Dr. Schmidt sold his sleigh and left Kazan by diligence the day after
our arrival. I remained four days, and, when ready to start, managed
to pick up a young Russian who was going to Nijne Novgorod. Each of us
spoke two languages, but we had no common tongue. I brushed up all the
Russian I had learned, and compelled it to perform very active
service. Before our companionship ended I was astonished to find what
an extensive business of conversation could be conducted with a
limited capital of words.
Our communications were fragmentary and sometimes obscure, but we
rarely became “hopelessly stuck.” When my knowledge of spoken words
failed I had recourse to a “Manual of Russian-English conversation,”
in which there were phrases on all sorts of topics. Examining the book
at leisure one would think it abundantly fertile; but when I desired a
particular phrase it was rarely to be found. As a last resource we
tried Latin, but I could not remember a hundred words out of all my
classics.
A regular thaw had set in, and the streets were in a condition of
‘slosh’ that reminded me of Broadway in spring. When we left the
hotel, a crowd of attendants gathered to be remembered pecuniarily.
The yemshick tied his horses’ tails in the tightest of knots to
prevent their filling with snow and water. At the western gate we
found a jam of sleds and sleighs, where we stuck for nearly half an
hour, despite the efforts of two soldier policemen. When able to
proceed we traversed a high causeway spanning the Kazanka valley and
emerged into a suburb containing a large foundry. A mosque and a
church, side by side, symbolized the harmony between Tartar and
Russian.
Passing this suburb we reached the winter station of many steamboats
and barges, among which we threaded our way. Seven versts from Kazan
we reached the bank of the Volga.
The first view of the road upon the river was not inviting. There were
many pools of surface water, and the continuous travel had worn deep
hollows in the snow and ice. Some of the pools into which our yemshick
drove appeared about as safe as a mill-pond in May. As the fellow
ought to know his route I said nothing, and let him have his own way.
We met a great many sleds carrying merchandise, and passed a train
going in our direction. One driver carelessly riding on his load was
rolled overboard, and fell sidewise into a deep mass of snow and
water. He uttered an imprecation, and rose dripping like a boiled
cabbage just lifted out of a dinner pot.
We headed obliquely across the river toward a dozen tow-boats frozen
in the ice. The navigation of the Volga employs more than four hundred
steamers, three-fourths of which are tows. Dead walls in Kazan
frequently displayed flaming announcements, that reminded me of St.
Louis and New Orleans. The companies run a sharp rivalry in freight
and passenger traffic, their season lasting from April to October. The
gross receipts for 1866 of one company owning thirty-four boats, was
one million, two hundred and fifty-three thousand, and some odd
roubles. This, after deducting running expenses, would not leave a
large amount of profit. The surplus in the case of that company was to
be applied to paying debts. “Not a copeck,” said my informant, “will
the stockholders receive in the shape of dividends.”
I did not obtain any full and clear information touching the
navigation of the Volga. The steamboats run from Tver, on the Moscow
and St. Petersburg railway, to Astrachan, at the mouth of the river.
The best part of the business is the transport of goods and
passengers,—chiefly the former,—to the fair at Nijne Novgorod. The
river is full of shifting sand-bars, and the channel is very
tortuous, especially at low water. The first company to introduce
steam on the Volga was an English one. Its success induced many
Russians to follow its example, so that the business is now over done.
Here, as in the Siberian rivers, the custom prevails of carrying
freight in barges, which are towed by tugs. All the steamers I saw
were side-wheelers.
We changed horses on the south bank of the Volga, only twelve versts
from Kazan. The right bank of the river presents an unbroken line of
hills or bluffs, while the opposite one is generally low. The summer
road from Kazan westward follows the high ground in the vicinity of
the river, but often several versts away. The winter road is over the
ice of the Volga, keeping generally pretty near the bank. A double
line of pine or other boughs in the ice marks the route. These boughs
are placed by the Administration of Roads, under whose supervision the
way is daily examined. No one is allowed to travel on the ice until
the officials declare it safe.
Night came upon us soon after passing the first station. The road was
a combination of pitch-holes, water, soft snow, and detours to avoid
dangerous places. The most unpleasant drives were when we left the
river to change horses at the villages on the high bank. It was well
enough going up, but in descending the sleigh sometimes endeavored to
go ahead of the horses. Once we came near going over a perpendicular
bank sixty or eighty feet high. Had we done so, our establishment
would have not been worth fifty cents a bushel at the bottom of the
bank.
Back from the Volga on this part of the route there were many villages
of Cheramess, a people of Tartar descent who preserve many of their
ancient customs. They are thoroughly loyal to Russia, and keep the
portrait of the emperor in nearly every cottage. In accordance with
their custom of veiling women they hang a piece of gauze over the
picture of the empress. While changing horses, we were beset by many
beggars, whose forlorn appearance entitled them to sympathy. I
purchased a number of blessings, as each beggar made the sign of the
cross over me on receiving a copeck. Russian beggars are the most
devout I ever saw, and display great familiarity with the calendar of
saints. One morning at Kazan I stood at my hotel window watching a
beggar woman soliciting alms. Several poorly dressed peasants gave her
each a copeck or two, and both giver and receiver made the sign of the
cross. One decrepid old man gave her a loaf of bread, blessing it
devoutly as he placed it in her hands. So far as I saw not a single
well dressed person paid any attention to the mendicant. ‘Only the
poor can feel for the poor.’
[Illustration: BEGGARS IN KAZAN.]
We encountered a great deal of merchandise, carried invariably upon,
one-horse sleds. Cotton, and wool in large sacks were the principal
freight going westward, while that moving toward Kazan was of a
miscellaneous character. The yemshicks were the worst I found on the
whole extent of my sleigh ride. They generally contented themselves
with the regulation speed, and it was not often that the promise of
drink-money affected them. I concluded that money was more easily
obtained here than elsewhere on the route. Ten copecks were an
important item to a yemshick in Siberia, but of little consequence
along the Volga.
[Illustration: THE IMMERSION.]
Villages were numerous along the Volga, and most of them were very
liberally supplied with churches. We passed Makarief, which was for
many years the scene of the great fair of European Russia. Fire and
flood alike visited the place, and in 1816 the fair was transferred to
Nijne Novgorod. One of the villages has a church spire that leans
considerably toward the edge of the river.
About fifty versts from Nijne Novgorod the population of a large
village was gathered, in Sunday dress, upon the ice. A baptism was in
progress, and as we drove past the assemblage we caught a glimpse of a
man plunging through a freshly cut hole. Half a minute later he
emerged from the crowd and ran toward the nearest house, the water
dripping from his garments and hair. As we passed around the end of
the village, I looked back and saw another person running in the same
direction.
Converts to the Russian church are baptized by immersion, and, once
received in its bosom, they continue members until death do them part.
What I have said of the church in Siberia will apply throughout all
Russia. The government is far more tolerant in the matter of religion
than that of any Roman Catholic country in Europe, and might reprove
Great Britain pretty sharply for its religious tyrannies in unhappy
Ireland. Every one in Russia can worship God according to the dictates
of his own conscience, provided he does not shock the moral sense of
civilization in so doing. Every respectable form of Christian worship
enjoys full liberty, and so does every respectable form of paganism
and anti-Christianity. The Greek faith is the acknowledged religion of
the government, and the priests, by virtue of their partly official
character, naturally wield considerable power. The abuse or undue
employment of that power is not (theoretically) permitted, however
much the church may manifest its zeal. Every effort is made to convert
unbelievers, but no man is forced to accept the Greek faith.
Traveling through Russia one may see many forms of worship. He will
find the altars of Shamanism, the temples of Bhudha, the mosques of
Islam, and the synagogues of Israel. On one single avenue of the
Russian capital he will pass in succession the churches of the Greek,
the Catholic, the Armenian, the Lutheran, and the Episcopal faith. He
will be told that among the native Russians there are nearly fifty
sects of greater or less importance. There are some advantages in
belonging to the church of state, just as in England, but they are not
essential. I am acquainted with officers in the military, naval, and
civil service of the government who are not, and never have been,
members of the Greek church. I never heard any intimation that their
religion had been the least bar to their progress.
The Pope, in his encyclical of October, 1867, complains of the conduct
of the Russian government toward the Catholics in Poland. No doubt
Alexander has played the mischief with the Pope’s faithful in that
quarter, but not on account of their religion. In Warsaw a Russian
officer, a Pole by birth, told me of the misfortunes that had fallen
upon the Catholic monastery and college in that city. “We found in the
insurrection,” said the officer, “that the monks were engaged in
making knives, daggers, cartridges, and other weapons. The priests
were the active men of the rebellion, and did more than any other
class to urge it forward, and here is a specimen of iron-mongery from
the hands of the monks. We found two hundred of these in the college
recently suppressed. Many more were distributed and used.”
As he spoke he opened a drawer and showed me a short dagger fitting
into a small handle. The point of the blade had been dipped in poison,
and was carefully wrapped in paper. The instrument was used by
sticking it into somebody in a crowd, and allowing it to remain. Death
was pretty certain from a very slight scratch of this weapon.
If this gentleman’s story is correct, and it was corroborated by
others, the Russian persecution of the Polish Catholics is not
entirely without reason.
Among the dissenters in the Greek church there is a body called
_Staroviersty_ (Old Believers). The difference between them and the
adherents of the orthodox faith is more ritualistic than doctrinal.
Both make the sign of the cross, though each has its own way of
holding the fingers in the operation. The Staroviersty do not use
tobacco in any form, and their mode of life is generally quite rigid.
Under Catherine and Paul they were persecuted, and, as a matter of
course, increased their numbers rapidly. For the past sixty years
oppression has been removed, and they have done pretty nearly as they
liked. They are found in all parts of the empire, but are most
numerous in the vicinity of the Ural mountains.
Russia has its share of fanatical sects, some of whom push their
religion to a wonderful extreme. One sect has a way of sacrificing
children by a sort of slow torture in no way commendable. Another sect
makes a burnt offering of some of its adherents, who are selected by
lot. They enter a house prepared for the occasion, and begin a service
of singing and prayer. After a time spent in devotions, the building
is set on fire and consumed with its occupants. Another sect which is
mentioned elsewhere practices the mutilation of masculine believers,
and steals children for adoption into their families. Against all
these fanatics the government exercises its despotic power.
The peasants are generally very devout, and keep all the days of the
church with becoming reverence. There is a story that a moujik waylaid
and killed a traveler, and while rifling the pockets of his victim
found a cake containing meat. Though very hungry he would not eat the
cake, because meat was forbidden in the fast then in force.
[Illustration: RUSSIAN PRIEST.]
The government is endeavoring to diminish the power and influence of
the priests, and the number of saints’ days, when men must abstain
from, labor. Heretofore the priests have enjoyed the privilege of
recruiting the clergy from their own members. When a village priest
died his office fell to his son, and if he had no male heir the
revenues went to his eldest daughter until some priest married her and
took charge of the parish. By special order of the emperor any
vacancy is hereafter to be filled by the most deserving candidate.
It is said that during the Crimean war the governor of Moscow notified
the pastor of the English church in that city that the prayer for the
success of Her Brittanic Majesty’s armies must be omitted. The pastor
appealed to the emperor, who replied that prayers of regular form
might continue to be read, no matter what they contained. The governor
made no further interference.
About three o’clock in the afternoon of the second day from Kazan, the
yemshick pointed out the spires of Nijne Novgorod, on the southern
bank of the Volga. A fleet of steamers, barges, and soudnas lay sealed
in the ice along the shore, waiting for the moving of the waters. The
road to the north bank was marked with pine boughs, that fringed the
moving line of sleighs and sledges. We threaded our way among the
stationary vessels, and at length came before the town. A friend had
commended me to the Hotel de la Poste, and I ordered the yemshick to
drive there. With an eye to his pocket the fellow carried me to an
establishment of the same name on the other side of the Oka. I had a
suspicion that I was being swindled, but as they blandly informed me
that no other hotel with that title existed, I alighted and ordered my
baggage up.
This was the end of my sleigh ride. I had passed two hundred and nine
stations, with as many changes of horses and drivers. Nearly seven
hundred horses had been attached to my sleigh, and had drawn me over a
road of greatly varied character. Out of forty days from Irkutsk, I
spent sixteen at the cities and towns on the way. I slept twenty-six
nights in my sleigh with the thermometer varying from thirty-five
degrees above zero to forty-five below, and encountered four severe
storms and a variety of smaller ones. Including the detour to
Barnaool, my sleigh ride was about thirty-six hundred miles long. From
Stratensk by way of Kiachta to Irkutsk, I traveled not far from
fourteen hundred miles with wheeled vehicles, and made ninety-three
changes. My whole ride from steam navigation on the Amoor to the
railway at Nijne Novgorod was very nearly five thousand miles.
There was a manifest desire to swindle me at the bogus Hotel de la
Poste. Half a dozen attendants carried my baggage to my room, and each
demanded a reward. When I gave the yemshick his “na vodka,” an
officious attendant suggested that the gentleman should be very
liberal at the end of his ride. I asked for a bath, and they ordered a
sleigh to take me to a bathing establishment several squares away. My
proposition to be content for the present with a wash basin was
pronounced impossible, until I finished the argument with my left
boot. The waiter finally became affectionate, and when I ordered
supper he suggested comforts not on the bill of fare. The landlord
proposed to purchase my sleigh and superfluous furs, and we concluded
a bargain at less than a twelfth of their cost.
After a night’s rest I recrossed the Oka and drove to the town. Here I
found the veritable Hotel de la Poste, to which I immediately changed
my quarters. The house overlooked a little park enclosing a pond,
where a hundred or more persons were skating. The park was well
shaded, and must be quite pleasant in summer. The town hardly deserves
the name of Nijne (Lower) Novgorod, as it stands on a bluff nearly two
hundred feet above the river. Its lower town contains little else than
small shops, storehouses, poor hotels, and steamboat offices. The
Kremlin, or fortress, looks down from a very picturesque position, and
its strong walls have a defiant air. From the edge of the bluff the
view is wide; the low field and forest land on the opposite side of
the river, the sinuous Volga and its tributary, the Oka, are all
visible for a long distance. Opposite, on a tongue of land between the
Volga and the Oka, is the scene of the fair of Nijne Novgorod, the
greatest, I believe, in the world.
There are many fine houses in the upper town, with indications of
considerable wealth. I had a letter of introduction to the Chief of
Police, Colonel Kretegin, who kindly showed me the principal objects
of interest in and around the Kremlin. The monument to the memory of
Minin Sukhoruky possessed the greatest historical importance. This
man, a peasant and butcher, believed himself called to deliver Russia
from the Poles in 1612. He awakened his countrymen, and joined a
Russian noble in leading them to expel the invaders. A bronze monument
at Moscow represents Minin starting on his mission. The memorial at
Nijne is of a less elaborate character.
We drove through the fair grounds, which wore as empty of occupants as
Goldsmith’s deserted village. It is laid out like a regular town or
city, and most of its houses are substantially built. So much has been
written about this commercial center that I will not attempt its
description, especially as I was not there in fair season. The
population of the town—ordinarily forty thousand—becomes three
hundred thousand during the fair. More than half a million persons
have visited the city in a single summer, and the value of goods sold
or exchanged during each fair is about two hundred millions of
roubles.
Colonel Kretegin told me that the members of the Fox embassy were much
astonished at finding American goods for sale at Nijne Novgorod. It
would be difficult to mention any part of the civilized world where
some article of our manufacture has not penetrated.
[Illustration: TAIL PIECE]