, dies himself of a poisoned wound. His
lady-love throws herself out of the window and is drowned; the Ghost,
who enlivens this farrago of horrors, was poisoned himself (in the ear).
Lest the spectators should be overcome by so many murders, the “divine”
Shakespeare has given them moments of relief in the person of the Lord
Chamberlain, who is a coarse buffoon, and the conversation of the
grave-diggers, who, while they crack their insipid jests, dig a real
grave, throw real black earth on to the stage, of the same colour
and substance as that which is found in churchyards, full of real
bones and real skulls. In order to give an effect of reality, there
are some large skulls and some small ones. Hamlet recognizes one as
having belonged to a clown whom he knew. He seems to caress it, and
to moralize over it. And these horrors, and the still more disgusting
pleasantry, seemed vastly to please the upper gallery, the pit, and
even the boxes. The people who were near me and behind me stood up on
their seats and craned forward to look, and one man, in order to see
better, lifted himself up by pulling my hair.
What strikes me most in thinking of this performance is the contrast
that exists in England between the mildness and the leniency of the
English customs and legislation in criminal matters, and the barbarity
and savagery of the entertainments in their playhouses. On the same
morning that “Hamlet” was performed, the execution of Dr. Dodd was
carried out at Tyburn. Doctor Dodd was a minister of the Church, highly
respected for his eloquence. He had been _Aumonier_ to the King, and
cherished the ambition of becoming a bishop. With this object, he had
caused his wife to offer the sum of a thousand guineas to the wife of
a Minister. The transaction was discovered and Dr. Dodd was dismissed
from his post, but still retained a living. He had been the tutor of a
son of a man who is well known here, Lord Chesterfield, and in the name
of the young lord he signed a bond of four thousand guineas. This was
also discovered, and it constitutes what they here call the crime of
forgery, for which Dr. Dodd was condemned to death. In spite of many
petitions the sentence was carried out yesterday, June 27. I assisted
at the execution. A stranger accustomed to the terror-inspiring
machinery, to the noise and fuss with which, in the rest of Europe, the
decrees of justice are executed, and which are designed to serve as a
terrible example, would be astonished at the manner in which it is done
here. Here there are no soldiers, no representatives of the army, no
outward signs of ferocity, no preliminary torture. Here that humanity,
which the law seems to forget from the moment the judge has uttered the
word guilty--by letting a long delay elapse between the pronouncement
of the sentence and the execution--reappears as soon as the prison
opens its doors and delivers the prisoner to the sheriffs, who are
charged with carrying out the sentence. The sheriffs are not military
men; they have no mercenaries under them, but merely a certain number
of constables, ordinary _bourgeois_, whose only uniform consists in a
long stick painted and partially gilded.
The victim, bound, without constraint, by the cord which is to hang
him, is seated on a cart draped in black, or he may obtain leave to use
a carriage, and this is what was done yesterday. The carriage passed
slowly up Oxford Street, one of the longest and broadest streets of
London. The prisoner had no escort, save a small number of constables
on foot, and some sheriffs on horseback. He is condemned by the law, it
is the law which leads him to death. The officers show no signs, either
of threatening or fear, lest the people should oppose themselves to a
severity which has their safety for object.
The immense crowd which fills the streets, especially in a case like
this one, which has been so much talked about, maintains a respectful
silence. When they arrived at Tyburn Dr. Dodd left his carriage and
mounted on a cart which stopped under the horizontal beam of the
gallows. The executioner then appeared, untied the rope, and attached
it to the transverse beam. The victim conversed with a minister of
the Church, who recalled his crime, and spoke of the necessity of
expiation. After a short pause, the executioner covered the victim’s
head with a handkerchief, which he drew down to his chin. The first
sheriff made a sign; the executioner touched the horse, the cart
went on, and the work of execution was thus almost imperceptibly
accomplished. After the body has remained hanging for an hour it is
cut down and restored to the relatives of the deceased. He is then no
longer a culprit, but a citizen who regains the rights he had forfeited
by crime. His memory is not held in obloquy; for instance, the brother
of Dr. Dodd succeeded to his living on the recommendation of Lord
Chesterfield.
Now to return to the playhouse and “Hamlet.” How is it that a people
which abhors bloodshed in general, which fears murder, to whom poison
and assassination are unknown, and which carries regard even towards
the criminal to the extent I have described, can take pleasure in
theatrical spectacles as barbarous and revolting as their own? The
executions at London seem but games. The tragedies of the playhouse,
on the other hand, are butcheries, causing even such spectators as are
familiar with bloodshed to shudder.
It is only fair to say that those Englishmen who have read and
travelled are slightly embarrassed when a foreigner, who has heard the
extravagant praises paid to the “divine” Shakespeare, comes to London
to see for himself the works of this genius. They tell us that the
populace are the lords of the English stage, and that they must needs
be pleased. It is their depraved taste, we are told, which maintains
these spectacles which would empty the theatres in any other country.
I am quite ready to believe it; but then it is only drunken sailors
who should be asked to admire Shakespeare, since it is only by drunken
sailors that his altars are supported.
On the other hand, I cannot help adding that educated society shares
to a certain extent the prejudice of the rabble, since it shares their
pleasures. The boxes are always full when Shakespeare is on the bill,
and last night the play was well received; the disgusting jokes and
the extravagant ravings duly listened to and applauded by men, women,
lawyers, merchants, lords, and sailors. One and all they seemed to
breathe with delight the obnoxious vapours of that earth which is made
up of the remains of corpses. Compare this deliberate brutality, which
educated men have tried to justify in books, with the mildness of the
penal laws and the real executions, and explain it if you can! As for
me, I will not visit the playhouse again until the question is solved.