The Land of Thor

by J. Ross Browne

CHAPTER XIV.

THE KREMLIN.

Not the least of the evils resulting from this harum-scarum way of traveling and writing is the fact that one’s impressions become sadly tumbled together and very soon lose their most salient failures. To be whirled about the world by land and sea, as I have been for the last year, is enough to turn one’s brain into a curiosity shop. When I undertake to pick out of the pile of rubbish some picture that must have been originally worth a great deal of money, I find it so disfigured by the sheer force of friction that it looks no better than an old daub. The pity of it is, too, that the very best of my gatherings are apt to get lost or ruined; and sometimes it happens that when I varnish up what appears to be valuable it turns out not a groat. Want of method would ruin a Zingalee gipsy or a Bedouin Arab. No doubt you have already discovered to your sorrow that when we start on a visit to the Kremlin, it is no sure indication that we will not spend the day in the Riadi or the old-clothes market. If either you or I ever reach our destination, it will be by the sheerest accident. And yet one might as well undertake to see Rome without the Capitoline Hill, or Athena without the Acropolis, as Moscow without the Kremlin. We have had several glimpses of it, to be sure, in the course of our rambles, but you must admit that they were very vague and indefinite—especially the last, when, if you remember, we were laboring under some strange mental hallucination.

The Kremlin has been fully described by many learned and accomplished travelers. Coxe, Atkinson, Kohl, and various others, have given elaborate accounts of it; yet why despair of presenting, in a homely way, some general idea of it, such as one might gather in the course of an afternoon’s ramble? After reading all we find about it in books of travel, our conceptions are still vague and unsatisfactory. Probably the reason is, that minute details of history and architecture afford one but a very faint and inadequate idea of the appearance of any place. Like the pictures of old Dennen, they may give you every wrinkle with the accuracy of a daguerreotype, but they fail in the general effect, or resemble the corpse of the subject rather than the living reality. I must confess that all I had read on Russia previous to my visit afforded me a much less vivid idea of the actual appearance of the country, the people, or the principal cities, than the rough crayon sketches of Timm and Mitreuter, which I had seen in the shop windows of Paris. This may not be the fault of the writers, who, of course, are not bound to furnish their own eyes or their own understanding to other people, but it seems to me that elaborate detail is inimical to strong general impressions. I would not give two hours’ personal observation of any place or city in the world for a hundred volumes of the best books of travel ever written upon it; and next to that comes the conversation of a friend who possesses, even in an ordinary degree, the faculty of conveying to another his own impressions. A word, a hint, a gesture, or some grotesque comparison, may give you a more vivid picture of the reality than you can obtain by a year’s study. Now, if you will just consider me that friend, and resign yourself in a genial and confiding spirit to the trouble of listening; if you will fancy that I mean a great deal more than I say, and could be very learned and eloquent if I chose; if you will take it for granted that what you don’t see is there nevertheless, the Kremlin will sooner or later loom out of the fogs of romance and mystery that surround it, and stand before you, with its embattled walls and towers, as it stood before me in the blaze of the noonday sun, when Dominico, the melancholy guide, led the way to the Holy Gate. You will then discover that the reality is quite wonderful enough in its natural aspect, without the colored spectacles of fancy or the rigid asperities of photographic detail to give it effect.

Like many of the old cities of Europe, Moscow probably had its origin in the nucleus of a citadel built upon the highest point, and commanding an extensive sweep of the neighborhood. Around this houses gathered by degrees for protection against the invasions of the hostile tribes that roamed through Russia at an early period of its history. The first object of the Kremlin was doubtless to form a military strong-hold. It was originally constructed of wood, with ramparts thrown up around it for purposes of defense, but, in common with the rest of Moscow, was destroyed by the Tartars in the fourteenth century. Under the reign of Dimitri it was rebuilt of stone, and strongly fortified with walls and ditches, since which period it has sustained, without any great injury, the assaults of war, the ravages of fire, and the wear and tear of time. Kief and Vladimir, prior to that reign, had each served in turn as the capital of the empire. After the removal of the capital to Moscow, that city was besieged and ravaged by Tamerlane, and suffered from time to time during every succeeding century all the horrors of war, fire, pestilence, and famine, till 1812, when it was laid in ashes by the Russians themselves, who by this great national sacrifice secured the destruction of the French army under Napoleon.

During the almost perpetual wars by which Moscow was assailed for a period of four centuries, the Kremlin seems to have borne almost a charmed existence. With the exception of the Grand Palace, the Bolshoi Drovetz, built by the Emperor Alexander I., and the Maloi Drovetz, or Little Palace, built by the Emperor Nicholas, and the Arsenal, it has undergone but little change since the time of the early Czars. In 1812, when the French, after despoiling it of whatever they could lay their hands upon, attempted, in the rage of disappointment, to blow up the walls, the powder, as the Russians confidently assert, was possessed by the devil of water, and refused to explode; and when they planted a heavily-loaded cannon before the Holy Gate, and built a fire on top of the touch-hole to make it go off, it went off at the breech, and blew a number of Frenchmen into the infernal regions, after which the remainder of them thought it best to let it alone.

The Kremlin, as it now stands, is a large collection of palaces, public buildings, and churches, situated on the crown of a high bank or eminence on the left side of the Moskwa River, nearly in the centre of the city. It is surrounded by a high embattled wall, forming something of a triangle, about a mile in circumference, through which are several massive gateways. This wall is very strongly constructed of stone, and is about twenty-five or thirty feet in height. It forms many irregular sub-angles, and is diversified in effect by numerous towers, with green pyramidal roofs; abutments and buttresses; and a series of guard-houses at intervals along the top. The general color is white, making rather a striking contrast with the green-roofed towers, and the gilded domes and many-colored cupolas of the interior churches. Outside of this wall, on the upper side of the main angle, are some very pleasant gardens, handsomely laid out, with fine shady walks, in which many of the citizens spend their summer evenings, strolling about, enjoying the fresh air. Other parts of the exterior spaces are devoted to drosky stands, markets, and large vacant spaces for public gatherings on festa days and great occasions of military display. From every point streets diverge irregularly, winding outward till they intersect the inner and outer boulevards. These boulevards are large circular thoroughfares, crossing the Moskwa River above and below. They are well planted with trees, and have spacious sidewalks on each side; but, unlike the boulevards of Paris, are only dotted at irregular intervals with houses. To the eastward lies the Katai Gorod, or Chinese City, and to the westward the Beloi Gorod, or White City.

Isolated in a great measure from the various quarters of the city, Russian and Tartaric, by the gardens, the large open spaces, the markets, and the river, the Kremlin looms up high over all in solitary grandeur—a mass of churches, palaces, and fortifications, surmounted by the tower of Ivan Veliki, which stands out in bold octagonal relief against the one with its numerous bells swung in the openings of the different stages, thundering forth the hours of the day, or tolling a grand chorus to the chanting of innumerable priests in the churches below. Approaching the Spass Vorota, or Gate of the Redeemer, through which none can enter save with uncovered heads—such is the veneration in which this Holy Gate is held by all classes—we witness a strange and impressive spectacle. Over this wonderful gate, incased in a frame covered with glass, stands the holiest of all the pictured relics of this sacred place, a painted figure of the Savior, emblazoned with gilding, and with a lamp swung in front, which burns night and day, as it has burnt since the days of Ivan the Terrible. Before this sacred image all true believers bow down and worship. While the great bells of the tower are booming out their grand and solemn strains, it is a profoundly impressive spectacle to witness the crowds that gather before this holy shrine, and bend themselves to the earth—the rich and the poor, the decorated noble and the ragged beggar—all alike glowing with an all-pervading zeal; no pretense about it, but an intense, eager, almost frantic devotion. Many a poor cripple casts his crutches aside, and prostrates himself on the paved stoneway, in the abandonment of his pious enthusiasm. Men and women, old and young, kneel on the open highway, and implore the intercession of the Redeemer. From the highest officer of state to the lowest criminal, it is all the same. The whole crowd are bowing down in abject humiliation, all muttering in earnest tones some prayer or appeal for their future salvation. And now, as we enter the gate, the stranger, whatever may be his persuasion or condition, whether a true believer or a heretic of high or low degree, must join in the general torrent of veneration so far as to uncover his head as he walks beneath that sacred portal; for, as I said before, none can pass through the Spass Vorota without this token of respect for its sacred character. The greatest of the Czars have done it through a series of centuries. The conqueror of Kazan, Astrakan, and Siberia has here bared his imperial head; Romanoff, Peter the Great, even the voluptuous Catharine, have here done reverence to this holy portal; and all the later sovereigns of Russia, Alexander I., Nicholas, and Alexander II., ere they received their kingly crowns, have passed bareheaded through the Spass Vorota. Need we hesitate, then, profane scoffers as we may be, when such precedents lie before us? Apart from the fact that I always found it convenient to do in Rome as the Romans do, and in Moscow to conform as far as practicable to the customs of the Moscovites, I really have no prejudice on any subject connected with the religious observances of other people. In pleasant weather I would walk a mile bareheaded to oblige any man who conscientiously thought it would do him the least good; more especially in a case like this, where, if one fails to doff his shlapa, a soldier stands ready to remind his “brother” or “little friend,” or possibly “little father,” that he (the brother, little friend, or little father) has forgotten his “beaver.”

We have now, thanks to Dominico, who has touched us up on all these points, gotten safely and becomingly through the Holy Gate without committing the sin of irreverence toward any of the saints, living or dead. We have passed through a high archway, about twenty paces in length, roughly paved with stones, and now put on our hat again as we ascend the sloping way that leads to the grand esplanade in front of the palaces and churches. This is a broad paved space, walled on the outer edge, forming a grand promenade overlooking the Moskwa River, and from which a magnificent view is had of the lower city, that sweeps over the valley of the south. Standing here, we have a grand coup d’œil of the river above and below, its bridges covered with moving crowds, its barges and wood-boats, and many-colored bath-houses, glittering in the sun; farther off, a dazzling wilderness of the innumerable churches of the lower city, with their green, yellow, red, and gilded cupolas and domes; still beyond, the trees and shrubberies of the outer boulevards; to the left, the great Foundling Asylum, fronting on the river, with its vast gardens in the rear; to the right, the Military Hospital, the Barracks, and, far in the distance, over the gleaming waters of the river, the Sparrow Hills, from which Napoleon caught the first glimpse of Moscow; and then the grand Convent of the Douskoi, within the outer wall, near the Kalonga Road; from which, sweeping over toward the right, once more we catch a glimpse of the wooded shade of the Race-course, the Hospital of St. Paul, and the Convent of St. Daniel; and to the left, beyond the outer wall, of various grand convents and fortifications, till the eye is no longer able to encompass all the wondrous and varied features of the scene. Turning now toward the north, after we have feasted upon this brilliant and glittering series of views, each one of which we might linger over for hours with increased delight, we stand facing the principal palaces and churches of the Kremlin—the Terema, containing the audience chambers, and the Granovitaya Palata, the coronation halls of the Czars; the new palaces; the Cathedral of the Assumption; the tower of Ivan Veliki; the Treasury and Arsenal; with innumerable glimpses of other and scarcely less prominent buildings, which unite in forming this wonderful maze of sacred and royal edifices. It would be very difficult, if at all practicable, to convey by mere verbal description a correct and comprehensive idea of the strange mingling of architectural styles here prevailing. The churches present, no doubt, the most picturesque effects, but this is not owing to any grandeur in their proportions. None of them are either very large or very high; but they are singularly varied in form, as if thrown together in bunches, without regard to order; some with Gothic gables, some round, some acutely angular, and all very rudely and roughly constructed, even the perpendicular lines being irregular. The walls are whitewashed, and in many places stained with age. The roofs are for the most part of earthen tiles, imburnt with strong prismatic colors, and shining like the inner surfaces of abalone shells. The domes are white, green, red, and yellow, and each church has a number of gilded or striped cupolas, rising irregularly from the roofs, shaped like bunches of globular cactus, such as one sees on the hill-sides of San Diego. If the comparison were not a little disparaging to their picturesque beauty, I should say that some of the cupolas—especially those of a golden cast—reminded me of mammoth pumpkins perched on the top of a Mexican Mission-house, for even the buildings themselves have something of a rude Mexican aspect about them. The new palace of the Bolshoi Dvoretz, built by the Emperor Alexander over a portion of the site of the old Tartar palace, is a large, square, uninteresting building, with nothing beyond its vast extent and grand façade to recommend it. The Terema and the Granovitaya Palata—both remains of the old Tartar palace—are highly ornamented with trellised work, and are interesting as well from their style of architecture as their contents. It was from the terraced roof of the Terema that Napoleon took his first grand view of the city of Moscow, after entering the gates of the Kremlin. The one contains a fine collection of curiosities, including various portraits of the Czars; the other the royal chamber, magnificently decorated with embroidered velvet hangings, candelabras, frescoes, gildings, and carved eagles bearing thunderbolts, and the great chair of state, in which the emperors sit enthroned to receive the homage of their vassals after the imposing ceremony of the coronation. But it would be an endless task to undertake an account of even a day’s ramble through the interior of these vast palaces and public buildings. I paid five rubles for tickets and fees to porters, and, with the aid of Dominico’s enlightened conversation, came out after my grand tour of exploration perfectly bewildered with jeweled crowns, imperial thrones, gilded bedsteads, slippery floors, liveried servants, stuffed horses, old guns, swords, and pistols, glassware and brassware, emeralds and other precious stones, and altogether disgusted with the childish gimcrackery of royalty. Great Alexander, I thought to myself, who would be a Czar of Russia, and have to make his living at the expense of all this sort of tom-foolery? Who would abide even for a day in a bazar of curiosity-shops, bothered out of his wits by servants and soldiers, and the flare and glitter of jewelry? It certainly all looked very shallow and troublesome to a plain man, destitute by nature of kingly aspirations. To confess the truth, I was utterly unable to appreciate any thing but the absurdity of these things. I can not discover much difference, save in degree, between barbaric show on the part of savages and on that of civilized people. For what, after all, do these coronation halls and gewgaws amount to? Who is truly king upon earth, when there is “an everlasting King at whose breath the earth shall tremble?”

Strange, indeed, and not calculated to exalt one’s impression of royalty, is the fact that, after purchasing a ticket to see all these relics of the great Czars of Russia, a horde of officers, servants, and lackeys, in imperial livery, must be feed at every turn. It is a perfect system of plunder from beginning to end. At the door of the new palace I was stopped by some functionary in white stockings, polished slippers, plush breeches and plush coat, actually blazing with golden embroidery; his head brushed and oiled to the intensest limits of foppery, and his hands adorned with white kid gloves, who refused to permit me to enter until he had arranged some infernal compact of pay with my guide, Dominico. After showing me through the grand chambers, pointing out the beds, bed-quilts, writing-desks, chairs, and wash-basins of the Czars, he finished up his half hour’s labor by making a profound bow and holding out his hand, beggar fashion, for his fee. I gave him half a ruble (about 87½ cents), at which his countenance assumed an expression of extreme pity and contempt. Dominico had informed him that I was a stranger from California, which had the effect of eliciting from him various passages of exceeding politeness up to that moment. But he now came out in his true colors, and demanded haughtily, “Was this the pitiful sum what the gentleman intended as a recompense for his services?” Dominico shrugged his shoulders. The liveried gentleman became excited and insolent—assuring me, through the guide, that no stranger of any pretensions to gentility ever offered him less than a ruble. I must confess I was a little nettled at the fellow’s manner, and directed Dominico to tell him that, having no pretensions to gentility, I must close my acquaintance with him, and therefore bid him good-morning. There never was an instance in which I disappointed any beggar with so much good will. I have no doubt, if he has read any thing of California, he labors under the impression that I am an escaped convict from San Quentin.