At the close of the second day at Nijne Novgorod I started for Moscow.
As we drove from the hotel to the railway the jackdaws, perched
everywhere on the roofs, were unusually noisy. Leaving Asia and
entering Europe, the magpie seemed to give place to the jackdaw. The
latter bird inhabits the towns and cities east of the Ural mountains,
and we frequently saw large flocks searching the debris along the
Volga road. He associates freely with the pigeon, and appears well
protected by public sentiment. Possibly his uneatable character and
his fancied resemblance to the pigeon saves him from being knocked in
the head. Pigeons are very abundant in all Russian cities, and their
tameness is a matter of remark among foreign visitors.
The railway station is across the Oka and near the site of the annual
fair. We went at a smashing pace down hill and over the ice to the
other side, narrowly missing several collisions. At the railway I fell
to the charge of two porters, who carried my baggage while I sought
the ticket office. A young woman speaking French officiated at the
desk, and furnished me with a _billet de voyage_ to Moscow.
In the waiting room a hundred or more persons were gathered. The men
were well wrapped in furs, and among the ladies hoods were more
numerous than bonnets. Three-fourths of the males and a third of the
females were smoking cigarettes, and there was no prohibition visible.
In accordance with the national taste the chief article sold at the
_buffet_ was hot tea in tumblers.
Some one uttered “Sibeerski” as, clad in my dehar, I walked past a
little group. To keep up appearances and kill time I drank tea, until
the door opened and a rush was made for the train. There is an adage
in Germany that three kinds of people—fools, princes, and
Americans—travel first class. To continue Russian pretences, and by
the advice of a friend, I took a second class ticket, and found the
accommodation better than the average of first class cars in America.
How strange was the sensation of railway travel! Since I last
experienced it, I had journeyed more than half around the globe. I had
been tossed on the Pacific and adjacent waters, had ascended the great
river of northern Asia, had found the rough way of life along the
frozen roads beyond the Baikal, and ended with that long, long ride
over Siberian snows. I looked back through a long vista of earth and
snow, storm and sunshine, starlight and darkness, rolling sea and
placid river, rugged mountains and extended plains.
The hardships of travel were ended as I reached the land of railways,
and our motion as we sped along the track seemed more luxurious than
ever before. Contrasted with the cramped and narrow sleigh, pitching
over ridges and occasionally overturning, the carriage where I sat
appeared the perfection of locomotive skill. How sweet is pleasure
after pain. Sunshine is brightest in the morning, and prosperity has a
keener zest when it follows adversity. To be truly enjoyed, our lives
must be chequered with light and shadow, and varied with different
scenes.
The railway between Nijne Novgorod and Moscow is about two hundred and
fifty miles in length, and was built by French and Russian capital
combined. There is only one passenger train each way daily, at a speed
not exceeding twenty miles an hour.
In the compartment where I sat there was a young French woman,
governess in a family at Simbirsk, with a Russian female servant
accompanying her. The governess was chatty, and invited me to join her
in a feast of bon-bons, which she devoured at a prodigious rate. The
servant was becomingly silent, and solaced herself with cigarettes.
The restaurants along the road are quite well supplied, especially
those where full meals are provided. Two hours after starting we
halted ten minutes for tea and cigarettes. Two hours later we had
thirty minutes for supper, which was all ready at our arrival. About
midnight we stopped at the ancient city of Vladimir, where there is a
cathedral founded in the twelfth century. Stepping from the train to
get a night glimpse of the place, I found a substantial supper (or
breakfast) spread for consumption. In justice to the Russians, I am
happy to say very few patronized this midnight table.
At daybreak I rubbed the frost from a window and looked upon a stretch
of snow and frost, with peasant cottages few and far between. An hour
later, our speed slackened. Again cleaning the glass and peering
through it, a large city came in sight.
It was Moscow,—“Holy Moscow,”—the city of the Czars, and beloved of
every Russian. Suffering through Tartar, Polish, and French
occupations, it has survived pillage, massacre, fire, and famine, and
remains at this day the most thoroughly national of the great cities
of the empire. The towers and domes of its many churches glittered in
the morning sunlight as they glittered half a century ago, when
Napoleon and his soldiers first climbed the hills that overlook the
city.
It was a long drive from the station to the hotel. The morning was
clear and cold, and the snow in the streets had been ground into a
sand-like mass several inches deep. The solid foundation beneath was
worn with hollows and ridges, that vividly recalled the oukhabas of
the post road. Streets were full of sleds and sleighs, the latter
dashing at a rapid rate. In the region near the station there were so
many signs of ‘_Trakteer_’ as to suggest the possibility of one half
the inhabitants selling tea, beer, and quass to the other half. Near
the center of the city the best shops displayed signs in French or
English, generally the former.
Of course I went early to the Kremlin. Who has ever read or talked of
Moscow without its historic fortress? Entering by the Sacred Gate, I
lifted my hat in comformity to the custom, from which not even the
emperor is exempt. One of my school-books contained a description of
the Czar Kolokol, or Great Bell, and stated that a horse and chaise
could pass through the hole where a piece was broken from one side.
Possibly the miniature vehicle of Tom Thumb could be driven through,
but, certainly, no ordinary one-horse shay could have any prospect of
success. The hole is six feet in height, by about a yard wide at the
bottom, and narrows like a wedge toward the top. The height and
diameter of the bell are respectively nineteen feet four inches by
twenty feet three inches. It weighs 444,000 pounds. It was cast in
1733, by order of the Empress Anne, and the hole in its side was made
by the falling of some rafters during a fire in 1737. It remained
buried in the ground until 1836, when it was raised and placed on its
present pedestal by order of the Emperor Nicholas.
[Illustration: GREAT BELL OF MOSCOW.]
To enumerate all the wonders of the Kremlin would consume much time
and space. Somebody tells of a Yankee gazing at Niagara, and lamenting
that a magnificent water power should run to waste. I could not help
wondering how many miles of railway could be built from the proceeds
of the mass of wealth inside the Kremlin. Diamonds, rubies, pearls,
crowns, sceptres, thrones, princely and priestly robes, are gathered
in such numbers that eye and brain become weary in their
contemplation. The most interesting of these treasures are those
around which cling historic associations. The crowns of the kingdoms
of Kazan and Astrachan point to the overthrow of Tartar power in
Europe, while the throne of Poland symbolizes the westward course of
the Muscovite star of empire. There are flags borne or captured in
Russia’s victories, from the storming of Kazan and the defence of
Albazin down to the suppression of Polish revolt. Mute and dumb
witnesses of the misfortunes of the _Grand Armee_ are the long rows of
cannon that lie near the Kremlin palace. Three hundred and sixty-five
French guns tell of Napoleon’s disastrous march to Moscow.
The holiest part of holy Moscow is within the Kremlin. In the church
of the Assumption, the czars of Russia, from John the Terrible down to
the present day, have been crowned. In the Michael church, until the
accession of Peter the Great, the Rurik and Romanoff dynasties were
buried; while another church witnessed their baptism, and marriage.
What a wonderful amount of gold and jewels are visible in the churches
and chapels of the Kremlin! The floor of one is of jasper and agate;
pearl and amethyst and onyx adorn the inner walls of another. One has
vast pillars of porphyry, and the domes and turrets of all are
liberally spread or starred with gold. The pictures of the infant
Saviour and his mother are hung with necklaces of jewels, each of them
almost a fortune. One might easily think that the wealth of Ormuz or
of Ind had been gathered to adorn the shrines of the most oriental
Christian faith.
I visted the Imperial Theatre, which the Muscovites pronounce the
finest in the world. To my mind it is only equaled by La Scala at
Milan, or San Carlo at Naples. Outside it reminded me of our
_ci-devant_ Academy of Music. Inside it was gorgeous, well arranged,
and spacious.
[Illustration: VIEW ON THE NEVSKI PROSPECT—ST. PETERSBURG.]
The _Kitai Gorod,_ or Chinese town of Moscow, is close by the Kremlin
and outside its walls. The only feature worthy the name of this part
of the city is the number of Tartar inhabitants and the immense
bazaar, or Gustinni Dvor, where the principal trade of Moscow has been
centered for nearly three hundred years. The quantity of goods in the
bazaar is something enormous. A Russian said to me: “If half the
houses in Moscow were stripped of furniture, ornaments, and all things
save the walls and roofs; if their inhabitants were plundered of all
clothing and personal goods except their bank accounts,—the _gastinni
dvor_ could supply every deficiency within two hours. You may enter
the bazaar wearing nothing but your shirt, and can depart in an hour
dressed and decorated in any manner you choose, and riding in your
carriage with driver and footman in livery.”
The railway between St. Petersburg and Moscow is a government affair,
and forms nearly a direct line from one city to the other. It is said
that the emperor Nicholas placed a ruler on the map and drew a line
from one capital to the other to mark the route the engineers must
follow. Notwithstanding the favorable character of the country the
cost of the road was enormous, in consequence of alleged peculations.
There is a story that the government once wished to make a great
impression upon a Persian embassy. All the marvels of St. Petersburg
and Moscow were exhausted, but the oriental embassadors remained
serene and unmoved.
“What shall we do to surprise them,” the emperor demanded of his prime
minister.
“Nothing is better, sire,” replied that official, “than to tell them
the cost of the Imperial railway.”
One hears more about stealing and bribe taking in Russia than in any
other country I ever visited. The evil is partly on account of low
salaries and great expense of living, and partly due to ancient
custom. The emperor has endeavored to establish a reform in this
particular, but the difficulties are very great because of the secret
character of “palm-greasing,” It is related that a German _savant_
once remarked to Nicholas that he could do Russia a great service by
breaking up the system of financial corruption. “To get such a project
in action,” replied the emperor, “I must begin by bribing my prime
minister.”
Of the country between the capitals I saw very little. In the cars the
double windows, covered with frost, were about as transparent as a
drop curtain. We stopped at a great many capacious and well built
stations, where there was abundant opportunity for feeding and
drinking. The journey commenced at two in the afternoon, and was
finished at ten on the following morning. The distance, according to
official measurement, is four hundred and three miles.
The train halted at the station nearest St. Petersburg, and as we
stood a moment upon the platform, we saw the great, gilded dome of St.
Isaac’s cathedral rising over the city. In St. Petersburg my first
duty was to take breakfast, a bath, and a change of clothes at a
hotel, and then, to drive to the banker’s for letters from home. I had
not seen an American for five months; as I alighted from my droshky, a
well-dressed individual looked at me, and not to be outdone I returned
his glance. Our eyes peered over two fur collars that exposed very
little of our faces. After a moment’s hesitation each of us spoke the
other’s name, and I experienced the double pleasure of meeting in one
individual a countryman and an old friend.
[Illustration: TAIL PIECE—MEETING AN OLD FRIEND]
THE END.
[Illustration: MAP _to accompany_ THOS. W. KNOX’S “Overland through Asia”]