The Land Of Thor Part 6

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 circ.u.mstances. 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 qua.s.s 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 bra.s.s 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, debas.e.m.e.nt, 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 n.o.bles, 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, pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ce 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 a.s.sumption 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 a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sed.

There is a picture in the Uspenski Saber, the bare contemplation of which, combined with a fervent appeal, it is confidently a.s.serted, 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 debas.e.m.e.nt of their att.i.tudes. To a.s.sist 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 cortege comes forth from the church. The hea.r.s.e, 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed out from under the sacred arch, they turn before the image of the Savior and pray again; then rising, they cross themselves devoutly and pa.s.s 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."

CHAPTER XV.

RUSSIAN MANNERS AND CUSTOMS.

Rude and savage as the lower orders are in their external appearance, they certainly can not be considered deficient in politeness, if the habit of bowing be taken as an indication. In that branch of civilization they are well ent.i.tled to take rank with the Germans and French, from whom, doubtless, they have acquired many of their forms of etiquette. Something, however, of Asiatic gravity and courtliness mingles with whatever they may have adopted from the more sprightly and demonstrative races of the South; and a certain degree of dignity, accompanied though it may be with rags and filth, is always observable in their manners. The alacrity, good nature, and enthusiasm so characteristic of the Germans, and the dexterous play of muscles and vivacious suavity of the French, are wholly deficient in the Russians--such of them, at least, as have retained their nationality.

The higher cla.s.ses, of course, who frequently spend their summers at the watering-places of Germany and their winters in Paris, come home, like all traveled gentlemen, with a variety of elegant accomplishments, the chief of which is a disgust for their own language and customs.

This, indeed, seems to be a characteristic of several other nations--an inordinate desire to become denationalized by imitating whatever is meretricious and absurd in other people; and you need not be surprised should you fail to recognize even your unpretending friend and correspondent on his return to California; for although I still pretend to write a little English, I no longer speak it except in broken accents. Having also worn out three good hats practicing the art of bowing on the boulevards of Paris and the glacis of Frankfort, I never pretend now to recognize any body without striking the top of my tile against the cap of my knee.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A Pa.s.sAGE OF POLITENESS.]

This, you see, is all in the way of excuse for the Russians, and arises rather from an excess of good nature than an excess of egotism.

Constant practice in the solemnities of street-worship--uncovering their heads and bowing low before their numerous saints and shrines--may have some influence upon the stateliness of Russian politeness. It is, however, a very prominent and characteristic trait, and in some of its phases rather astounding to a stranger. A common thing in the streets of Moscow is to see a couple of st.u.r.dy beggars, uncouth as grizzly bears, meet and stop before each other with the utmost and most punctilious gravity. Beggar number one takes his greasy cap from his head slowly and deliberately, gives it a graceful sweep through the air, and, with a most courtly obeisance, exhibits the matted tuft, or the bald spot on the top of his head, to his ragged friend. Beggar number two responds in a similar courteous style, neither uttering a word. Each then gravely replaces his cap, touches the brim of it once or twice by way of representing a few extra bows, and pa.s.ses on his way with an expression of profound dignity, utterly unconscious of the grotesque effect of all this ceremony to a stranger. I have seen the most vagabond-looking istrovoschik, or drosky-drivers, jump out of their drosky and perform similar courtesies toward each other; and where men of this craft are given to politeness, one may rest a.s.sured that it must be a national characteristic. All seem to be the slaves of ceremony, from the Czar down to the Mujik. Porters, wagoners, water-carriers, butchers, bakers, and chimney-sweeps are equally skilled in the n.o.ble art of bowing. At first, judging by the uncouth faces and the grimy costumes of these interesting people, such pa.s.sages of politeness have very much the effect of burlesque. It seems impossible that men of such rude aspect can be in earnest. One soon gets used to it, however, and regards it as a matter of course. I could not but think how strange it would look to see a couple of Sacramento or San Francisco hack-drivers meet in some populous part of the town, and each one take off his hat to the other, and, with a graceful flourish, make a courtly salaam; or a pair of draymen stop their drays, get down leisurely, approach each other in an att.i.tude of impressive dignity, take off their hats, and double themselves up before an admiring audience. They would certainly be suspected in our rude country of poking fun at each other. I can very well understand why butchers and chimney-sweeps should be polite, since they are accustomed to sc.r.a.ping; and the custom looks appropriate enough with many other cla.s.ses, including barbers, who are generally men of oily manners, and tailors and printers, who are naturally given to forms; but with men whose business is intimately a.s.sociated with horse-flesh, I must say it has something of a satirical aspect. Never in this world can I force myself to believe that a hack-driver is in earnest in any thing short of his fare. Do not understand me as casting any injurious reflection upon this valuable cla.s.s of men; but it is a melancholy feature in humanity--of which sad experience enables me to speak feelingly--that integrity and horse-flesh are antagonistical, and can never go together. For the hack-driver personally I have great respect. He is a man of the world--knows a thing or two about every body and every thing; is const.i.tutionally addicted to cheating, and elevates that n.o.ble propensity into one of the fine arts; maintains his independent character, and pockets his extraordinary profits in the face of all munic.i.p.al restrictions; scoffs at the reign of the law, and drinks his regular bitters. I consider him a persecuted and an injured man; but of such elastic stuff is he made that he rises above all persecutions and all injuries, and still is, and ever will be, master of that portion of the human race which travels and abounds in cities. He is given to humor, too, is the hackman. n.o.body better understands how to give a joke, or to resent one. An adept in ridicule, he always enjoys it when not applied to himself. If he is deficient in any one quality, perhaps it is piety. Hack-drivers, as a cla.s.s, are not pious men; they may be very good men in their way, but, strictly speaking, they are not pious. Neither are they much given to mutual courtesies, especially at steam-boat landings. Therefore I say that to see hack-drivers bow down before shrines and stop on public thoroughfares, and with the utmost gravity uncover their heads and interchange courtly salaams--nay, even kiss hands in certain cases--is a novel and peculiar spectacle, suggestive of improvements which might be beneficially imported into our country.

There was an impa.s.sive, abstracted air about Dominico very difficult to describe, but very impressive to a stranger. All these peculiarities were developed the first or second day of our acquaintance. About the third he seemed to grow impatient, hummed over a few gems from unknown operas, and was less disposed than usual to unbend himself. There was evidently a coolness growing up between us.

I suspected it originated in my hat, which was really very shabby; and fancied I detected a supercilious expression in his eye as it ranged over my coat and down to my boots. At length he said, "Monsieur, you appear to travel with very little baggage!"

_Myself._ Yes, only a knapsack.

_Dominico_ (after a pause). Pray what business may Monsieur be engaged in?

_M._ None at all--just ranging about miscellaneously.

_Dom._ May I be so bold as to ask what part of England does Monsieur come from?

_M._ Oh, I didn't come from England at all!

_Dom._ (puzzled). Pray where does Monsieur come from?

_M._ Oh, just come from over the way there--California!

_Dom._ (elevating his eyebrows and stopping suddenly). California? The great gold country? Where they dig gold out of the ground?

_M._ Yes--that's my country.

_Dom._ (admiringly). Oh, then, Monsieur is a gentleman of fortune, just traveling for pleasure?

_M._ Precisely; for pleasure and information combined. My estates are situated in the city of Oakland.

_Dom._ Is that a large city?

_M._ Well, it covers a good deal of ground--as much, I think, as Moscow.

_Dom._ If Monsieur pleases, we will take a drosky and visit some of the gardens?

_M._ Agreed.

And so ended the conversation. It was marvelous, the change it produced in Dominico; how his dignity evaporated; how vivacious he became; how frank and unreserved he was in his descriptions of the wonders of Moscow; how he scorned to take trifles of change, and how magnificently he disregarded expenses. Wherever we went, however grand the domestics, soldiers, or police, Dominico was always high above them, and I could hear him descanting constantly on the wonderful richness of California. Doubtless the strain of his conversation ran about thus: "Behold, gentlemen, I have brought before you a living Californian! Notwithstanding the shabbiness of his hat, and the strange and uncivilized aspect of his clothes, he is the richest man in that land of gold! Yes, gentlemen, his income can scarcely fall short of ten millions of rubles per annum. Make way, if you please!"

All things considered, Dominico let me off pretty well at the close of our acquaintance, upon my explaining to him that a draft for five hundred thousand rubles which ought to be on the way had failed to reach me, owing doubtless to some irregularity in the mail service, or some sudden depression in my Washoe stocks.

In the way of food the hotels are well supplied, and the fare is not bad in the princ.i.p.al cities. Fish and game are abundant, but veal is the standard dish. I called for a beefsteak at the hotel in St.

Petersburg, and was furnished with veal. The soup was made of veal.

After salad we had veal cutlets. Then came a veal stew; next in order was a veal pie; and before the courses were finished I think we had calf's head baked and stuffed. At a station-house on the way to Moscow I hurriedly purchased a sandwich. It was made of veal. I asked for mutton-chops at the hotel in Moscow, and got veal. In fact, I was surfeited with veal in every possible shape wherever I went.

Now I am not particular in matters of diet. In a case of emergency I can relish buzzard, but if there is any one kind of food upon earth that I think never was designed to be eaten, it is veal. No very young meat is good, to my notion--not even young pig, so temptingly described by the gentle Elia; nor young dog, so much esteemed by Chinese and Russian epicures. It has neither the consistency nor the flavor of the mature animal, and somehow suggests unpleasant images of flabby innocence. There is something horribly repugnant to one's sense of humanity in killing and devouring a helpless little calf. Who but a cannibal can look the innocent creature in the face, with its soft confiding eyes, its gentle and baby-like manners, and calculate upon devouring its brains, or satisfying the cravings of hunger upon its tender ribs? Who can see the butcher, with his murderous knife in such a connection, without a sting of remorse at the idea of the mother's grief--her great eyes swimming in tears, her lowing cries haunting him for days? I never see a gang of these helpless little creatures driven to the shambles without thinking of that touching picture, the Murder of the Innocents.

In vain I tried to escape this veal pa.s.sion in Russia. Nay, even in Finland and Sweden it pursued me. I actually began to feel flabby, and felt ashamed to look the poor cows in the face. It was a marvel how the cattle, of which there seemed to be no lack, ever arrived at maturity. If the people kill all the calves, as appeared to be the case, in the name of wonder, where do the cows come from? This question puzzled me exceedingly for some time, and was only solved when I asked a Russian to explain it. "Oh," said he, smiling at my simplicity, "they only kill the male calves. They allow the cow calves to grow up!"

Still, when I came to reflect upon the reason given, it occurred to me that they must be a very singular race of cows. Perhaps they were Amazonian cows.

This leads me by an easy and not ungraceful transition to the Foundling Asylum of Moscow, one of the largest and most remarkable inst.i.tutions of the kind in the world. In other public places throughout Europe, especially in picture-galleries and museums, the visitor is required to deliver up his walking-stick at the door, in return for which he receives a ticket corresponding with one fastened upon the article itself--as in baggage-cars upon the railway, so that he may redeem it when he thinks proper. But I had little thought, in my experience of foreign travel, that a similar system should prevail in regard to the deposit of living beings, as in the foundling establishment of Moscow. Here, any body with a surplus baby can carry it and have it labeled around the neck, receive a ticket in return corresponding in number with the deposit, and call for it at any future time, certain that it will be delivered up--if alive. The building is of immense extent, and is situated on the banks of the Moskwa River, near the lower part of the town. The grounds around it are tastefully laid out, and must occupy twenty or thirty acres, the whole being surrounded by a high wall, and comprising numerous and substantial outhouses, workshops, etc., for the use of the establishment. Many thousand children are annually taken in and nursed at this inst.i.tution, no restriction being imposed upon the parents, who may be either married or single, to suit their own taste or condition. The regular force of wet-nurses employed is about six hundred, besides which there are numerous dry-nurses and teachers for the older children. It is estimated that the entire expense of conducting the establishment is not less than five or six hundred thousand rubles per annum, most of which is defrayed by voluntary contributions and interest received on loans.

I spent a forenoon rambling through the various wards, and can safely say I never before saw such an extraordinary collection of human squabs within one inclosure. It was certainly one of the strangest and saddest spectacles I had ever witnessed--so many infant specimens of humanity, bundled up like little packages of merchandise, labeled, numbered, and nursed with a mathematical regularity fearfully inconsistent with one's notions of the softness and tenderness of babyhood. To be sure, they are well treated--kindly and gently treated, perhaps; but it is pitiful to see these helpless little creatures bereft of the gentle motherly touch; washed, physicked, nursed, and too often buried by hired and unsympathizing hands; and no more thought of them, save in the way of duty, than so many little animals dest.i.tute of souls. The very idea of attachments formed by nurses is of itself a painful subject of contemplation; for of what avail is it that a child should be loved by its nurse, or find in her a new mother, when by the rules of the establishment there must be constant separations. It is said that over twenty-five thousand children derive, either directly or indirectly, support from this establishment. About six thousand are taken in annually, of which perhaps one fourth die. Many of them are not far from dead when admitted; and it is only surprising, considering the deprivations they must endure in being so suddenly withdrawn from the mother's care, that so large a proportion should survive.

If it be a wise child that knows its own father, it would be a very remarkable father who could recognize his own child among such a variegated collection as I saw here. Never upon earth was there a more astonishing mixture of baby flesh--big babies and little babies, pug-nosed, black-eyed, blue-eyed, fat and lean, red, yellow, and white babies--all sorts ever invented or brought to light in this curious world of ours. Yet the utmost order was observed, and the beds, nurses, cribs, and feeding apparatus looked wonderfully clean for a Russian inst.i.tution, where cleanliness is not generally the prevailing characteristic. But, great guns! what music they must make when they all get started in one grand simultaneous chorus! five or six hundred babies, of both s.e.xes, from one to two or three years old, in one department; as many girls from three to five in another; boys of the same age in another; older boys and older girls innumerable in another! What a luxury it must be to hear them all together! In general, however, they do not make as much noise as might be supposed.

I only heard about forty or fifty small choruses while there; but, trifling as that was, it enabled me to form an idea of the style of music that might be made when five or six thousand gave their whole mind to it. I am personally acquainted with one small baby not over a couple of years old, who, when excited of nights, can very nearly raise the roof off the house, and am certain that five hundred of the same kind would burst the whole city of Moscow sky-high if ever they got at it together. These Russian foundlings, however, are generally heavy-faced, lymphatic babies, and fall naturally into the machine existence which becomes their fate; otherwise it would seem a hard life for the poor nurses, who are not always gifted with the patient endurance of mothers. I was told that the children only cried periodically, say at intervals of every four hours, but hardly credit that statement. Being for the most part soggy little animals, they spend a goodly portion of their time in sleep, and doubtless, when not sleeping, are much given to eating and drinking.

During the summer months several thousand of these children are sent out in the country to nurse, after which they are returned in due order. As soon as they become old enough, they are taught reading and writing, and the most intelligent are selected to become teachers. The boys usually receive a military education, and a certain proportion of them furnish recruits for the imperial army.

CHAPTER XVI.