The Englishwoman in Russia

by A lady

CHAPTER XVIII.

Moscow—Poushkin’s verses—The Moscowites—Dislike of foreigners—Antipathy to the St. Petersburg people—Ancient devotees—Places of amusement—General remarks—The Kremlin—The churches—General view of the city—Napoleon—The miraculous image—Ivan and his recompence for genius—The Gostinoi Dwor—The shopkeepers’ brides—A wedding coach—The Tartar—The Persian—The Metropolitan of Moscow—The Jews—The shopkeepers—Smoking—The Tiramà, or ancient palace—The new palace—The Treasury—The diadems—The Tartars of the present day—The church of Warsaw—The last fight for freedom—Various curiosities—Spoils of the grande armée—The officer’s widow—French refugees: their gratitude—The model of the Kremlin.

Although this is no book of travels, but merely a sketch of the Russians and Russian life, yet, as I have frequently spoken of Moscow, perhaps a description of it may be acceptable. This beautiful city strikes the stranger with admiration, as much from its fine situation as from the semi-Asiatic barbarism of its splendour. Poushkin, the national poet, speaks of its gardens and its palaces, its crosses, and its cupolas that “form a crescent,” and appeals to the hearts of his countrymen in some beautiful stanzas that find their echo in every Russian breast, for there is no place in the empire for which they have so great an affection. “Mother” Moscow is the endearing epithet they bestow on their ancient capital; and they would rather see St. Petersburg buried in the morasses on which it is built than that any evil should befal Moscow. Patriotism in every people is to be admired; and certainly the love the Russians bear to their country, although mixed up with much fanaticism, is worthy of our respect. Moscow has all the prestige of a holy city, and is still regarded by the nation as the capital. The Moscowites themselves look down on the inhabitants of St. Petersburg as a kind of parvenus and mushrooms,—people of no caste, and a race of mixed blood, descended from foreigners and adventurers,—whilst they hold themselves up as the true sons of Old Russia, and are in every respect much more truly Russian than the St. Petersburg people. The feeling against foreigners, although their society is much courted by the upper classes, is, as a national sentiment, very strong. Were a revolution to break out, I have heard it said a thousand times, they would be the first to fall victims to the people’s rage, for they are looked on as heretics, and subverters of the manners and customs of their forefathers, to which they cling as tenaciously as any oriental nation. If the lower class were to rise, as some fear they will do, a Russian massacre of St. Bartholomew would inevitably ensue. The English were the most liked and respected by them before the late events; they are now the most intensely hated of any.

The general rule appears to be, that what is liked in St. Petersburg should be hated in Moscow, and vice versâ; if, therefore, an actress or singer fait fureur in the western city, she is immediately hissed in the eastern. If people be in an extasy of delight at some grand discovery, such as table-moving, which has occupied the powerful intellect of the inhabitants of St. Petersburg for the last year and a half, it is, of course, but coldly received in Moscow; and so on. In religion the Moscowites are in everything the most orthodox “Greek.” It seems an established rule that old ladies superannuated from society should go to reside in Moscow, in order to spend their last years among the ancient churches, bigoted priests, monks, and nuns, with which the city is perfectly crowded. When the world has lost its charms for them (or, rather, they have lost their charms for the world), they retire thither, and assiduously fast, pray, and pay, in the hopes of more surely paving the road to heaven, and removing the brambles of youthful sins and follies out of their path. The time that was formerly spent by them at balls, the opera, and card-tables, they now devote to nightly vigils in the churches, attending mass, and in visits to the convents and their musty inmates. The money which they used to throw away in gambling and extravagance, they now employ in making rich gifts to religious houses, in purchasing dresses for the priests, and in giving presents to pilgrims; so that, as may be supposed, the prospect of living merrily in Moscow is rather clouded; but fortunately there are people neither so old nor so bigoted but that they have amusements of their own. There are an opera, a French theatre, assembly-rooms, which are very splendid, and every social entertainment the same as in St. Petersburg; but the truth must be told, they are all in very second-rate style. The streets in Moscow are irregular, narrow, and badly paved, but there is an Asiatic look about them and the inhabitants that pleases from its novelty. Some of the houses are magnificent in appearance, and the elevated situation of many of them adds greatly to their effect: they lie scattered here and there among gardens, which serve greatly to embellish the general aspect of the city. The views presented by almost every opening are really beautiful, and possess so great a variety that they never cease to delight the eye. The churches are extremely curious; many of them are very ancient, and, were it not for the gilt crosses on the top, they might be mistaken for oriental mosques. Some of them have the most strange galleries on the exterior, the most extraordinary embellishments of paint and colours, twisted towers, and wonderful roofs, that can be imagined. But let us take a walk into the Kremlin, and have a general view of the whole city. We are now passing down the Kousmitski Most, or Smiths’ Bridge, which is the principal street, the Pall-Mall of the Moscowites; there are some good shops, nearly all French or Italian, yet everything bears the stamp of a second capital. The faces we meet are quite in a different style from those we saw in St. Petersburg: some of them are extremely pretty, and others very much the contrary. I believe it was in Moscow that I saw the most frightful countenance I ever beheld. There are not many pedestrians: the Moscow people are too Asiatic to be fond of exercise. The carriages that pass contain numerous portly old ladies and gentlemen, some of them with very Tartar-like faces, and looking solemn and grave. A few minutes’ walk, and we are at the far-famed Kremlin itself. Its massive walls, and curious towers tapering to the sky, with small loopholes and windows, the terrace of earth on which it is built, may all recall to our mind the time when it formed the stronghold of Muscovy, when men fought with bows and arrows, and the besiegers were repulsed from lofty battlements. The general appearance almost reminds us of the pictures of the old palaces of Hindûstan, so perfectly oriental does it seem. What a number of churches crowded together! What a variety of domes, cupolas, and crosses, all glittering in the sun! That long, narrow garden, which forms a walk under the walls, was formerly the moat which rendered the Kremlin a more secure abode for the Czar, for here is still the ancient palace of the Muscovite monarchs. That huge white building yonder, audaciously lifting its staring front over the walls, is the new imperial residence, which joins on to the old one. It certainly spoils the picturesque ensemble of the Kremlin, and looks infinitely more like a range of barracks than aught else. Crossing the sloping way over the Alexander Gardens, we perceive that the wall encloses within its precincts not only innumerable churches and convents, but an arsenal and casernes, before which are displayed, in a very prominent manner, several handsome guns, a part of the spoils of the grande armée, as they say. As we proceed we see a variety of curious old churches, each more quaint and interesting than the last; and now we have a good view of Ivan Veliki (or the Cathedral of John the Great), the pride of the Moscowites, in front of which is the celebrated great bell of which everybody has heard or read. Several monks sweep past us in their long black gowns, and innumerable military men saunter about, making a fitting group in the foreground. If we stand and look over this wall on the side of the walk, we shall have a view that is worth coming a thousand versts to see. Below us lies the city; what a gay-looking place! The gilt domes and golden crosses, the star-bespangled cupolas, the belfries with their lofty spires, the palace-like buildings, the gardens, the gaily-painted roofs, the very irregularity of the streets, lend an additional beauty; the hills on which the city is built, rising from the Moskwa’s banks, succeed each other until lost in the distance. The only object wanting to render the panorama perfect is water. What a pity that the river is so narrow and scanty! The view of Moscow, for an inland town, if it only had the broad Volga running through it instead of this poor shallow stream, which scarcely serves to float the river-boats, would be unequalled, excepting perhaps by the city of Mexico, which filled Cortez and his iron warriors with so much delight. That enormous square building with a church in the centre, that we see yonder to the left, is the Foundling Hospital: it contains some thousands of inmates; the children are brought up to serve the crown, or as servants and needlewomen, according to their sex. The present state of affairs in Russia renders such establishments necessary, in order to prevent the crime of infanticide, which would otherwise be a common one. Far away to the right are the Sparrow Hills, a very pretty place of resort for picnic parties, &c.

It was near the spot on which we now are that Napoleon the Great is said to have stood and gazed on the flames of the burning city beneath him, in whose red glare of fiery light he read, as Belshazzar did of old upon the wall, that his empire had passed away. Why did not Nicholas learn of a mightier man than himself how dangerous it is to invade the hearths and altars of another race, when ambition and not justice prompts the deed?

We could remain here for hours and yet never be tired of gazing on this beautiful tableau; but there are many other objects to see, and so we will continue our promenade.

In crossing the space within the Kremlin we pass more churches and more barracks until we reach the Holy Gate: the picture of the Virgin and Child is above it—of course it is a miraculous one. One of the greatest miracles it ever performed was the remaining where it is when the French invaded the city; for that gay and frolicsome people tried, so the Russians say, with all their force to remove it, but in vain; so, sous entendu, it could be nothing but a supernatural power that kept it fixed where we now see it. We heretics may imagine, from its shabby appearance, that they let it stay because it really was not worth their while to take it away. The Russians regard it with extreme reverence, and the sentinel placed near has strict orders to let no one pass through the gateway unless he uncover his head. We ladies are exempted from this penalty, and having unceremoniously walked through the arch we reach the large space in front of the Gorod or Gostinoi Dwor. That strangely-built church to the right, painted of all sorts of colours and twisted into all sorts of contortions, is one that was erected at the command of Vassili the Blessed, or, as some say, Ivan the Terrible, the Muscovite Caligula,[18] who was so enchanted with it when it was finished that he ordered the architect’s eyes to be pulled out, lest he should ever construct another similar in beauty. What a pleasing encouragement to genius!

That heavy statue in front of the Gostinoi Dwor was, they say, cast to commemorate the defeat of the Poles when Poland was more powerful than Russia. That ponderous arm appears disproportioned to the figure. The Gorod is much larger than the Gostinoi Dwor in St. Petersburg, but it is neither so clean nor kept in so good order: I think the shopmen are still more tiresome with their “What do you wish?” Some of the shops contain things of great value, although not displayed to view. That decent-looking woman is inspecting real cashmere shawls. “How much is this one?” she asks.

“Seven hundred silver roubles” (110l.); and he adds, “not a copeck less.”