“How much?” “Fifteen kopecks.” “But why is it so dear, printed in Russia?” “It is, sir, because here there are enormous duties on the manufacture of paper.” This kind of tax, in my opinion, is, for one thing, to be fully appreciated. The Russians should thus be guarded against a propensity for scribbling, which, alas! is so rampant in France. And then again, when universal suffrage is to appear in Russia, who knows whether the exorbitant price of paper will not hinder the candidates from distributing the voting papers, and the electors from procuring them at their own expense? The exercise of this new power will then be the cause of a fresh charge and become consequently an obstacle. Such a state of things perhaps will cause universal suffrage to succumb and disappear—an institution apparently just and attractive in theory, but amusingly droll in practice to those who have witnessed its working, especially in the country districts. This first experience reconciled me with the administration of this vast country, almost even with its custom house, and I climbed up into my carriage, where two stoves, though it had not yet commenced to freeze, kept up a tropical heat. There I installed myself in one of the immense easy seats with which it was furnished, and which was transformed at night, with the aid of a mechanical arrangement, into a kind of bed, where one may be tolerably comfortable, and there I waited the signal of departure, prepared to observe the aspect of the country through which I was about to pass.
The part of Russia between Wilna and St. Petersburg is simply melancholy. When I passed over it, the absence of snow, of sun, and leaves on the trees, rendered this character, which is proper to it, still more striking. Unlimited forests, that are no longer copse and not yet arrived at full growth, and as impenetrable as a jungle, especially in autumn, from the swampy nature of the soil; a long undulating range of land, of an outline the ocean would assume in the monstrous swell of a tempest, sending back the horizon to an enormous distance; the appearance of a few habitations, at long intervals, and whose presence at all in such a spot suggests utter desolation more than absolute solitude:—this is what is presented to the traveller on entering Russia, immensity, impenetrability, and silent gloom.
It is true that autumn is the least favourable season for visiting Russia; it is, in a certain way, the period of inactivity for the whole race, a people scattered over an immense space, whose special character needs a rapid and continual locomotion. The land in autumn becomes too swampy for wheeled carriages, and travelling in sledges has not yet commenced. Soon, however, the snow, falling probably in abundance, will permit the Russians their favourite mode of travelling; and the intense cold, dissipating the clouds, will give to its white mantle unparalleled purity and brilliancy.
We will hasten to arrive at St. Petersburg, of which, however, as well as of Moscow, I will say but little, because I have to describe regions more remote and much less known. When one has a long journey before him, he should not linger at the first stages, for fear of feeling too sensibly the difficulties of the enterprise, and consequently of being tempted to abandon it in spite of a brave resolution at the outset.
I alighted at the Hôtel de France, and, almost immediately, went out afoot. It was six in the evening and quite dark. A mild and refreshing temperature was inviting to a walk. The sky was serene, and the moon shone brilliantly. It was one of those fine evenings described by Joseph de Maistre, although we were still in November. Chance led me towards the Neva, and I was much delighted, for, from the bridge of boats thrown across it, I was able to contemplate a spectacle truly magnificent. It is not a river, but rather an inlet of the sea. Four or five times wider than the Garonne at Bordeaux, this piece of water makes a bend in the middle of the city; and along its banks is exposed the principal architectural magnificence of St. Petersburg. The Emperor’s palace, the Senate, the Fortress, the Hermitage, the Academy of Fine Arts, are all along its banks, as well as an immense number of churches, each surmounted with five or six Byzantine domes.
At the moment I was there, the moon’s rays were reflected from all these gilded domes, and again these glittering beams were flashed like dazzling fireworks from the surface of the water; the gilded cupola of the Cathedral St. Isaac rose majestically above the others, and surpassed them in splendour. Black barges, resembling somewhat, at this hour of the night, Venetian gondolas, passed to and fro, leaving their luminous trails glittering on the surface of the water. The great mass of water of Lake Ladoga was gliding onward in its full flood with rapidity, but without noise, for nothing opposed its passage. The bells, which gave an idea of enormous size from their deep, solemn, and prolonged tone, alone broke the religious silence of the scene by the call to prayer. It was grand, solemn, and inspiring. This night at St. Petersburg, God revealed Himself to man by the splendour of the heavens and the mystery of the hour, and man’s thoughts were drawn to God by the imposing towering of His temples and the awe-inspiring sound of the bells.
Though I was much moved by this scene and its associations, I knew I could not adequately enjoy Russia in its aspect of the mild season. A little later, however, the Neva would be arrested in its course by the frost, the domes of the churches, as well as the land everywhere, would be dressed in a thick mantle of snow, and then I should no longer behold this country as it now was, but buried under its winter shroud. I remained therefore long contemplating this spectacle, the real beauty of which was enhanced in my imagination by the reflection that it was to be but of short duration.
CHAPTER II.
ST. PETERSBURG TO MOSCOW.
Letters of recommendation for Siberia—M. Pfaffius, frontier commissary at Kiachta—Russian music—Arrival at Moscow.
During my sojourn at St. Petersburg, I went of course, and more than once, to see the curiosities with which the city is filled, but it was necessary to remember that I had set out for a much longer journey, and that my chief occupation at St. Petersburg was to search for a compagnon de voyage. With this object, I availed myself of all the letters of recommendation I had obtained in Paris, hoping thereby to secure the useful as well as agreeable society either of a tourist or of a functionary returning to his post in Eastern Siberia.
In the first réunions where I had the honour to be invited, I invariably spoke of my intended journey, hoping thereby to find a travelling companion, but in doing so, I was always answered with a frown or met with a deaf ear.
The reason was this: at St. Petersburg, it is not in good taste to travel in the direction of the East. The inhabitants of this city of pleasure seem to regret their origin; this society, so fastidious and refined, appears really to fear being still taken for a horde of barbarians. Women in the highest social rank have said to me sometimes: “Whatever I may do or say, you will nevertheless have your own opinion of me; you will regard me as a Cossack.” Everything associated with Asia is in disfavour, and, perhaps, those who exaggerate the sentiment would willingly cede Siberia to the Chinese Government, in order to have nothing in common with the East. To speak French is indispensable; when you are French and are received in society in St. Petersburg, it is surprising to see how much France is à la mode: French is habitually spoken, and read in newspapers and books; the cuisine is French as well as the costumes, and so are many of the plays at the theatres. It is quite the ton to have arrived from Paris, Luchon, or Trouville, and to have brought the latest cancans from the boudoirs à la mode.
As soon as the frost appeared, I began busying myself with the arrangements for my journey. I was aided in this difficult task by M. Bartholdy, then chargé d’affaires at the French Embassy. This obliging Frenchman succeeded with the Imperial Government in enabling me to traverse Siberia in a manner somewhat official, and the ministers accordingly gave me letters of recommendation to the governors of the various provinces I was about to visit.
I obtained also from M. Michaelof, the contractor for the posting between Nijni-Novgorod and Tumen, a circular order requiring each postmaster on the route to give me the best horses at the shortest notice.
Many persons recommended me to their friends in Siberia. In less than a fortnight I was provided with thirty-two of these recommendations, but I had not yet found either a companion or a servant.
The frost, however,