Now Vasili Blazhenny is typical of all Moscow, the Kremlin included. It is the spirit of curious variety, of rich fantasy, the spirit of the South and the East which rules here. The snow one feels to be almost out of place, so Southern is the character of the city. The Kremlin, too, before which we now stand, is a "free-act" work of art, a piece something like the San Marco quarter in Venice, if one thinks of the sea as removed. For the Kremlin must not be thought of as a palace is; it is a whole part of a city, surrounded by a wall twenty metres high, two kilometres long, enclosing an irregular pentagon. It lies on a rather steeply rising hill on the bank of the Moskva, and commands the whole region round about. Its beauty is not to be enjoyed in the interior of the many churches, palaces, and barracks, although there is enough worth seeing there, too. It only opens up from the balcony of the Ivan Veliky tower, or from the bastion where the colossal monument of Alexander stands. But the most beautiful view of the whole complex is from the far bank of the Moskva, where the high wall, with its countless towers and cupolas, seems like the birth of an Oriental dream-fantasy. It shines and lightens in all colors, looks into the air, and speaks kindly greetings to all below; one could simply sit and clap one's hands for joy. But to the Russian this little jewel-box is by no means a plaything. On the contrary, he very respectfully bares his head and ceases not to cross himself. For "above Moscow is only the Kremlin, and above the Kremlin is only heaven." Within, however, the muzhik regains his childlikeness, and when he stands before the enormous cannon—"the Czar of Cannon," an old bronze gun—he invariably climbs upon the pyramid of giant balls which stands before it, climbs aloft and gapes into the yard-wide mouth of the gun. And under no circumstances does he neglect to creep into the hole of the "Queen of the Bells," which is in front of the Ivan Veliky, in which there is room for two hundred people.
We who are not childlike muzhiks may not allow ourselves such diversions; we must conscientiously see all the wonders of this greatest of all rarities, a thing which will consume at least a day. We spare the reader our experiences. Even the treasure-chamber with the coronation insignia and jewels big as one's fist cannot inveigle us into a description—all that could be seen in Berlin or Vienna.
Finally, the wonderful beauty of the colossal Church of the Deliverer must here be spoken of. The work is too unique in its nature to allow of being passed over in silence. The church is built apart, is visible afar, and forms the glorious completion of the Kremlin picture seen from the Moskva. In its mighty height, with its colossal, gilded domes, of which the middle one measures thirty metres in diameter, it lightens like a promise of the light the gay, romantic air of the Kremlin. Fifty-eight high reliefs in marble ornament the façade, sixty windows give bright light to the interior, colored still more golden by the light of countless candles. The magnificence of the central nave, entirely of gold and marble, is simply overpowering, and the golden and silver garments of the patriarchs would be quite unnecessary in giving us the strongest impression of the enormous riches of the Russian Church. Together with the Cathedral of Isaac, in St. Petersburg, this church is well calculated to compete with St. Peter's, in Rome. But I believe that one should refrain from the comparison. The expression "Roma tatae!" comes from Madame de Staël, and was, within certain bounds, approved by Moltke, who would call Moscow a Russian Rome. But I must, with all due modesty, demur. Too many undertones vibrate in our souls at the word "Rome" to allow us to consider any sort of comparison. But for a Russian? Who knows where the awe of eternity touches him deeper, before St. Peter's or before this Church of the Deliverer?
But no, such a question may not be put. Muzhik and kupetz, farmer and small merchant, have absolutely no understanding of Rome—no beauty impresses them, only the barbaric pomp with the costliness of the materials. But the cultured Russian feels just as we do, and will not seek the elements which make mighty the word "Rome" anywhere else on earth. And those that I spoke to in Moscow itself would have given a good deal of the peculiarity of their country for a breath of European atmosphere. Continuity between the time of Ivan the Terrible and the present does not exist for these nobles, lawyers, and journalists of Moscow. They endure with polite but painful resignation our delight in the fantasticness of their Kremlin, their churches and cloisters. It does not flatter them in the least that they are curiosities for Western people, like the Baschkirs and Tatars, for instance; and they will not hear of their being condemned to continue a life in Russian style, apart from Europe. This extreme enthusiasm for the autochthonous, which is often enough only an antiquated product of chance, is, after all, a romantic reaction and nothing else. It has long been proved that the Gothic which awakened such exclusive enthusiasm in the days of the Germanic Romance is not Gothic at all, but French. And so Russia has no reason at all for considering her style, which is really Byzantine, all-sufficient. Byzantine, however, is the contrast to Europe, whose past has led by way of Rome and Wittenberg to the Paris of 1789. And so progressive Moscow seeks freedom from Byzantium. While I was pretty deeply imbued with things Russian, it was suggested to me to see a play in the "Artists' Theatre," and then to say whether Moscow was really quite Russian and Asiatic. I followed this advice and had no reason to regret it.
XXVII MOSCOW—CONTINUED
They were right in advising me to go to the theatre in order to correct my impression that Moscow was a thorough-going Russian city. A hotel, for instance, proves nothing at all concerning the character of a town. It betrays at most the year of its erection, for to-day, the world over, building is done in the recognized "modern style."[12] Even this or that elegant street indicates nothing. There the imitation of patterns seen elsewhere plays too great a rôle. But the theatre which is to survive must adapt itself to the ruling taste to such an extent that it can be considered really characteristic of it.
Now the "Artists' Theatre"—or, as it is called because of the "secessionistic"[12] arrangement, the "Decadent Theatre"—of Moscow is really unique, and by the preferences of the theatre public one can very well recognize the quality and quantity of the intelligence of a city. With respect to picturesqueness of staging, it is distinctly the superior of the Meininger Theatre; and, as far as scenery and purity of style are concerned, it can well compare with the most up-to-date stages. To be sure, inquiry should not be made into the distribution of the individual rôles; to some extent this is worse than mediocre. I saw "Julius Cæsar" played where the conspirators seemed to feel it necessary to yell out their plans in the night with all their might. But, in contrast to this, the palace of the emperor was represented with a fidelity which could not have been exceeded in Rome itself; and the same with the Forum, and with the generals' tent at Philippi. The choruses were simply captivating in their execution.