Leaving Nijni Novgorod on the evening of the 5th October, the following morning saw us in Moscow, and comfortably installed at that luxurious but expensive hotel, the “Slavenski Bazar,” an establishment almost equal in comfort to the Hôtel Bristol in Paris, but about twice as dear in its charges. The restaurant is, perhaps, one of the finest in the world. In the centre of the latter is a large round tank covered with white water-lilies, and fringed by reeds and riverside flowers, in which swim lazily to and fro huge sturgeon and sterlet, brought daily from the Volga, and which are chosen and picked out by divers with a small net a couple of hours before they are eaten, thus ensuring perfect freshness.
The plan or general panorama of Moscow is not unlike that of Paris, the city having its nucleus in the celebrated “Kremlin,” which I was somewhat disappointed in, perhaps because it had so often been thrust down one’s throat as a beautiful sight. The word “Kremlin” is derived from the Tartar language, in which it means “fortress,” every town of importance in Russia having its “Kremlin,” great or small. The walls of the Moscow Kremlin are about seven thousand three hundred feet in circumference, and enclose the Imperial palace, arsenal, and treasury, besides three cathedrals, a monastery, a convent, and the tower of Ivan the Great, which latter is about three hundred feet in height, and commands, on a clear day, one of the finest views in the world. At the foot of the tower stands the “Tsar Kolokol,” or “king of bells,” which weighs nearly two hundred tons, stands twenty-six feet high, and has a circumference of sixty-eight feet. This bell dates back as far as the year 1674, when it was suspended from a wooden beam at the foot of the tower, from which during a fire it fell in 1706. Its fragments lay on the ground until the reign of the Empress Anne, by whose orders it was again recast in 1733. By the falling of some heavy rafters during another fire, in 1737, or, according to some accounts, owing to an imperfection in the casting caused by jewels and other treasures having been thrown into the liquid metal by the ladies of Moscow, a piece in the side was knocked out; and the bell remained buried till the year 1836, when it was placed on its present pedestal by order of Nicholas I. Moscow is essentially a city of bells and churches. Among the former are some of the sweetest toned ones I have ever heard. This is due in a great measure to the large amount of gold and silver used in the alloy. Morning, noon, and night the bells of Moscow are never silent. Wake up at four in the morning, and you will hear at least a dozen churches (there are over four hundred) tolling for some religious service, or the repose of a soul.
There are three cathedrals within the Kremlin: the Annunciation, where the Czars are baptized and married; the Assumption, where they are crowned; and the Archangel Michael, where they are interred. The latter is, perhaps, though not the richest, the most curious, for it contains, ranged round the walls, the coffins of all the Czars reigning between 1333 and 1696. Entering suddenly from the sunshine, it was some time before we discovered that we were surrounded by some forty coffins, each covered with a dark crimson velvet pall, bearing a gold embroidered cross. Near the centre altar stood the bier of little Prince Dimitri, murdered by order of the Czar Boris. Part of the face, which looks of the consistency of dark leather, is exposed, and this is kissed daily by many thousands of the faithful. A service was going on, at one of the smaller chapels, the bright gleam of light around the Ikonostase and white and gold vestments throwing the rest of the building into deeper gloom, while the melancholy dirge which the priests were droning out for the repose of some dead monarch, heightened the effect of the gloomy scene.
The richest church in Moscow, if not the handsomest, is the Cathedral of the Assumption, which dates from A.D. 1479. This cathedral was pillaged by the French in 1812. It still contains, notwithstanding, treasure and relics of fabulous wealth. Some of the pictures are literally covered with diamonds and other precious stones; one, a picture of the Holy Virgin, having attached to it jewels worth thirty million roubles. Among the relics is one of the nails used at the crucifixion, and a portion of the garment worn by our Saviour.
The Kremlin may be described as a town within a city, and a very quiet dull town, for there is but little life or movement in its cobbled grass-grown streets. To a student of architecture, however, it must be interesting, for the Byzantine, Gothic, Arab, and even Chinese styles are there mixed in glorious confusion. The palace, though it contains magnificent reception-rooms, and millions of roubles have been spent on its restoration, is an ugly, commonplace building, and detracts a good deal from the picturesque appearance of the churches and buildings around it, while the arsenal and treasury are positively hideous. Ranged along the walls of the former are the cannon taken from the French. There are eight hundred and seventy-five pieces in all, each bearing a name upon their breech thus: “Le Valliant,” “La Ravissante,” “L’Eclair,” &c. It was then, apparently, customary to christen cannon like ships in the present day.
On leaving or entering the Kremlin by the Spasskoi Gate, every one must uncover. The Russians are tetchy on this point, and a stranger infringing the rule would have a bad time of it. The legend runs that Napoleon I. is the only man that ever dared ride through the gate with his hat on; but that, even in his case, a gust of wind sent it flying before he was well through, much to the rage and discomfiture of “Le Petit Caporal.”
The name of the latter is, strange to say, revered by all, and loved by some in the Holy City, and it is rare to hear a Russian display animosity towards France. There is rather a feeling of pity for the thousands of unhappy soldiers who perished, frozen to death, on the bleak plains around Moscow, during the retreat from that city, a disaster that gave rise to the Russian expression, “I feel as cold as a Frenchman!” The Muscovite excels even the Parisian in politeness. No one ever dreams of entering a shop or restaurant covered, and the very beggars in the streets salute each other with the air of nobles. On the whole I have seldom seen a city I liked more on a short acquaintance than Moscow, perhaps for the reason that it is utterly unlike any other I have ever beheld. It is fairly clean, for Russia, but although the two principal thoroughfares are asphalte-paved, the smaller streets would disgrace a third-rate country town in England, and are in summer ankle deep in dust, in winter a sea of mud and mire.
But although this city is, next to Constantinople, the earthly paradise of the sight-seer, I will not trouble the reader with our peregrinations round a city which has been so often and so graphically described. It may be heresy to say so, but I must confess that the sight which impressed me most was the poorly furnished room, with its camp-bedstead and two rough wooden chairs, in the hotel, where brave Skobeleff breathed his last, and under what deplorable circumstances!
We were not anxious to prolong our stay, for winter arrived with unpleasant suddenness, on the 10th of October. The barometer, which had at 2 p.m. been up to 70°, had sunk at 7 p.m. to only two degrees above zero, and by nine o’clock snow was falling in thin white flakes. The next morning it was nine or ten inches deep, and gangs of men were at work in the streets flattening it down for sledge traffic.
I look back on Warsaw as the one bright spot in our journey. It will be long ere I forget the bright sunny morning that we came upon its white palaces and gardens, its squares and boulevards, after a tedious railway journey from Moscow. Apart from the cheerful look of the town and population, one felt one had reached Europe at last. The first thing that strikes one on arriving at this so-called down-trodden city is the preponderance of the female element; the second, how unusually good-looking that element is. I think one sees more pretty women in five minutes in Warsaw than in half-an-hour in any other European capital, London thrown in. An ill-dressed Warsaw woman is an anomaly. Even the lower orders seemed to know how to put their clothes on, for the Polish woman has a cachet of her own; has the “chic” of a Parisienne, with the beauty of a Viennese, for nearly all are tall and well-made, with good figures and graceful carriage. It is apparently the fashion among the “smart” ladies of Warsaw to let small pieces of metal into the heels of their boots, which make a clear ringing sound as they walk, and the effect (on a pretty woman) is not unpleasing.