MOSCOW.
What the great Napoleon thought when he gazed for the first time
across the broad valley that lay at his feet, and caught the first
dazzling light that flashed from the walls and golden cupolas of the
Kremlin--whether some shadowy sense of the wondrous beauties of the
scene did not enter his soul--is more than I can say with certainty;
but this much I know, that neither he nor his legions could have
enjoyed the view from Sparrow Hill more than I did the first glimpse
of the grand old city of the Czars as I stepped from the railroad
depot, with my knapsack on my back, and stood, a solitary and
bewildered waif, uncertain if it could all be real; for never yet had
I, in the experience of many years' travel, seen such a magnificent
sight, so wildly Tartaric, so strange, glowing, and incomprehensible.
This was Moscow at last--the Moscow I had read of when a child--the
Moscow I had so often seen burnt up in panoramas by an excited and
patriotic populace--the Moscow ever flashing through memory in fitful
gleams, half buried in smoke, and flames, and toppling ruins, now
absolutely before me, a gorgeous reality in the bright noonday sun,
with its countless churches, its domes and cupolas, and mighty
Kremlin.
Stand with me, reader, on the first eminence, and let us take a
bird's-eye view of the city, always keeping in mind that the Kremlin
is the great nucleus from which it all radiates. What a vast, wavy
ocean of golden cupolas and fancy-colored domes, green-roofed houses
and tortuous streets circle around this magic pile! what a combination
of wild, barbaric splendors! nothing within the sweep of vision that
is not glowing and Oriental. Never was a city so fashioned for scenic
effects. From the banks of the Moskwa the Kremlin rears its glittering
crest, surrounded by green-capped towers and frowning embattlements,
its umbrageous gardens and massive white walls conspicuous over the
vast sea of green-roofed houses, while high above all, grand and
stern, like some grim old Czar of the North, rises the magnificent
tower of Ivan Veliki. Within these walls stand the chief glories of
Moscow--the palaces of the Emperor, the Cathedral of the Assumption,
the House of the Holy Synod, the Treasury, the Arsenal, and the Czar
Kolokol, the great king of bells. All these gorgeous edifices, and
many more, crown the eminence which forms the sacred grounds,
clustering in a magic maze of beauty around the tower of Ivan the
Terrible. Beyond the walls are numerous open spaces occupied by booths
and markets; then come the principal streets and buildings of the
city, encircled by the inner boulevards; then the suburbs, around
which wind the outer boulevards; then a vast tract of beautiful and
undulating country, dotted with villas, lakes, convents, and public
buildings, inclosed in the far distance by the great outer wall, which
forms a circuit of twenty miles around the city. The Moskwa River
enters near the Presnerski Lake, and, taking a circuitous route,
washes the base of the Kremlin, and passes out near the convent of St.
Daniel. If you undertake, however, to trace out any plan of the city
from the confused maze of streets that lie outspread before you, it
will be infinitely worse than an attempt to solve the mysteries of a
woman's heart; for there is no apparent plan about it; the whole thing
is an unintelligible web of accidents. There is no accounting for its
irregularity, unless upon the principle that it became distorted in a
perpetual struggle to keep within reach of the Kremlin.
It is sometimes rather amusing to compare one's preconceived ideas of
a place with the reality. A city like Moscow is very difficult to
recognize from any written description. From some cause wholly
inexplicable, I had pictured to my mind a vast gathering of tall,
massive houses, elaborately ornamented; long lines of narrow and
gloomy streets; many great palaces, dingy with age; and a population
composed chiefly of Russian nabobs and their retinues of serfs. The
reality is almost exactly the reverse of all these preconceived ideas.
The houses for the most part are low--not over one or two stories
high--painted with gay and fanciful colors, chiefly yellow, red, or
blue; the roofs of tin or zinc, and nearly all of a bright green,
giving them a very lively effect in the sun; nothing grand or imposing
about them in detail, and but little pretension to architectural
beauty. Very nearly such houses may be seen every day on any of the
four continents.
Still, every indication of life presents a very different aspect from
any thing in our own country. The people have a slow, slouching,
shabby appearance; and the traveler is forcibly reminded, by the
strange costumes he meets at every turn--the thriftless and degenerate
aspect of the laboring classes--the great lumbering wagons that roll
over the stone-paved streets--the droskies rattling hither and thither
with their grave, priest-like drivers and wild horses--the squads of
filthy soldiers lounging idly at every corner--the markets and
market-places, and all that gives interest to the scene, that he is in
a foreign land--a wild land of fierce battles between the elements,
and fiercer still between men--where civilization is ever struggling
between Oriental barbarism and European profligacy.
The most interesting feature in the population of Moscow is their
constant and extraordinary displays of religious enthusiasm. This
seems to be confined to no class or sect, but is the prevailing
characteristic. No less than three hundred churches are embraced
within the limits of the city. Some writers estimate the number as
high as five hundred; nor does the discrepancy show so much a want of
accuracy as the difficulty of determining precisely what constitutes
a distinct church. Many of these remarkable edifices are built in
clusters, with a variety of domes and cupolas, with different names,
and contain distinct places of worship--as in the Cathedral of St.
Basil, for instance, which is distinguished by a vast number of
variegated domes, and embraces within its limits at least five or six
separate churches, each church being still farther subdivided into
various chapels. Of the extraordinary architectural style of these
edifices, their many-shaped and highly-colored domes, representing all
the lines of the rainbow, the gilding so lavishly bestowed upon them,
their wonderfully picturesque effect from every point of view, it
would be impossible to convey any adequate idea without entering into
a more elaborate description than I can at present attempt.
But it is not only in the numberless churches scattered throughout the
city that the devotional spirit of the inhabitants is manifested.
Moscow is the Mecca of Russia, where all are devotees. The external
forms of religion are every where apparent--in the palaces, the
barracks, the institutions of learning, the traktirs, the
bath-houses--even in the drinking cellars and gambling-hells. Scarcely
a bridge or corner of a street is without its shrine, its pictured
saint and burning taper, before which every by-passer of high or low
degree bows down and worships. It may be said with truth that one is
never out of sight of devotees baring their heads and prostrating
themselves before these sacred images. All distinctions of rank seem
lost in this universal passion for prayer. The nobleman, in his gilded
carriage with liveried servants, stops and pays the tribute of an
uncovered head to some saintly image by the bridge or the roadside;
the peasant, in his shaggy sheepskin capote, doffs his greasy cap,
and, while devoutly crossing himself, utters a prayer; the soldier,
grim and warlike, marches up in his rattling armor, grounds his
musket, and forgets for the time his mission of blood; the tradesman,
with his leather apron and labor-worn hands, lays down his tools and
does homage to the shrine; the drosky-driver, noted for his petty
villainies, checks his horse, and, standing up in his drosky, bows low
and crosses himself before he crosses the street or the bridge; even
my guide, the saturnine Dominico--and every body knows what guides are
all over the world--halted at every corner, regardless of time, and
uttered an elaborate form of adjurations for our mutual salvation.
Pictures of a devotional character are offered for sale in almost
every booth, alley, and passage-way, where the most extraordinary
daubs may be seen pinned up to the walls. Saints and dragons,
fiery-nosed monsters, and snakes, and horrid creeping things, gilded
and decorated in the most gaudy style, attract idle crowds from
morning till night.
It is marvelous with what profound reverence the Russians will gaze at
these extraordinary specimens of art. Often you see a hardened-looking
ruffian--his face covered with beard and filth; his great, brawny form
resembling that of a prize-fighter; his costume a ragged blouse, with
loose trowsers thrust in his boots; such a wretch, in short, as you
would select for an unmitigated ruffian if you were in want of a model
for that character--take off his cap, and, with superstitious awe and
an expression of profound humility, bow down before some picture of a
dragon with seven heads or a chubby little baby of saintly parentage.
That these poor people are sincere in their devotion there can be no
doubt. Their sincerity, indeed, is attested by the strongest proofs of
self-sacrifice. A Russian will not hesitate to lie, rob, murder, or
suffer starvation for the preservation of his religion. Bigoted though
he may be, he is true to his faith and devoted to his forms of
worship, whatever may be his short-comings in other respects. It is a
part of his nature; it permeates his entire being. Hence no city in
the world, perhaps--Jerusalem not excepted--presents so strange a
spectacle of religious enthusiasm, genuine and universal, mingled with
moral turpitude; monkish asceticism and utter abandonment to vice;
self-sacrifice and loose indulgence. It may be said that this is not
true religion--not even what these people profess. Perhaps not; but it
is what they are accustomed to from infancy, and it certainly develops
some of their best traits of character--charity to each other,
earnestness, constancy, and self-sacrifice.
On the morning after my arrival in Moscow I witnessed from the window
of my hotel a very impressive and melancholy spectacle--the departure
of a gang of prisoners for Siberia. The number amounted to some two or
three hundred. Every year similar trains are dispatched, yet the
parting scene always attracts a sympathizing crowd. These poor
creatures were chained in pairs, and guarded by a strong detachment of
soldiers. Their appearance, as they stood in the street awaiting the
order to march, was very sad. Most of them were miserably clad, and
some scarcely clad at all. A degraded, forlorn set they were--filthy
and ragged--their downcast features expressive of an utter absence of
hope. Few of them seemed to have any friends or relatives in the crowd
of by-standers; but in two or three instances I noticed some very
touching scenes of separation--where wives came to bid good-by to
their husbands, and children to their fathers. Nearly every body gave
them something to help them on their way--a few kopecks, a loaf of
bread, or some cast-off article of clothing. I saw a little child
timidly approach the gang, and, dropping a small coin into the hand of
one poor wretch, run back again into the crowd, weeping bitterly.
These prisoners are condemned to exile for three, four, or five
years--often for life. It requires from twelve to eighteen months of
weary travel, all the way on foot, through barren wastes and
inhospitable deserts, to enable them to reach their desolate place of
exile. Many of them fall sick on the way from fatigue and
privation--many die. Few ever live to return. In some instances the
whole term of exile is served out on the journey to and from Siberia.
On their arrival they are compelled to labor in the government mines
or on the public works. Occasionally the most skillful and industrious
are rewarded by appointments to positions of honor and trust, and
become in the course of time leading men.
[Illustration: PRISONERS FOR SIBERIA.]
In contemplating the dreary journey of these poor creatures--a journey
of some fifteen hundred or two thousand miles--I was insensibly
reminded of that touching little story of filial affection, "Elizabeth
of Siberia," a story drawn from nature, and known in all civilized
languages.
Not long after the departure of the Siberian prisoners, I witnessed,
in passing along one of the principal streets, a grand funeral
procession. The burial of the dead is a picturesque and interesting
ceremony in Moscow. A body of priests, dressed in black robes and
wearing long beards, take the lead in the funeral cortege, bearing in
their hands shrines and burning tapers. The hearse follows, drawn by
four horses. Black plumes wave from the heads of the horses, and
flowing black drapery covers their bodies and legs. Even their heads
are draped in black, nothing being perceptible but their eyes. The
coffin lies exposed on the top of the hearse, and is also similarly
draped. This combination of sombre plumage and drapery has a
singularly mournful appearance. Priests stand on steps attached to the
hearse holding images of the Savior over the coffin; others follow in
the rear, comforting the friends and relatives of the deceased. A
wild, monotonous chant is sung from time to time by the chief mourners
as the procession moves toward the burial-ground. The people cease
their occupations in the streets through which the funeral passes,
uncover their heads, and, bowing down before the images borne by the
priests, utter prayers for the repose of the dead. The rich and the
poor of both sexes stand upon the sidewalks and offer up their humble
petitions. The deep-tongued bells of the Kremlin ring out solemn
peals, and the wild and mournful chant of the priests mingles with the
grand knell of death that sweeps through the air. All is profoundly
impressive: the procession of priests, with their burning tapers; the
drapery of black on the horses; the coffin with its dead; the weeping
mourners; the sepulchral chant; the sudden cessation of all the
business of life, and the rapt attention of the multitude; the deep,
grand, death-knell of the bells; the glitter of domes and cupolas on
every side; the green-roofed sea of houses; the winding streets, and
the costumes of the people--form a spectacle wonderfully wild,
strange, and mournful. In every thing that comes within the sweep of
the eye there is a mixed aspect of Tartaric barbarism and European
civilization. Yet even the stranger from a far-distant clime, speaking
another language, accustomed to other forms, must feel, in gazing upon
such a scene, that death levels all distinctions of race--that our
common mortality brings us nearer together. Every where we are
pilgrims on the same journey. Wherever we sojourn among men,
"The dead around us lie,
And the death-bell tolls."