Fred Markham in Russia; Or, The Boy Travellers in the Land of the Czar

by William Henry Giles Kingston

“Dear me, if I had said anything treasonable, I should have been whirled off to a dungeon to a certainty,” exclaimed poor Evergreen, shuddering at the thought of the danger he had escaped.

Moscow is one of the most romantic cities in Europe—indeed, there is no other to be compared with it; but our friends had entered it in so ordinary, every-day a manner that at first they could hardly persuade themselves that they had reached a considerable way towards the centre of Russia, and were really and truly in that far-famed city.

“Now, my boys, we will steer a course for the Kremlin,” cried Cousin Giles, having taken the bearings of their hotel as they walked along the street called the Grand Lubianka.

Their course was nearly a straight one. In a little time, crossing an open space, they found themselves before a line of fortified walls, and a gateway, such as they might have expected to see in a picture of China or Tartary, with strange-looking eastern turrets, and domes, and roofs rising within them.

“This must be the Chinese city we have heard of,” said Cousin Giles.

So it was. It is a city within a city. It has three sides, the walls of the Kremlin making the fourth. They passed through the gateway and found themselves in a narrow street, the buildings on either side of them having a still more Chinese appearance. On the left was a little church, with numerous parti-coloured domes, and minarets, and towers, and outside staircases leading nowhere, and railings, and balconies, and little excrescences of roofs, altogether forming an edifice much more like a Chinese than a Christian temple. Close to it, on the left, they saw a long open space, just inside the walls, crowded with people of the lowest order, with booths on either side. This was what may be called the rag fair of Moscow. The booths or shops contain all the articles either for dress or household purposes used by the mujicks. The sellers and purchasers were all talking and laughing, and haggling and chattering away as if the affairs of the nation depended on what they were about, and yet probably a few kopecks would have paid for any one of the articles bought or sold. At the end of the street the travellers came to the entrance of the great bazaar of Moscow, and as they looked down its numerous long alleys, glazed over at the top, they saw lines of little shops,—jewellers, and silversmiths, and makers of images, and hatters, and shoemakers, and tinmen, and trunk-makers, and other workers in leather, and head-dress makers, and blacksmiths, and toy sellers,—indeed, it would be difficult to enumerate all the various trades and handicrafts there represented, each trade being in a row by itself. Each shop was little more than a recess, with a counter in front of it, before which the shopmen stood, praising in loud voices their wares, and inviting passers-by to stop and inspect them. No time, however, was spent at the bazaar, for across a wide open space appeared a high pinnacled wall, with a line of curious green-pointed roofed towers, with golden crescents surmounted by crosses on their summits, and two gateways up a steep slope. Over the walls appeared a confused mass of golden and blue-and-silver domes, and spires, and towers, and green roofs, and crescents, and crosses, and gold and silver chains, glittering in the sun, altogether forming a scene such as is pictured in the Arabian Nights Entertainments or other Oriental romances, but such as one scarcely expects to find within eight days’ easy journey of sober-minded, old, matter-of-fact England.

“That must be the Kremlin,” exclaimed Fred. “Well, it is a curious place!”

“There can be no doubt about it,” observed Cousin Giles. “And that gate to the left, under the high tower, with the lamp and the picture over it, must be the Holy Gate. Let us go through it. It leads us at once, I see by the map, to the terrace overlooking the river.” As they went down the place towards the river, they found themselves before a fine bronze group on a high pedestal.

“Oh, those must be the statues of the two patriots, Posharskoi, the general who drove away the Tartars, and Minin, the merchant who devoted his fortune to the support of the army with which the victory was won. We will read about them by and by,” said Cousin Giles.

As they stood there, on their right side were the walls of the Kremlin, on their left the front of the bazaar, while some way beyond appeared a most extraordinary-looking church, the Cathedral of Saint Basil. It has nine domes or cupolas,—one large one in the centre, and eight round it, each one painted of a different colour, with various ornaments; some are in stripes, some in checks, some red, some blue, some green, while the structure on which these domes stand consists of all sorts of ins and outs; windows, and stairs, and pillars, and arches—all, too, of different colours, green, and yellow, and red predominating. Harry looked at it for a minute, and then burst into a fit of laughter.