is habitually spoken, and read in newspapers and books; the cuisine is French as well as the costumes, and so are many of the plays at the theatres. It is quite the ton to have arrived from Paris, Luchon, or Trouville, and to have brought the latest cancans from the boudoirs à la mode.
As soon as the frost appeared, I began busying myself with the arrangements for my journey. I was aided in this difficult task by M. Bartholdy, then chargé d’affaires at the French Embassy. This obliging Frenchman succeeded with the Imperial Government in enabling me to traverse Siberia in a manner somewhat official, and the ministers accordingly gave me letters of recommendation to the governors of the various provinces I was about to visit.
I obtained also from M. Michaelof, the contractor for the posting between Nijni-Novgorod and Tumen, a circular order requiring each postmaster on the route to give me the best horses at the shortest notice.
Many persons recommended me to their friends in Siberia. In less than a fortnight I was provided with thirty-two of these recommendations, but I had not yet found either a companion or a servant.
The frost, however, was becoming every day more severe. The thermometer varied between 10° and 12° Centigrade below zero (14° to 10° Fahr.).1
The canal of the Moïka, which my windows overlooked, was already half frozen; enormous blocks of ice were drifting on the Neva; the snow, though not yet very deep, fell often enough to lead me to hope for sledging very shortly. I was about to decide to start alone for Moscow, when I received a letter from the head of the Asiatic Government.
This letter informed me that the Russian frontier commissary at Kiachta, M. Pfaffius, was at St. Petersburg at the Hotel Démouth, and was about to join his post.
Without losing a moment, I gathered up all the letters, those even the addresses of which I could not read, and hastened to the Hotel Démouth.
I did not yet know what it was to travel through Siberia; I had not the least idea of many things that were required, nor that so many things even were necessary, and was therefore not a little surprised, on my entry into M. Pfaffius’s apartment, at the sight that there awaited me.
In the middle of the room lay on the floor a heap of pillows, furs, mattresses, blankets, and ropes. This was not all, for I soon perceived also a loaf of sugar, felt boots, a bottle of brandy, and bags and sacks of every shape and size.
The functionary, wearing a ring on the second finger of his right hand, a sign of his office, was seated at table breakfasting. At his side stood a Buriat servant, with half-Mongol, half-Tartar features, clad in a touloupe of offensive odour, watching his master’s slightest gesture to satisfy the most trifling desire. As soon as I appeared, the commissary ordered a chair for me, but since unluckily, perhaps through accident, no chair could be found in the room, it was necessary to search for one elsewhere. I was obliged to remain standing some moments while rage became apparent on the countenance of my host, who, however, as I afterwards found, was gentle enough. He became red and pale alternately. When the Buriat returned he rated him pretty smartly in words almost inarticulate, though of perfectly intelligible significance, and finished by raising his hand to strike him.
Accustomed as I was to Oriental manners, I anticipated the scene that was about to take place, and took little notice of it, when, to my great astonishment, the servant raised his head, and looking sternly at the commissary, addressed him in these simple words: “You forget then, sir, that I am a subject of the Emperor!”
This man well knew that an article of the decree enfranchising the serfs interdicted landowners and functionaries, under penalty of disgrace and even imprisonment, from having recourse to blows against any subject whomsoever of the Emperor, whether naturalized Russian or native of a conquered country, like the Kirghiz, the Buriats, or the Samoyeds.
These words were sufficient, in fact, to cause the lifted fist of the official to drop harmlessly by his side. What passion, indeed, is there in a Russian, when roused even to exasperation, that would venture to offend against the will of the Czar?
When this little scene had ended, M. Pfaffius became again perfectly calm and self-possessed,—quite a man of the world. I showed him my letters of recommendation. As soon as his eye caught the seal of the Imperial Ministry—and this for a Russian official was much more than was required—he showed me the highest consideration. One of these letters was personally addressed to him. I was accordingly from that moment his friend, and we resolved to travel together.
The reader will learn, from what took place later, that this plan was only partially carried out, in consequence of my having made at last an acquaintance at Moscow. Being unable at this moment to anticipate the number of travelling companions that subsequently presented themselves, I regarded my commissary as a great acquisition. He had to go to Kiew before the organization of the sledging took place. I allowed him to depart only after every precaution taken to ensure our rendezvous, and, filled with enthusiasm, I set out on my visites d’adieux.
I will speak of one of them only, which took place in a box of the Russian Opera, not so much on account of the very agreeable people who had invited me there to see the Opera, as on account of the character of the music and the manner of the representation of which I was a witness. It was the chef-d’œuvre of Glinka—Life for the Czar.
Without, however, detaining the reader with the details of the manner of the representation, which probably would interest him but slightly, I will give my impression of the character of the music.
The Russians, who are not an inventive people, have, however, a national music of a kind special and original.
Those who appreciate French operas, even plaintive, would feel little interest in listening to long lamentations and mournful melodies, so characteristic of this music. It may, however, move very much amateurs of grave music, especially in the country where it originates.
The phrases of Glinka’s opera, gloomy and lugubrious, as uniform as nature in Russia, as profound as its horizons, succeed one another monotonously without ever seeming to reach a distinct solution. At the moment when the impatient ear at last waits to dwell on the fundamental note, a renewed expression of grief comes forth unexpectedly, and the phrase is prolonged without changing its character. I cannot better compare Glinka’s inspirations than with the permanent efforts of the sea to assume its desired repose in struggling against the incessant succession of waves. This music therefore is void of the attraction of gaiety, and, on account of its uniformity, does not give rise to lively emotions, but it has all the charm of melancholy and vague reverie.
The flow of soul seems to wander and become bewildered and enervated in the prolonged thrilling notes of this endless melody; all the past comes back to the memory, and when the last note dies away, one wakes up, as if from a touching dream, with a tear starting in the eye.
I had postponed my departure from day to day, notwithstanding the snow that was falling and the hard frost so favourable to my journey, but having at last quitted the Russian capital, my thoughts returned to it in this way. One prefers, no doubt, the first enjoyment of a pleasure to the mere remembrance of it, and yet, perhaps, one separates himself less willingly from the souvenir than from the reality, because he feels that when this prolonged pleasure ends, it has vanished both from the senses and the memory.
When I left St. Petersburg, it was the 20th of November, and on the 21st, at ten o’clock in the morning, in a frost of 24° Centigrade
