The Land of Thor

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.

It must not be supposed from this little sketch of a characteristic scene that I wish to ridicule any form of religion. I saw precisely what I state, and am in no way responsible for it. If people imagine this sort of thing does them any good, they are quite welcome to enjoy it; but they must not expect every body else to be impressed with the profound sensations of solemnity which they feel themselves. The Russians may kiss the heads off every saint in Moscow without the slightest concern or opposition on my part. The Romans have kissed a pound of brass off the big toe of St. Peter, in the grand Cathedral at Rome, and I see no reason why other races should not enjoy similar privileges, only it does not produce the same effect upon every body.

Yet, in some sense, such scenes are not without an aspect of sadness. It is melancholy to look upon such a mingling of glitter and barbarism, wealth and poverty, sincerity, debasement, and crime. No human being is truly ridiculous, however grotesque may be the expression of his feelings, when they are the genuine outpouring of a contrite heart. These nobles, common citizens, and beggars, thus meeting upon common ground, in a country where the distinctions of rank are so rigidly observed, and for the time being disregarding all differences of condition; forgetting their ambitions, their jealousies, and animosities, and giving themselves up with such unselfish zeal to all the demands made upon them by their forms of religion, is, in itself, a touching and impressive sight. I confess that when the first shock of grotesqueness, so strikingly connected with all I saw, passed away, the feeling left was one of unutterable sadness. These people were all fellow-beings, and, right or wrong, they were profoundly in earnest; yet, while thinking thus, I could not but fancy the same divine strain of warning that was wafted to the house of Israel still lingered in the air: “Every man is 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; they are vanity and the work of errors; in the time of their visitation they shall perish.”

In reference to the interiors of the churches of the Kremlin, I can only find space to say, after having visited them all, that they present a confusion of gilded and glittering aisles, pillars, alcoves, chapels, and painted domes, which baffles any thing like accurate description. The Cathedral of the Assumption is literally lined with gilding, daubs of paintings representing scriptural scenes, figures and pictures of saints, dragons and devils of every conceivable color and oddity of design and costume, and burnished shrines and candelabras. Through the dazzling mazes of this sacred edifice crowds of devotees, priests, and penitents are continually wandering; here, casting themselves upon their knees, and bowing down before some gold-covered shrine; there standing in mute and rapt adoration before some pictured symbol of eternity – grandees, beggars, and all; the priests bearing tapers and chanting; the air filled with incense; the whole scene an indescribable combination of moving appeals to the senses. All the churches of the Kremlin partake, more or less, of this character. In some of them, the old bones and other relics held peculiarly sacred are inclosed within iron gratings or railings, and are only accessible to the visitor through the services of a priestly guide. Every visitor must, of course, pay for the gratification of his curiosity; so that the bones of the most venerated characters in the history of the Russian Church are turned into a considerable source of profit. It may well be said that every saint pays his own way, so long as there is a fragment of him left in this world. If one could be assured of the truth of all he learns during a tour of inspection through these receptacles of sacred relics, it would indeed confound all his previous impressions that the days of miracles had passed. There is a picture in the Uspenski Saber, the bare contemplation of which, combined with a fervent appeal, it is confidently asserted, recently effected a sudden and wonderful cure in the case of a crippled man, who was carried there from his bed, but after his devotions before this picture walked out of the door as well as ever; and every where about these sacred precincts pictures and carved images are abundant which at stated intervals shed tears and manifest other tokens of vitality.

Outside, on the steps of those churches, the stranger encounters innumerable gangs of beggars, who watch his incoming and his outgoing with the most intense eagerness – rushing toward him with outstretched hands, calling upon all the saints to bless him and his issue forever and ever, and sometimes bowing down to the earth before him, in their accustomed way, as if he himself partook of some sacred attributes. Apart from the wretched aspect of these poor creatures, among which were the lame, the halt, and the blind from all the purlieus of Moscow, there was something very revolting in the debasement of their attitudes. To assist them all was impossible; and I often had to struggle through the crowds with feelings akin to remorse in being compelled to leave them thus vainly appealing to my charity. When alone, hours after, the weary and pathetic strain of their supplications would haunt me, bearing in its sorrowful intonations a weird warning that we are all bound together in the great fellowship of sin.

And now, while we are taking our last lingering look at the Kremlin, the mighty bells of the tower toll forth a funeral knell. A priest lies dead in one of the churches, his coffin draped in the habiliments of woe. The chanting rises ever and anon above the death-knell that sweeps through the air. Standing aloof, we listen to the solemn sounds of mourning. The funeral cortége comes forth from the church. The hearse, with its plumed horses all draped in black, receives the coffin; priests and mourners, bearing lighted tapers, lead the way, chanting a requiem for the departed; and thus they pass before us – the living and the dead – till they reach the Holy Gate. Then the priests and the crowd bow down and pray; and when they have passed out from under the sacred arch, they turn before the image of the Savior and pray again; then rising, they cross themselves devoutly and pass on to the last earthly resting-place of their friend and brother.

Surely death draws us nearer together in life. I thought no more of forms. What matters it if we are all true to our Creator and to our convictions of duty! Life is too short to spend in earthly contentions.

“In the morning it flourisheth and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down and withereth.”