From Paris to Pekin over Siberian Snows / A Narrative of a Journey by Sledge over the Snows of European Russia and Siberia, by Caravan Through Mongolia, Across the Gobi Desert and the Great Wall, and by Mule Palanquin Through China to Pekin

by Victor Meignan

I will speak of one of them only, which took place in a box of the Russian Opera, not so much on account of the very agreeable people who had invited me there to see the Opera, as on account of the character of the music and the manner of the representation of which I was a witness. It was the chef-d’œuvre of Glinka—Life for the Czar.

Without, however, detaining the reader with the details of the manner of the representation, which probably would interest him but slightly, I will give my impression of the character of the music.

The Russians, who are not an inventive people, have, however, a national music of a kind special and original.

Those who appreciate French operas, even plaintive, would feel little interest in listening to long lamentations and mournful melodies, so characteristic of this music. It may, however, move very much amateurs of grave music, especially in the country where it originates.

The phrases of Glinka’s opera, gloomy and lugubrious, as uniform as nature in Russia, as profound as its horizons, succeed one another monotonously without ever seeming to reach a distinct solution. At the moment when the impatient ear at last waits to dwell on the fundamental note, a renewed expression of grief comes forth unexpectedly, and the phrase is prolonged without changing its character. I cannot better compare Glinka’s inspirations than with the permanent efforts of the sea to assume its desired repose in struggling against the incessant succession of waves. This music therefore is void of the attraction of gaiety, and, on account of its uniformity, does not give rise to lively emotions, but it has all the charm of melancholy and vague reverie.

The flow of soul seems to wander and become bewildered and enervated in the prolonged thrilling notes of this endless melody; all the past comes back to the memory, and when the last note dies away, one wakes up, as if from a touching dream, with a tear starting in the eye.

I had postponed my departure from day to day, notwithstanding the snow that was falling and the hard frost so favourable to my journey, but having at last quitted the Russian capital, my thoughts returned to it in this way. One prefers, no doubt, the first enjoyment of a pleasure to the mere remembrance of it, and yet, perhaps, one separates himself less willingly from the souvenir than from the reality, because he feels that when this prolonged pleasure ends, it has vanished both from the senses and the memory.

When I left St. Petersburg, it was the 20th of November, and on the 21st, at ten o’clock in the morning, in a frost of 24° Centigrade (11° below zero Fahr.), I made my entry into the holy city of Moscow.

The temperature I had to bear this day was very moderate in comparison with that which I subsequently experienced in Siberia; I could, however, appreciate some of the effects produced by intense cold. You feel that everything shrinks, tightens, and contracts. The horses that perspire, on account of the rapid pace at which they are driven, have their coats covered with congealed perspiration that resembles a petrifaction. The drivers’ faces are puffed, spongy, and repulsive-looking. The sun, in the absence of snow, seems alone to rejoice or enliven what it touches. Under its caressing beams, the houses, with their varied hues, assume a brighter and more joyous aspect, that strikingly contrasts with the hooded personages afoot. I took care at once to provide myself with the usual winter clothing of Russians. I bought goloshes to march over the snow without suffering from cold or humidity; a bachelique, a kind of hood in camel hair to protect the ears and neck; and, finally, a cloak of jenotte, a fur not at all expensive and yet elegant.

The choice of fur is an important matter, especially at Moscow, where one’s individual value is appreciated by the value of the animal’s skin he wears. There is indeed a Russian proverb that seems to discredit this observation. “On vous reçoit selon votre habit, et l’on vous reconduit selon votre esprit.” But this apophthegm rarely serves as a precept in a society fond of showiness and imposing magnificence—a society that is closed against the most cultivated mind if the body be not decked in the skins of certain beasts.