CHAPTER XXX.

FROM MOSCOW TO ST. PETERSBURG.

A COUPLE of English commercial travellers arrived to-day and were very conversable at dinner. No class of men one meets abroad are more free to impart what they know, than these agents of trading houses in England, who infest all countries, and push their way into every company that is willing to hear their ceaseless flow of talk. At dinner one of them asked a Frenchman in what country of Europe Egypt was situated, and the Frenchman did not know; they discussed the subject for some time, neither of them thinking it was not in Europe at all. But the two having failed to settle the geographical position of Egypt came back to matters nearer at hand, and the invasion of Russia by the French and the downfall of Napoleon, made the conversation lively. For when did or will a Frenchman and Briton agree upon the character, the genius, or the deserts of the Man of Destiny. And this led to the mention of the SPARROW HILLS, and to an excursion thither, from which we have just returned.

On our way out of the city, we passed the church of the Saviour, the largest church in Moscow, with the most splendid dome, which, being covered with gilding, looks like a mighty sun rising. The church has been in process of building more than fifty years, and is far from being finished yet. It is intended as a memorial of the French invasion and its awful fate; and it was begun in the year 1812, so memorable for that critical event in the history of Russia, of France, and of mankind. And it was on the Sparrow Hills that Napoleon first saw Moscow.

An hour’s ride from the hotel brought us to the Simonoff Monastery, which has been here through all the storms of weather and war these last five hundred years. Rich in lands with thousands of serfs, and the treasury into which emperors and princes poured their royal gifts, it has been sacked again and again by invading hordes, but has lived on, with six churches within its walls. A lake near by is reached by an underground passage, and miracles of healing are _said to be_ wrought upon the sick who come here with faith, and stay until they get well. In the midst of the enclosure rises a tower more than three hundred feet, and a blind bell-ringer delights in leading you to the look-out loft, and answering every question you can ask respecting every object in _your_ sight. You may be sure that he is right in his answers, though he is blind as a bat.

The Novo-Devichi Convent, with six churches and a romantic history, the Donskoi Monastery, and the Novospaski Monastery, are scattered through this region, and are all visible and accessible in the visit to the hill country around Moscow. But the roads are wretched and the weather hot; the sun is getting low in the west, and we are in haste to enjoy the glories that are to burst upon our sight when we come to stand where Napoleon stood at the head of his proud legions and first saw Moscow!

At the foot of the hill flows the river Moskva, and row-boats are plying back and forth to carry the many passengers, chiefly of the humbler classes of people, who are going to and from the hills, on this feast-day in the Church, and so a holiday for them all. Leaving the carriage, we were ferried across and then climbed the hills, where hundreds of the Muscovites were enjoying themselves on the green slopes, eating, drinking, and laughing gaily, playing tricks upon one another, and making themselves merry, as the same class of people do in every part of the world. And it is pleasant to think that other people have “a good time” as well as we, in what clime soever they chance to live, and however much they lack the things that we think indispensable to enjoyment. Some of them were playing cards on the ground, some were drinking _quas_, a strong spirit; and some who had already taken too much for their manners, called out saucily to us to come and take a drink of _gin_.

Before us, as we turned on reaching the brow of the hill, stood the holy city of Russia, its ancient capital, the border city between the Eastern and the Western worlds! The sun unclouded and intensely glowing is behind us, and shedding its golden radiance in floods upon the domes and pinnacles of three hundred and seventy churches, countless towers and roofs and walls, the Kremlin standing above the rest in its majesty, with its crown of cathedrals and palace, a constellation of splendor rarely equalled in the cities of the world. The river makes a circular sweep through the plain at our feet, and then flows through the city.

It was June, 1812, when Napoleon, at the head of the French army, crossed the Niemen and pushed on to Wilna, from which the Russian army retired, drawing him on in pursuit, and, with masterly foresight, involving their enemy in more and more hopeless difficulties. Napoleon would have been glad to meet the Russians in signal battle, but the leader of the Russians understood his ground too well to risk an engagement. The Emperor Alexander, however, had not the sagacity to perceive nor the patience to bear the policy of his general, and, displacing him, put another man in his place, who gave battle at Borodino on the first day of September, when 80,000 men were killed or wounded, and the Russians retired to Moscow. The French were sadly crippled by the losses in this battle, and their provisions were now nearly exhausted. They were hastening on to the capture of Moscow to save their own lives. On the 12th of September the Russian army silently marched out of the city, carrying with them every thing that could be removed. Of three hundred thousand inhabitants, only the convicts and a few others remained to take the chances of war.

On the very next day, the advance of the French army reached the brow of the hill where we were standing a few hours ago; and Napoleon, excited by the sight of the sunny domes and roofs of the golden city, cried out, “All this is yours.” The soldiers caught up the cry, “Moscow! Moscow!” and it ran like fire along the ranks till the whole army shouted in concert, “Moscow! Moscow!” An hour or two more and they made their triumphal entry into a city whose gates were open without a defender, and to the dismay of the conqueror the city was a desert without food or inhabitants. Through the deserted streets and up to the sacred gate of the Kremlin the conqueror took his silent and sullen way, and ascended the steps of the palace which was left ready for his reception. He had reached the end of his awful march of two thousand miles, but one was before him more terrible by far. His army was starving, and the city was empty. On the morning following his occupation, a fire broke out and defied all efforts to arrest it. Perhaps the wretched remnant of inhabitants were the incendiaries. This is not a settled question. But the soldiers sought to save the city, and could not. The hospitals, in which 20,000 wounded had been left, were consumed. The glorious churches were now shining in flames. The palaces and houses of the rich were given up to the soldiery, and the sacredness of temples and altars was no protection against the lawless rabble that rioted in the ruin and plunder of the town. The liberated convicts and ragged poor ravaged the homes of princes and the vestries of priests, and now roamed the streets in furs and robes. What the fire spared the battle-axe destroyed. Works of art and elegance and luxury, the vast accumulations of wealth and ages, all went down in the vortex of remorseless war.

And now Napoleon sought to make peace with the enemy whose chief city he had in his possession. But his enemy was his master, and refused to hear of peace. After a month of delay, and the dreadful winter of the North at hand, he set off with his shattered hosts to return. And the story of that return is frozen into the memory of man. Its horrors the pencil has sought to portray, and no pen can do it justice. The frost and snow made havoc with the miserable soldiers: they froze by thousands and died on the march. Wild disorder reigned, and death was the only commander whom officer or man obeyed. Napoleon, always true to himself, deserted his faithful army and fled to Paris. Of the half a million of men who composed his troops when he began the invasion of Russia, about 200,000 were made prisoners, 125,000 were slain in battles, and 130,000 perished by cold, hunger, and fatigue! A disaster without a parallel in the annals of the race.

And this was the beginning of the end. The powers of Europe combined against him, and the world knows the story.

Moscow is a city of so much historical interest, and it is so peculiar in its architecture, plan, and people, that we have lingered longer than perhaps has been agreeable to you. But the time was when Moscow was far more of a city than it is now. Two hundred and thirty years ago (it is written in history), Moscow had two thousand churches; but the statements of the former population of this city are so astounding as to be scarcely credible. In 1600 the plague made such ravages here that 127,000 persons were dead in the streets at one time, and 500,000 died in the city. All of these stories, including the number of the churches, must be greatly exaggerated, and yet they are some index to the former extent and power of this splendid capital. But all this greatness must have been when the people were only a little removed from barbarism. Dr. Collins, physician to the Czar, says in 1670, “the custom of tying up wives by the hair of the head and flogging them, _begins to be left off_.” It was certainly time, though it was two hundred years ago. No traces of that ancient custom remain. The doves that inhabit the streets, are held to be sacred birds, emblems of the Holy Spirit, and more of the spirit of love, than would be indicated by such rough treatment of wives, may be counted upon as prevailing within the houses where these peaceful birds are cherished. In no country that I have been in, is there more _kissing_ done in public. At the railroad stations and in the market places, when a party of friends meet, they rush into each other’s embrace, and all kiss; the men the men, the women the women, and the men and women kiss each other. These are the peasants. I could not say that it is common among the more cultivated people.

Our host, M. Billot, sent us to the station with extra style; his wife was going into the country to see her children at school, and in her private carriage we were to ride to the depot with her, as a special mark of attention. During our stay in Moscow the family had done every thing in their power to make the visit agreeable, and it was crowned with this last act of attention, an escort to the station when we took our leave.

There is but one train in twenty-four hours from Moscow to St. Petersburg, and as it is to be a ride of twenty hours, it is important to have some accommodations for sleeping. Our experience in _going_ to Moscow had been so unhappy that we sought to improve upon the matter on the return trip. We learned that the first-class cars were arranged in compartments for six persons, and that the seats at night were to be converted into berths, so that each passenger buying a ticket was also the holder of a berth for sleeping in. The compartments were elegantly fitted up, and we (two of us) found ourselves upon setting off, on one side, and two Russian ladies on the other. They spoke the French language, and being as innocent of English, as we of Russ, the conversation that soon sprang up, was in the only tongue we could use in common. The apartment was hot to the verge of suffocation. We put up a window, which in a bright June day would be considered pleasant in any country, but the ladies gave instant signs of apprehensions that they would take cold. Soon one of them shut the window with a decision that forbade appeal. We ventured to set the door open to admit the air from the open window across the passage, but this was too much for the sensitive women, and we had to close it. I found the same dread of cold in hot weather to be common to all the natives. An omnibus, the body of which was made of sheet iron, which I was riding in on a blazing summer-day, was heated literally like an oven. I was obliged to leave it, but the people evidently enjoyed the baking. They have it so cold in cold weather, that the brief hot season seems to be refreshing, and the hotter the better they like it. At four P.M. we stopped at Klin for dinner—thirty minutes—all seated at table, and dinner was decently served: soup, boiled chicken and rice, quails, vegetables, jelly: price one rouble (sixty-four cents), wines and fruit extra. The natives at table were well mannered, with just such exceptions as you meet with in all countries; one man left in disgust because there was too much confusion, and another refused to pay for his dinner until after he had eaten it. But the order, the dinner, the price of it, and the time to enjoy the meal, were all more agreeable to travellers than they would have been on most of the routes in our own beloved and well-regulated country.

At Tver, on the Volga, we halted for a few moments only. A little girl, four or five years old, barefoot and poorly clad, came before the car window begging. She bowed to us as if before a picture of the Virgin, crossed herself, touched her forehead, bent her head low, the hair falling over her face, and then, raising her head quickly, threw the hair back, and so amused the people. We threw her money, which she caught in her lap, crossed herself, blessed us, and asked for more. Three girls came up and joined her, going through the same motions, and got some coppers; and now a big boy made his appearance and put in his claims which proved unsuccessful. Then he turned upon the little girl, knocked her about for a minute, robbed her of her alms and fled. Boys are boys all the world over. I wish the cars would wait long enough for me to catch the little rascal, and recover the money for the girl.

This is a city of nearly 30,000 inhabitants; its splendid domes and beautiful Greek temples, as seen in passing, speak of a city of unusual culture.

Night came, according to the watch, but no darkness. Nine, ten, twelve, no signs of night, except that sunshine was gone. We wished to go to sleep. But here an unexpected difficulty arose. The two ladies declared it to be impossible for them to sleep in the cars, and therefore they did not wish the seats disturbed. We proposed to the conductor to arrange ours into berths, and let the others remain _in statu quo ante bellum_. He said they must be worked together: all or none. In vain we argued the case with these implacable women; and, when we found that our appeals to their pity and their sense of justice were alike without avail, we gave it up. Each of us four settled into a corner, and the two ladies soon gave certain infallible signs that they were sound asleep, and so they continued until long after the break of day. The truth was, and the conductor understood it, but we did not, there was an extra charge for making up the berths, and the ladies saved the money by sleeping perpendicularly.

At midnight it was as light as noon often is with us. I could write at any hour, and these lines you are now reading are written at half-past two o’clock in the morning. At three, the east began to glare with the rising splendor of another day. The heavy clouds that skirt the horizon are robes of fire. Gorgeously the colors of the rainbow are painted one by one on these shifting scenes,—orange, red, purple, violet, I could count them all. How mean, tame, pale, all earthly pageants seem: the domes, the minarets, the golden-jewelled orbs and crowns of Czars, compared with this wasted wealth of glory that the King of kings scatters from his full hand with the rising of each day’s sun. I had never seen the sun rise in a latitude so far north. Its splendors charmed me out of all my hard feelings towards these sleeping Russian dames, who deprived me of a night’s repose and gave me such a magnificent morning.

Sitting up all night with a couple of Russian ladies might, or might not, suggest the idea of telling you something of the marriage customs of this strange country. A French writer, whose name I forget, has said “the Russians are a nation of polite savages,” a remark that is not very apt, but it helps us toward a proper understanding of the social condition of the people. The rich are very rich; the poor are very poor. The nobles are courtly, polite, and as refined in manners as those of the same social class in Germany; but the serfs, or those who belonged to the nobles with the soil, before the emancipation, are rude, and not half civilized. The two classes, or rather the extremes of the two classes, would justify the description of the Frenchman, who, like many writers of his country, would not be specially tied by the truth, if he wished to point an epigram.

It was no uncommon thing in those days of serfdom for the proprietor to order this matter of marriage among his people, telling the young men to get a wife when he thought it time, and providing them, if the young men were slow in making their choice. And in the peasant class the marriage was liable to all the caprices and irregularities to be expected in a state of things where the will of the master was scarcely restrained by law or custom, so that he had the social happiness of his people very much in his own hands. In such a country, and under such circumstances, it would not be strange if some social evil was suffered.

Almost as soon as a girl is born, in the better ranks of society, her parents begin to prepare the _dowry_ she must have when she goes to her husband. For this is indispensable in the eyes of any Russian young gentleman who proposes to be married. She must furnish every thing for an outfit in life, even to _a dozen new shirts for her coming husband_.

I have just heard of a lady of rank and wealth who had prepared a costly dowry of silks, linen, jewels, plate, &c., for her beloved daughter, who died as she came to be twenty years old. The mother resolved to endow six girls with these riches, and actually advertised for them. A host of applicants came, and she selected six. None of them had lovers. But now they had a respectable dowry secured, each girl was speedily engaged, and with the husband took the dowry, and paid the rich lady by promising to pray for the repose of her daughter’s soul.

In no country is this arrangement of terms carried on with more caution and completeness than in Russia. The young man goes to the house of his proposed bride, and counts over the dresses, and examines the furniture, and sees to the whole with his own eyes, before he commits himself to the irrevocable bargain. In high life such things are conducted with more apparent delicacy, but the facts are ascertained with accuracy, the business being in the hands of a broker or a notary. The _trousseau_ is exposed in public before the wedding day. And this publicity has long been as unblushing as the customs that are now becoming fashionable in New York. The publication in the newspapers of intended marriages; of descriptions of bridal dresses and presents; of the names and _toilettes_ of guests at fashionable parties; the value of jewels worn, &c., now common and approved in the highest circles of American society, is the same thing with the exposure to the public gaze of a bride’s dowry in Russia.

At Whitsunday there is a curious custom, which is gradually giving way with the advance of civilization. The young people of a neighborhood come together, and the girls stand in a row, like so many statues, draped indeed, and not only draped, but dressed in their best, and painted too; for the young ladies, and the older ones also, of this country use cosmetics freely, and a box of lady’s paint is a very common present for a young man to make to the girl he likes. Behind the row of girls are their mothers; the young men having made known their choice, the terms are settled between the parents of the parties.

The ladies in Russia are very anxious to marry, because they have no liberty _before_ marriage. They are kept constantly under the maternal eye until they are given up to the husband, and then they take their own course, which is a round of gayety and dissipation, only regulated by their means of indulgence. The Greek Church, like the Roman, permits no divorce, but the Emperor, like the Pope, can grant special dispensations.

The marriage ceremonies vary, as in all countries, according to the rank and wealth of the parties. A procession is sometimes met in the streets; and the Emperor’s carriage would, at any time, turn out and give the right of way to a bridal party.

It pleases me always, in a strange country, to find that social enjoyments are so equally distributed over the earth, varying in kind and degree, indeed, according to the religion and civilization of the people, but still all of them having their own ways and means of making themselves happy.