The Land of Thor

I can not distinctly remember how long I tossed about in this way, beset by all sorts of vagaries. Sometimes I fancied sleep had come, and that the whole matter was a ridiculous freak of fancy, including my visit to Moscow – that Russian tea was all a fiction, and vodka a mere nightmare; but with a nervous start I would find myself awake, the palpable reality of my extraordinary condition staring me in the face. Unable to endure such an anomalous frame of mind and body any longer, I at length resolved to go down and take an airing in the streets, believing, if any thing would have a beneficial effect, it would be the fresh air. Acting upon this idea, I hastily dressed myself and descended to the front door. The Hotel de Venise is situated in a central part of the city, at no great distance from the Kremlin. It stands back in a large open yard, with a very pretty garden to the right as you enter from the main street. The proprietor is a Russian, but the hotel is conducted in the French style, and, although not more conspicuous for cleanliness than other establishments of the same class in Moscow, it is nevertheless tolerably free from vermin. The fleas in it were certainly neither so lively nor so entertaining as I have found them at many of the Spanish ranches in California, and the bugs, I am sure, are nothing like so corpulent as some I have seen in Washington City. I throw this in gratis, as a sort of puff, in consideration of an understanding with the landlord, that if he would refrain from cheating me I would recommend his hotel to American travelers. It is very good of its kind, and no person fond of veal, as a standard dish, can suffer from hunger at this establishment so long as calves continue to be born any where in the neighborhood of Moscow.

The porter, a drowsy old fellow in livery, whose only business, so far as I could discover, was to bow to the guests as they passed in and out during the day, at the expense of a kopek to each one of them for every bow, napping on a lounge close by the front door. Hearing my footsteps, he awoke, rubbed his eyes, bowed habitually, and then stared at me with a vacant and somewhat startled expression. It was not a common thing evidently for lodgers to go out of the hotel at that time of night, or rather morning – it must have been nearly two o’clock – for, after gazing a while at what he doubtless took to be an apparition or an absconding boarder whose bill had not been settled, he grumbled out something like a dissent, and stood between me and the door. A small fee of ten kopeks, which I placed in his hand, aided him in grasping at the mysteries of the case, and he unlocked the door and let me out, merely shaking his head gravely, as if he divined my purpose, but did not altogether approve of it in one of my age and sedate appearance. In that, however, he was mistaken: I had no disposition to form any tender alliances in Moscow.

The streets were almost deserted. An occasional drosky, carrying home some belated pleasure-seeker, was all that disturbed the silence. I walked some distance in the direction of the Kremlin. The air was deliciously cool and refreshing, and the sky wore a still richer glow than I had noticed a few hours before at the gardens of the Peterskoi. The moon had not yet gone down, but the first glowing blushes of the early morning were stealing over the heavens, mingled with its silvery light. I took off my hat to enjoy the fresh air, and wandered along quite enchanted with the richness and variety of the scene. Every turn of the silent streets brought me in view of some gilded pile of cupolas, standing in glowing relief against the sky. Churches of strange Asiatic form, the domes richly and fancifully colored; golden stars glittering upon a groundwork of blue, green, or yellow; shrines with burning tapers over the massive doors and gateways, were scattered in every direction in the most beautiful profusion. Sometimes I saw a solitary beggar kneeling devoutly before some gilded saint, and mourning over the weariness of life. Once I was startled by the apparition of a poor wretch lying asleep – I thought he was dead – a crippled wreck upon the stone steps – his eyes closed in brief oblivion of the world and its sorrows, his furrowed and pallid features a ghastly commentary upon the glittering temples and idols that surround him. For above all these things that are “decked with silver and with gold, and fastened with nails and with hammers that they move not,” there is One who hath “made the earth by His power and established the world by His wisdom;” man is but brutish in his knowledge; “every founder is confounded by the graven image; for his molten image is falsehood, and there is no breath in them.” Such extremes every where abound in Moscow – magnificence and filth; wealth and poverty; a superstitious belief in the power of images in the midst of abject proofs of their impotence. And yet, is it not better that men should believe in something rather than in nothing? The glittering idol can not touch the crippled beggar and put health and strength in his limbs, but if the poor sufferer can sleep better upon the cold stones in the presence of his patron saint than elsewhere, in charity’s name let him,

“O’erlabored with his being’s strife
Shrink to that sweet forgetfulness of life.”

I wandered on. Soon the cupolas of the mighty Kremlin were in sight, all aglow with the bright sheen of the morn. Passing along its embattled walls, which now seemed of snowy whiteness, I reached the grand plaza of the Krasnoi Ploschod. Standing out in the open space, I gazed at the wondrous pile of gold-covered domes till my eyes rested on the highest point – the majestic tower of Ivan Veliki. And then I could but think of the terrible Czar – the fourth of the fierce race of Ivans, who ruled the destinies of Russia; he who killed his own son in a fit of rage, yet never shook hands with a foreign embassador without washing his own immediately after; the patron of monasteries, and the conqueror of Kazan, Astrakan, and Siberia. This was the most cruel yet most enlightened of his name. I am not sure whether the tower was built to commemorate his fame or that of his grandfather, Ivan the Third, also called “the Terrible,” of whom Karasmin says that, “when excited with anger, his glance would make a timid woman swoon; that petitioners dreaded to approach his throne, and that even at his table the boyars, his grandees, trembled before him.” A terrible fellow, no doubt, and thoroughly Russian by the testimony of this Russian historian, for where else will you find men so terrible as to make timid women swoon by a single glance of their eye? Not in California, surely! If I were a Czar this soft summer night (such was the idea that naturally occurred to me), I would gaze upon the fair flowers of creation with an entirely different expression of countenance. They should neither wilt nor swoon unless overcome by the delicacy and tenderness of my admiration.

From the green towers of the Holy Gate, where neither Czar nor serf can enter without uncovering his head, I turned toward the Vassoli Blagennoi – the wondrous maze of churches that gathers around the Cathedral of St. Basil. Not in all Moscow is there a sight so strange and gorgeous as this. The globular domes, all striped with the varied colors of the rainbow; the glittering gold-gilt cupolas; the rare and fanciful minarets; the shrines, and crosses, and stars; the massive steps; the iron railing, with shining gold-capped points – surely, in the combination of striking and picturesque forms and colors, lights and shades, must ever remain unequaled. The comparison may seem frivolous, yet it resembled more, to my eye, some gigantic cactus of the tropics, with its needles and rich colors, its round, prickly domes and fantastic cupolas, than any thing I had ever seen before in the shape of a church or group of churches. While I gazed in wonder at the strange fabric, I could not but think again of Ivan the Terrible; by whose order it was built; and how, when the architect (an Italian) was brought before him, trembling with awe, the mighty Ivan expressed his approval of the performance, and demanded if he, the architect, could build another equally strange and beautiful; to which the poor Italian, elated with joy, answered that he could build another even stranger and more beautiful than this; and then how the ferocious and unprincipled Czar had the poor fellow’s eyes put out to prevent him from building another.

But this is not the adventure. I have nothing to do at present with the Church of St. Basil or Ivan the Terrible except in so far as they affected my imagination. The business on hand is to tell you how the dire catastrophe happened.

Bewildered at length with gazing at all these wonderful sights, I turned to retrace my steps to the hotel. A few droskies were still plying on the principal thoroughfares, and now and then I met gay parties trudging homeward after their night’s dissipation; but I soon struck into the less frequented streets, where a dreary silence reigned. There was something very sad and solitary in the reverberation of my footsteps. For the first time it occurred to me that there was not much security here for life, in case of a covert attack from some of those footpads said to infest the city. I began to reflect upon the experience of my young American friend, and regret that it had not occurred to me before I left the hotel. You may think this very weak and foolish, good friends, surrounded as you are by all the safeguards of law and order, and living in a country where men are never knocked on the head of nights – with occasional exceptions; but I can assure you it is a very natural feeling in a strange, half-barbarous city like Moscow, where one doesn’t understand the language. Had I been well versed in Russian, the probability is I should not have felt the least alarmed; but a man experiences a terrible sensation of loneliness when he expects every moment to be knocked on the head without being able to say a word in his own defense. Had my guide, Dominico, been with me, I should not have felt quite so helpless – though I never had much confidence in his courage – for he could at least have demanded an explanation, or, if the worst came to the worst, helped me to run away. The fact is – and there is no use attempting to disguise it – I began to feel a nervous apprehension that something was going to happen. I was startled at my own shadow, and was even afraid to whistle with any view of keeping up my spirits, lest something unusually florid in my style of whistling might lead to the supposition that I was from California, and therefore a good subject for robbery.

Which, by the way, puts me in mind of a remarkable fact, well worth mentioning. The State of California owes me, at the least calculation, two hundred dollars, paid in sums varying from six kreutzers up to a pound sterling to hotel-keepers, porters, lackeys, and professional gentlemen throughout Europe, exclusively on the ground of my citizenship in that state. In Paris – in Spain – in Africa – in Germany (with the exceptions of the beer-houses and country inns), I had to pay a heavy percentage upon the capital invested in my gold mines solely on the presumption that no man could come from so rich a country without carrying off a good deal of treasure on his person, like the carcass that carried the diamonds out of the rich valley for Sinbad the Sailor. Yet I never could forego the pleasure of announcing myself as an embassador to foreign parts from that noble state, commissioned by the sovereigns generally to furnish them with the latest improvements in morals, fashions, and manners for the public benefit – an extremely onerous and responsible duty, which I have executed, and shall continue to execute, with the most rigid fidelity.

After walking quite far enough to have reached the hotel, I became confused at the winding of the streets. The neighborhood was strange. I could not discover any familiar sign or object. The houses were low, mean, and dark looking; the street was narrow and roughly paved. I walked a little farther, then turned into another street still more obscure, and, following that for some distance, brought up amid a pile of ruined walls. There could no longer be a doubt that I had missed the way, and was not likely to find it in this direction. It was a very suspicious quarter into which I had strayed. Every thing about it betokened poverty and crime. I began to feel rather uneasy, but it would not do to stand here among the ruins as a mark for any midnight prowler who might be lurking around. Turning off in a new direction, I took a by-street, which appeared to lead to an open space. As I picked my way over the masses of rubbish, a dark figure crossed in front, and disappeared in the shadow of a wall. I was entirely unarmed. What was to be done? Perhaps the man might be able to tell me the way to my lodgings; but I could not speak a word of Russian, as before stated, and, besides, was rather averse to making acquaintance with strangers. After a moment’s reflection, I walked on, cautiously and distrustfully enough, for the notion was uppermost in my mind that this fellow was not there for any good purpose. As I passed the spot where he had disappeared, I looked suspiciously around, but he did not make his appearance. With a few hasty strides I readied the open space – a vacant lot, it seemed, caused by a recent fire. The houses were burnt down, and nothing but a blackened mass of beams, rafters, and ashes covered the ground. The only exit was through a narrow alley. Before entering this, I looked back and saw the same figure stealthily following me. On I went as rapidly as I could walk. Closer and closer came the figure. He was a man of gigantic stature, and was probably armed. Soon I heard the heavy tramp of his feet within a few paces. It was evident I must either run or stand my ground. Perhaps, if I had known what direction to take, or could have placed more reliance upon my knees, which were greatly weakened by tea, I might have chosen the former alternative, inglorious as it may seem; but, under the circumstances, I resolved to stand. Facing around suddenly, with my back to the wall, I called to the ruffian to stand off, as he valued his life. He halted within a few feet, evidently a little disconcerted at my sudden determination to make battle. His face was the most brutal I had over seen; a filthy mass of beard nearly covered it; two piercing white eyes glistened beneath the leaf of his greasy cap; a coarse blouse, gathered around the waist by a leather belt, and boots that reached nearly to his hips, were the most striking articles of his costume. For a moment he gazed at me, as if uncertain what to do; then brushed slowly past, with the design, no doubt, of ascertaining if I was armed. I could not see whether he carried any deadly weapons himself; but a man of his gigantic stature needed none to be a very unequal opponent in a struggle with one whose most sanguinary conflicts had hitherto been on paper, and who had never wielded a heavier weapon than a pen.

Proceeding on his way, however, the ruffian, after going about a hundred yards, disappeared in some dark recess in among the houses on one side. I continued on, taking care to keep in the middle of the alley. As I approached the spot where the man had disappeared, I heard several voices, and then the terrible truth flashed upon me that there must be a gang of them. I now saw no alternative but to turn back and run for my life. It was an inglorious thing to do, no doubt, but which of you, my friends, would not have done the same thing?

Scarcely had I started under full headway when three or four men rushed out in pursuit. I will not attempt to disguise the fact that the ground passed under my feet pretty rapidly; and the probability is, the hostile party would have been distanced in less than ten minutes but for an unfortunate accident. It was necessary to cross the ruins already described. Here, in the recklessness of my flight, I stumbled over a beam, and fell prostrate in a pile of ashes. Before I could regain my feet the ruffians were upon me. While two of them held my arms, the third clapped his dirty hand over my mouth, and in this way they dragged me back into the alley. As soon as they had reached the dark archway from which they had originally started, they knocked at a door on one side. This was quickly opened, and I was thrust into a large room, dimly lighted with rude lamps of grease hung upon the walls. When they first got hold of me, I confess the sensation was not pleasant. What would the Emperor Alexander say when he heard that a citizen of California had been murdered in this cold-blooded manner? My next thought was, in what terms would this sad affair be noticed in the columns of the Sacramento Union? Would it not be regarded by the editor as an unprovoked disaster inflicted upon society? My fears, however, were somewhat dispelled upon looking around the saloon into which I had been so strangely introduced. Several tables were ranged along the walls, at each of which sat a group of the most horrible-looking savages that probably ever were seen out of jail – the very dregs and offscourings of Moscow. Their faces were mostly covered with coarse, greasy beards, reaching half way down their bodies; some wore dirty blue or gray blouses, tied around the waist with ropes, or fastened with leather belts; others, long blue coats, reaching nearly to their feet; and all, or nearly all, had caps on their heads, and great heavy boots reaching up to their knees, in which their pantaloons were thrust, giving them a rakish and ruffianly appearance. A few sat in their shirt-sleeves; and, judging by the color of their shirts, as well as their skins, did not reckon soap among the luxuries of life. Several of these savage-looking Mujiks were smoking some abominable weed, intended, perhaps, for tobacco, but very much unlike that delightful narcotic in the foul and tainted odor which it diffused over the room. They were all filthy and brutish in the extreme, and talked in some wretched jargon, which, even to my inexperienced ear, had but little of the gentle flow of the Russian in it. The tables were dotted with dice, cards, fragments of black bread, plates of grease, and cabbage soup, and glasses of vodka and tea; and the business of gambling, eating, and drinking was carried on with such earnestness that my entrance attracted no farther attention than a rude stare from the nearest group. No wonder they were a little puzzled, for I was covered with ashes, and must have presented rather a singular appearance. The three ruffians who had brought me in closed the door, and motioned me to a seat at a vacant table. They then called for tea, vodka, and quass, together with a great dish of raw cucumbers, which they set to work devouring with amazing voracity. During a pause in the feast they held a low conversation with the man who served them, who went out and presently returned with a small tea-pot full of tea and a glass, which he set before me. They motioned to me, in rather a friendly way, to drink. I was parched with thirst, and was not sorry to get a draught of any thing – even the villainous compound the traktir had set before me; so I drank off a tumblerfull at once. Soon I began to experience a whirling sensation in the head. A cold tremor ran through my limbs. Dim and confused visions of the company rose before me, and a strange and spectral light seemed shed over the room. The murmur of voices sounded like rushing waters in my ears. I gradually lost all power of volition, while my consciousness remained unimpaired, or, if any thing, became more acute than ever. The guests, if such they were, broke up their carousal about this time, and began to drop off one by one, each bowing profoundly to the landlord, and crossing himself devoutly, and bowing three times again before the shrine of the patron saint as he passed out. It was really marvelous to see some of these ruffians, so besotted with strong drink that they were scarcely able to see the way to the door, stagger up before the burnished shrine, and, steadying themselves the best they could, gravely and solemnly go through their devotions.

But I see you are beginning to yawn, and, notwithstanding the most exciting part of the adventure is about to commence, it would be extremely injudicious in me to force it upon you under circumstances so disadvantageous to both parties. You will therefore oblige me by finishing your nap, and, with your permission, we will proceed with our narrative as soon as it may be mutually agreeable. In the mean time, I beg you will regard what I have already told you as strictly confidential. My reputation, both for veracity and general good character, is involved in this very extraordinary affair, and it would be unfair that either the one or the other should be prejudiced by a partial exposition of the facts.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE DENOUEMENT

I noticed that the traktir, in settling accounts with his customers, made use of a peculiar instrument commonly seen in the shops and market-places throughout the city. Behind a sort of bar or counter at the head of the room he kept what is called a schot, upon which he made his calculations. This is a frame about a foot square, across which run numerous wires. On each wire is a string of colored pieces of wood somewhat resembling billiard-counters, only smaller. The merchant, trader, traktir, or craftsman engaged in pecuniary transactions uses this instrument with wonderful dexterity in making his calculations. He believes it to be the only thing in the world that will not lie or steal. If you have purchased to the amount of thirty kopeks, you would naturally conclude that out of a ruble (one hundred kopeks) your change would amount to seventy. Not so the sagacious and wary Russian. He takes nothing for granted in the way of trade. Your calculations may be erroneous – figures obtained through the medium of mental arithmetic may lie, but the schot never. The experience of a lifetime goes for nothing. He must have proof positive. Taking his schot between his knees, he counts off thirty balls out of a hundred. Of course there is no mistake about that. Neither you nor he can dispute it. Then he counts the remainder, and finds that it amounts to seventy – therefore your change is seventy kopeks! Do you dispute it? Then you can count for yourself. You might cover pages with written calculations, or demonstrate the problem by the four cardinal rules of arithmetic; you might express the numbers by sticks, stones, beans, or grains of coffee, but it would be all the same to this astute and cautious calculator – facts can only reach his understanding through the colored balls of his beloved schot. I don’t think he would rely with certainty upon the loose verbal statement that two and two make four without resorting to the schot for a verification. But to proceed:

A few of the guests, too far gone with “little water” to get up and perform their devotions, rolled over on the floor and went to sleep. The lights grew dim. A gloomy silence began to settle over the room, interrupted only by the occasional grunting or snoring of the sleepers. The ruffians who sat at the table with me had been nodding for some time; but, roused by the cessation of noises, they called to the man of the house, and in a low voice gave him some orders. He got a light and opened a small door in a recess at one side of the room. I was then lifted up by the others and carried into an adjoining passage, and thence up a narrow stairway. In a large dingy room overhead I could see by the flickering rays of the lamp a bed in one corner. It was not very clean – none of the Russian beds are – but they laid me in it, nevertheless, for I could offer no remonstrance. What they had hitherto done was bad enough, but this capped the climax of outrages. Were the cowardly villains afraid to murder me, and was this their plan of getting it done, and at the same time getting rid of the body? Great heavens! was I to be devoured piecemeal by a rapacious horde of the wild beasts that are said to infest the Russian beds! And utterly helpless, too, without the power to grapple with as much as a single flea – the least formidable, perhaps, of the entire gang! It was absolutely fearful to contemplate such an act of premeditated barbarity; yet what could I do, unable to speak a word or move a limb.

I am reminded by this that the Russians derive the most striking features of their civilization from the French and Germans. Their fashions, their tailors, their confectioners, their perfumeries, their barbers, are nearly all French or Germans; but their baths are a national institution, derived originally, perhaps, from the Orientals. We hear a good deal of Russian baths, especially from enthusiastic travelers, and are apt to suppose that where such a thorough system of scrubbing and boiling prevails, the human cuticle must present a very extraordinary aspect of cleanliness. Perhaps this is so in certain cases, but it is not a national characteristic. A Russian bath, in the genuine style, is rather a costly luxury. There are, to be sure, in St. Petersburg and Moscow, public bath-houses for the rabble, where the filthiest beggar can be boiled out and scrubbed for a few kopeks; but people who wear a coating of dirt habitually must become attached to it in the course of time, and hate very much to dispose of it at any price. At least there seemed to be a prejudice of this kind in Moscow, where the affection with which this sort of overlining is preserved is quite equal to that with which the Germans adhere to their old household furniture. It may be, perhaps, that the few summer months which they enjoy are insufficient for the removal of all the strange things that accumulate upon the body during the long winters. The poorer classes seldom remove their furs or change their clothing till warm weather and the natural wear and tear of all perishable things cause them to drop off of their own accord. I have seen on a scorching hot day men wrapped in long woolen coats, doubled over the breast and securely fastened around the waist, and great boots, capacious enough and thick enough for fire-buckets, in which they were half buried, strolling lazily along in the sun, as if they absolutely enjoyed its warmth; and yet these very articles of clothing, with but little addition, must have borne the piercing winds of midwinter. A suspicion crossed my mind that they were trying in this way to bag a little heat for winter use, as the old burghers of Schilda bagged the light to put in their town hall because they had no windows. These strange habits must have something to do with the number of ferocious little animals – I will not degrade their breed and variety by calling them, vermin – which infest the rooms and beds. But the Russian skin is like Russian leather – the best and toughest in the world. Something in the climate is good for the production of thick and lasting cuticles. It is doubtless a wise provision of nature, based upon the extremes of heat and cold to which these people are exposed. There is no good reason why animals with four feet should be more favored in this respect than bipeds. I doubt if an ordinary Russian would suffer the slightest inconvenience if a needle were run into the small of his back. All those physical torments which disturb thin-skinned people from other countries are no torments at all to him; and I incline to the opinion that it is the constant experience he enjoys in a small way that enables him to endure the wounds received in battle with such wonderful stoicism. A man can carry a bull if he only commences when the animal is young. Why not, on the same principle, accustom himself to being stabbed every night till he can quietly endure to be run through with a bayonet? The Russian soldiers possess wonderful powers of passive endurance. Being stabbed or cut to pieces is second nature to them – they have been accustomed to it, in a degree, from early infancy. Who does not remember how they were hewed and hacked down in the Crimean War, and yet came to life again by thousands after they were given up for dead? Perhaps no other soldiers in the world possess such stoicism under the inflictions of pain. They stand an enormous amount of killing; more so, I think, than any other people, unless it may be the Irish, who, at the battle of Vinegar Hill, in the rebellion of ’98, were nearly all cut to pieces and left for dead on the field, but got up in a day or two after and went at it again as lively as ever. This, however, was not owing to the same early experience, but to the healthy blood made of potatoes, with a slight sprinkling of Irish whisky. In fine, I don’t think a genuine Muscovite could sleep without a bountiful supply of vermin to titillate his skin any more than a miller bereft of the customary noise of his hoppers.

Which brings me back again to the adventure. On that filthy bed the ruffians laid me down to be devoured by the wild beasts by which it was infested. Then they turned about to a shrine that stood in a corner of the room, and each one bowed down before it three times and crossed himself, after which they all left the room and quietly closed the door behind them. I was penetrated with horror at the thought of the terrible death before me, but not so much as to avoid noticing that the chief furniture of the room consisted of a stove in one corner, of cylindrical form, made of terra-cotta or burnt clay, and glazed outside. It was colored in rather a fanciful way, like queensware, and made a conspicuous appearance, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. This was the genuine Russian stove, with which these people no doubt kept themselves warm during the winter. The windows are composed of double glasses, and between the sashes the space is filled with sand to keep out the air, so that to be hermetically sealed up is one of necessities of existence in this rigorous climate. While I was pondering over the marvelous fact that people can live by breathing so many thousand gallons of air over and over so many thousand times, a whole legion of fleas, chinches, and other animals of a still more forbidding aspect commenced their horrid work, and would probably soon have made an end of me but for a new turn in this most extraordinary affair. The door gently opened. A figure glided in on tiptoe. It was that of a female, I knew by the grace and elegance of her motions, even before I could see her face or trace the undulating outline of her form in the dim light that pervaded the room. My senses were acutely alive to every movement, yet I was utterly unable to move, owing to the infernal drug with which they had dosed me. The woman, or rather girl – for she could not have been over eighteen or nineteen – cautiously approached the bed, with her finger to her lips, as if warning me not to speak. She was very beautiful – I was not insensible to that fact. Her features were wonderfully aristocratic for one in her position, and there was something in the expression of her dark, gleaming eyes peculiarly earnest and pathetic. Her hair was tossed wildly and carelessly back over her shoulders – she had evidently just risen from bed, for her costume consisted of nothing more than a loose night-wrapper, which fell in graceful folds around her limbs, revealing to great advantage the exquisite symmetry of her form. I was certain she did not belong to the house. Approaching timidly, yet with a certain air of determination, she bent down and gazed a moment in my face, and then hurriedly whispered in French, “Now is the time – let us escape! They lie sleeping by the door. A servant whom I bribed has disclosed the fact of your capture to me; I also am a prisoner in this horrid den. Will you save me? Oh, will you fly with me?” Of course, being unable to move a muscle, except those of my eyes, I could not open my mouth to utter a word in reply. The unhappy young woman looked profoundly distressed that I should thus gaze at her in silence. “Oh, what am I to do? Who will save me?” she cried, wringing her hands in the deepest anguish: “I have not a friend upon earth!” Then, clasping me by the hand, she looked in my face appealingly, and said, “Monsieur, I know you are a Frenchman. I see it in the chivalrous lines of your countenance. Ah! have pity on a friendless young girl, and do not gaze at her with such chilling indifference. I also am French. These wretches have waylaid and imprisoned me, and they hope to obtain a ransom by my detention. My friends are ignorant of my miserable fate. What can I do, monsieur, unless you assist me?”

Utterly helpless – drugged – yet perfectly conscious of all the lovely creature was saying, I was truly in a most deplorable situation. Again and again she begged me, if there was a spark of French chivalry left in my nature, not to respond to her appeals by such a look of unutterable disdain. She was thrillingly beautiful; and beauty in tears is enough to melt the hardest heart that ever was put in the breast of man. I could feel her balmy breath upon my face, and the warmth of her delicate hand in mine, as she struggled to arouse me; and I declare it is my honest conviction that, had I been simply a corpse, life would have come back to my assistance; but this diabolical drug possessed some extraordinary power against which not even the fascinations of beauty could successfully contend. Under other circumstances, indeed, there is no telling – but why talk of other circumstances? There I lay like a log, completely paralyzed from head to foot. At length, unable to elicit an answer, a flush of mingled indignation and scorn illuminated her beautiful features, and, drawing herself back with a haughty air, she said, “If this be the boasted chivalry of my countrymen, then the sooner it meets with a merited reward the better. Allow me to say, monsieur, that while I admire your prudence, I scorn the spirit that prompts it!” and, with a glance of fierce disdain, she swept with queenly strides out of the room. A moment after I heard some voices in the passage, and scarcely five minutes had elapsed before the door was opened again. To my horror I saw the ruffian who had first followed me enter stealthily with a darkened lantern, and approach toward my bed. He carried in his right hand a heavy bar of iron. Stopping a moment opposite a shrine on one side of the room, he laid down his lamp and bar, and, bowing down three times, crossed himself devoutly, and then proceeded to accomplish his fiendish work. No conception can be formed of the agony with which I now regarded my fate. Crouching low as he approached, the wretch soon reached my bedside, peered a moment into my face with his hideous white eyes, laid down the lamp, then grasped the bar of iron firmly in both hands, and raised himself up to his full height. I made a desperate effort to cry out for help. My voice was utterly gone. I could not even move my lips. But why prolong the dreadful scene? One more glance with the fierce white eyes, a deep grating malediction, and the ruffian braced himself for his deadly job. He tightened his grip upon the bar, swung it high over his head, and with one fell blow – DASHED MY BRAINS OUT!!

Don’t believe it, eh?

Well, sir, you would insist upon my telling you the adventure, and now I stand by it! If it be your deliberate opinion that my statement is not to be relied upon, nothing remains between us but to arrange the preliminaries. I have no disposition to deprive my publishers of a valuable contributor, or society of an ornament; but, sir, the great principles of truth must be maintained. As it will not be convenient for me to attend to this matter in person, you will be pleased to select any friend of mine in California who may desire to stand up for my honor; place him before you at the usual distance of ten paces; then name any friend of yours at present in Europe as a similar substitute for yourself – the principals only to use pistols – notify me by the Icelandic telegraph when you are ready, and then, upon return of signal, pop away at my friend. But, since it is not my wish to proceed to such an extremity unnecessarily, if you will admit that I may possibly have been deceived – that there may have been some hallucination about the adventure – that strong tea and nervous excitement may have had something to do with it, then, sir, I am willing to leave the matter open to future negotiation.

It is true I found myself in my room at the Hotel de Venise when I recovered from the stunning effects of the blow; also, that the door was locked on the inside; but I am by no means prepared to give up the point on such flimsy evidence as that. Should the physiological fact be developed in the course of these sketches that there is still any portion of the brain left, and that it performs its legitimate functions, of course I shall be forced to admit that the case is at least doubtful; yet even then it can not be regarded in the light of a pure fabrication. Has not Dickens given us, in his “Dreams of Venice,” the most vivid and truthful description of the City of the Sea ever written; and what have I done, at the worst, but try in my humble way to give you a general idea of Moscow in the pleasing form of a midnight adventure, ending in an assassination? You have seen the Kremlin and the Church of St. Basil, and the by-streets and alleys, and the interior of a low traktir, and the cats, and the Russian beds, and many other interesting features of this wonderful city, in a striking and peculiar point of view, and I hold that you have no right to complain because, like Louis Philippe, I sacrificed my crown for the benefit of my subject. Besides, has not my friend Bayard Taylor given to the world his wonderful experiences of the Hasheesh of Damascus; his varied and extraordinary hallucinations of intellect during the progress of its operations? And why should not I my humble experiences of the tchai of Moscow?

Reader. Slightly sprinkled with vodka, or “the little water.”

Oh, that was just thrown in to give additional effect to the tea!

Reader. It won’t do, sir – it won’t do! The deception was too transparent throughout.

Well, then, since you saw through it from the beginning, there is no harm done, and you can readily afford to make an apology for impugning my voracity.

Lady Reader. But who was the heroine? What became of her?

Ah! my dear madam, there you have me! I suspect she was a French countess, or more likely an actress engaged in the line of tragedy. Her style, at all events, was tragical.

Lady Reader (elevating her lovely eyebrows superciliously). She was rather demonstrative, it must be admitted. You brought her in apparently to fulfill your promise, but sent her off the stage very suddenly. You should, at least, have restored her to her friends, and not left her in that den of robbers.

That, dear madam, was my natural inclination; but the fact is, d’ye see, I was drugged —

Lady Reader (sarcastically). It won’t do, Mr. Butterfield – your heroine was a failure! In future you had better confine yourself to facts – or fresh water.

Madam, I’d confine myself to the Rock of Gibraltar or an iceberg to oblige you; therefore, with your permission, I shall proceed to give you, in my next, a reliable description of the Kremlin.

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.

O most potent Alexander, Czar of all the Russias, is this the only way you have of paying your servants? Do you thus make a raree-show of the palace of your forefathers, and require every man who enters it for the purpose of enlightening his benighted understanding to pay your imperial lackeys the sum of three bits? Is it not enough that your soldiers and retainers should hawk old clothes through the markets of the Riadi for a decent living, without making a small speculation out of the beds and wash-stands in which your noble fathers slept and (possibly) washed their faces?

One of the most remarkable objects of interest within the walls of the Kremlin is the Tzar Kolokol, or King of Bells, cast in 1730 by order of the Empress Anne, and said to be not only the largest bell, but the largest metal casting in existence. This wonderful bell is formed chiefly of contributions of precious metals, bestowed as religious offerings by the people from all parts of the Russian empire. Spoons, plates, coins, and trinkets were thrown by the devout inhabitants into the melting mass, and thus, each having a share in it, the monarch bell is regarded with feelings of peculiar affection and veneration throughout Russia. Writers differ as to its original use and location, some contending that it was first hung in a tower, which was destroyed by fire in 1737, and that the large fragment was broken out of it in the fall, which is now exhibited by the side of the bell; others that it never was hung at all, but that this fragment resulted from a failure in the casting. Be that as it may, it was all dug out of the ground in 1837, and placed in its present position on a pedestal of granite, close by the tower of Ivan Veliki.

Standing in an open space, where the eye necessarily takes in many larger objects, including the great tower, but a very inadequate idea can be formed of the extraordinary dimensions of this bell. Cast in the usual form, its appearance at the distance of fifty or a hundred yards is not at all striking; but when you draw near and compare the height of the groups of figures usually gathered around it with that of the bell, it is easy to form some conception of its gigantic proportions. The fragment placed upright against the granite pedestal looks at a little distance scarcely three feet high, but as you approach you perceive that it is at least six. The bell itself is twenty-one feet three inches high, by twenty-two feet five inches in diameter, and varies from three feet to three inches in thickness. Underneath this immense metallic canopy is a chapel, in which is a shrine at which many thousands of the Russians every year offer up their devotions. The entrance to this is through an iron gateway, and the visitor descends several stone steps before he stands upon the paved floor of the chapel. Looking upward and around him, he then for the first time realizes the vast magnitude of this wonderful casting. It is almost impossible to conceive that such a prodigious body of metal was ever at one time a molten mass, seething over vast furnaces. Imagine a circular room more than twenty feet in diameter, and of proportionate height, and you have some faint idea of the interior of the Tzar Kolokol. It is said that it required ten strong men to draw the clapper from the centre to the inner rim, by means of ropes, so as to produce the ordinary sounds of which the bell was capable. This I can very well credit; for the great bell of the Ivan Tower, not a third of the size of this, has an iron tongue which requires the strength of three men to strike against the rim. The tremendous depth and volume of the tones sent forth for many leagues around by the monarch bell must have been sublime beyond conception, judging by this single fact, that while in Moscow, the largest bell I heard sounded was far inferior in size and weight to that of the Ivan Tower, which is rung only on state occasions, yet the sounds were so deep and powerful that they produced a reverberation in the air resembling the distant roar of thunder, mingled with the wailing of the winds in a storm. When all the bells of the tower, save the largest, were tolled together, the effect was absolutely sublime, surpassing in the grandeur and majesty of their harmony any thing I had ever heard produced through human agency. Judge, then, what must have been the effect when the Tzar Kolokol rolled forth a jubilee or a death-knell from his iron tongue!

I do not wonder that the Russians regard this bell with such peculiar feelings of reverence. There is something to arouse the most profound and reverential emotions of our nature in the simple, grand, and mysterious melody of all great bells – something of the infinite that exalts our thoughts and aspirations from the earth. In my recollections of travel I have few purer or more endearing pleasures than the impressions produced by sounds like these. Often the grand old strains of the bells of Lima, Mexico, and Spain seem still to linger on my ear, and I never dream the wild and varied dream of my travels over without feeling that these mysterious voices from many lands have not spoken without a meaning, that “Life, with all its dreams, shall be but as the passing bell.”

From the Tzar Kolokol I took my way, under the guidance of Dominico, to the tower of Ivan Veliki, which we ascended by the winding stairway of stone. The view from the top of this tower is incomparably the finest to be had from any point within the limits of Moscow. Here, outspread before us in one vast circle, lay the whole wondrous city of the Tzars – a perfect sea of green roofs, dotted over with innumerable spires and cupolas. The predominant features are Asiatic, though in the quarter to the west, called the Beloi Gorod, or White City, are the evidences of a more advanced civilization. Apart from the churches, which give the city its chief interest and most picturesque effect, the public buildings, such as the theatres, hospitals, military barracks, colleges, and riding-school possess no great attractions in point of architectural display, and add but little to the scenic beauties of the view. In gazing over this bewildering maze of habitations and temples of worship, I was again strongly impressed with some two or three leading characteristics, which, being directly opposed to the idea I had formed of Moscow before seeing it, may be worthy of repetition. The general colors of the buildings, roofs, and churches are light, gay, and sparkling, so that the whole, taken in one sweep of the eye, presents an exceedingly brilliant appearance, more like some well-contrived and highly-wrought optical illusions in a theatre – such, for example, as the fairy scenery of the “Prophete” – than any thing I can now remember. The vast extent of the city, compared with its population (the circuit of its outer wall being twenty miles, while the population is but little over 300,000), is another characteristic feature; but this is in some measure accounted for by the great average of small houses, the amount of ground occupied by the Kremlin, the inner and outer boulevards, and the suburbs within the outer wall, the number of gardens and vacant lots, and the large spaces occupied by the ploschads or public squares.

Looking beyond the city and its immediate suburbs, a series of undulating plains lies outstretched toward the eastward and southward, while toward the northward and westward the horizon is bounded by low pine-covered hills and occasional forests of birch. No high mountains or abrupt outlines are any where visible – all is broad and sweeping, conveying some premonition of the vastness of the steppes that divide this region from the Ural Mountains. Waving fields of grain, pastures of almost boundless extent, and solitary farm-houses lie dim in the distance, while in the immediate vicinity of the city cultivation has been carried to considerable perfection, and the villas and estates of the nobility present something more of the appearance of civilization than perhaps any thing of a similar kind to be seen in Russia. Contrasted with the country around St. Petersburg, and the desert of scrubby pines and marshes lying for a distance of nearly five hundred miles along the line of the railway between the two great cities, the neighborhood of Moscow is wonderfully rich in rural and pastoral beauties. Viewing it in connection with the city from the tower of Ivan Veliki, I certainly derived the most exquisite sensations of pleasure from the novelty, extent, and variety of the whole scene. Yet, calmly and peacefully as it now slumbers in the genial sunshine of a summer’s afternoon, what visions it conjures up of bloodshed and rapine, plague, pestilence, and famine, and of all the calamities wrought by human hands, and all the appalling visitations of a divine power by which this ill-fated spot has been afflicted. Looking back through the wide waste of years, the mighty hosts of Tamerlane uprise before us, pouring through the passes of the Ural, and sweeping over the plains with their glittering and bloodstained crests like demons of destruction carrying death and desolation before them. Then the giant Czars, half saints, half devils, loom through the flames of the ill-fated city, with their myriads of fierce and defiant warriors stemming the torrent of invasion with the bodies of the dying and the dead. Then are the streets choked with blackened ruins and putrid masses, and the days of sorrow and wailing come, when the living are unable to bury the dead. Again, a great famine has come upon the city after the days of its early tribulations have passed away, and strong men, driven to desperation by the pangs of hunger, slay their wives and children, and feed upon the dead bodies, and mothers devour the sucking babes in their arms; and horror grows upon horror, till, amid the slaughter, ruin, and madness wrought by this unparalleled calamity, a hundred thousand corpses lie rotting in the streets in a single day, and the city is decimated of its inhabitants! The scene changes again. Centuries roll on; a dreary day has come, when the foreign invader once more holds possession of the citadel. With the prize in his hands, fires burst from every roof in every quarter. Three hundred thousand of the inhabitants have fled; a wind arises and fans the devouring flame; churches and houses, temples and palaces, are wrapped in its relentless embraces; the convicts and the rabble run like demons through the streets, drunk with wine and reveling in excesses; soldiers, slaves, and prostitutes pillage the burning ruins, all wild and mad with the unholy lust of gain. Soon nothing is left but blackened and smoking masses, the ruins of palaces, temples, and hospitals, and the seared and mutilated corpses of the dead who have been crushed by the falling walls or burnt in the flames. Then the invading hosts, stricken with dismay, fly from this fated and ill-starred city to darken the snows of Lithuania with their bodies; and of five hundred thousand men – the flower of French chivalry – but forty thousand cross the Beresina to tell the tale! Surely Moscow, like Jerusalem, hath “wept sore in the night.”

While lounging about through the gilded and glittering mazes of the Uspenski Saber, almost wearied by the perpetual glare of burnished shrines, my attention was attracted by a curious yet characteristic ceremony within these sacred precincts. In a gold-cased frame, placed in a horizontal position in one of the alcoves or small chapels, was a picture of a saint whose cheeks and robes were resplendent with gaudy colors. This must have been St. Nicholas or some other popular personage belonging to the holy phalanx. His mouth was very nearly obliterated by the labial caresses of the worshipers who came there to bestow upon him their devotions. A stone step, raised about a foot from the flagged pavement, was nearly worn through by the knees of the penitents, who were forever dropping down to snatch a kiss from his sacred lips – or at least what was left of them, for his mouth was now little more than a dirty blotch, without the semblance of its original outline. While pondering over the marvelous ways in which men strive to cast off the burden of their sins, I observed a very graceful and elegantly-dressed female approach, and with an air of profound humility kneel in the accustomed place. As she drew back her veil she displayed a remarkably pretty face, and there was something quite enchanting in the coquetry with which she ignored the presence of a stranger. Of course she could have had no idea that any person of the opposite sex would dare to think of female loveliness in such a place, and the charming unconsciousness of her manner, as she adjusted the folds of her dress, and revealed the exquisitely rounded contour of her form, was the very best proof of that fact. A perfect withdrawal of self from the world and all its vanities was her ruling expression. Thrice did this lovely creature gracefully incline her head and kiss the blotched countenance of that inanimate saint. Ah me! what a luxury it must be to be a saint! What a lucky fellow is St. Nicholas, to be kissed by such honeyed and pouting lips as these! Chaste and pious kisses they may be, but, notwithstanding that, it must be very hard to keep cool, under the circumstances. Who would not suffer a life of martyrdom, and be turned into a picture or an image on such terms? Surely this bewitching damsel must have committed some dreadful sin to be thus soliciting the saintly intercession of a little picture with a dirty mouth! Perhaps she had recently suffered her own delectable lips to be pressed by the bearded mouth-piece of some tender and persuasive lover, and now sought to make atonement by kissing St. Nicholas! By all the powers of beauty, I’ll forswear sack, Dominico, and try – ha! here comes a devotee of another sort. Let us wait a while. For, as I live, it is a great puncheon of a woman, weighing over three hundred pounds – puffing and steaming as she waddles toward the shrine – a perfect Falstaff in petticoats. Shade of Venus! what a face and figure! Carbuncled with wine, and bloated with quass and cabbage soup, I’ll bet my head, Dominico, she’s a countess! How the juices of high living roll from her brow as she stoops down, and gives the unfortunate St. Nicholas a greasy dish-cloth of her fat lips! Faugh! I’ll consider about my course of life, Dominico. There are some inconveniences in being a saint. Next comes an old and toothless crone, all draggled with dirt, limping on crutches – a most pitiful object to look upon. She hobbles slowly and painfully up to the place just vacated – puts her crutches aside, kneels down, and, bowing low her palsied head, presses a dry, shriveled, and leathery kiss upon the grease-spot left by the fat woman. Thrice she performed this ceremony, mumbling over in her guttural way the prescribed formula; and then rising, regained her crutches, and begged for alms. Well, of course I gave the alms; but the other part of the performance suggested some painful thoughts. It was surely enough to moderate the ardor of one’s aspirations toward a saintly life. Yet, after all, Dominico, every sweet must have its bitter. Let us not despair yet. Next comes a great bearded Mujik, all tattered and torn – a regular grizzly bear on his hind legs, and drunk at that. This horrid monster has evidently not known the use of either soap or water for many a long day. His accustomed beverage must be vodka, and grease the only application ever used to purify his skin. He, too, kneels down and gives the image three cordial smacks – a pretty heavy penalty to endure on the part of any saint. Upon my word, Dominico, I don’t think it would be possible for me to stand that! But hold – here comes a fellow who caps the climax. A bilious, yellow-skinned, black-eyed fop, dressed in the height of fashion, with frizzled black hair, divided behind, and smelling strong of pomatum, a well-oiled mustache, and a simpering, supercilious expression – one of those nasty creatures that old Kit North says never can be washed clean. He looks conceited and silly enough to be an attache to the court of his imperial highness the emperor. When this fellow knelt before the picture and slavered it with his ugly mouth, a dizzy sensation of disgust came over me. Upon a general review of all the circumstances, Dominico, I have concluded that it might not be so pleasant, after all, to be a saint – in Russia.