If it is one of the first duties of every government to create confidence, the Turkish administration leaves this task entirely unperformed. Its treatment of the Greeks, its unjust and cruel persecution of the Armenians, those faithful and rich subjects of the Porte, and other violent measures, are so fresh in everyone's memory that no one is willing to invest his money where it will pay interest only after many years. In a country where industry is without the element on which it thrives, commerce also must largely consist of the exchange of foreign merchandise for raw home products. The Turk actually gives ten occas of his raw silk for one occa of fabricated silk, the material for which is produced on his own soil.
Agriculture is even in a worse state. One often hears the complaint that the cost of all the necessities of life has increased in Constantinople fourfold since the annihilation of the Janizaries, as if heaven had decreed this punishment on those who exterminated the "soldiers of Islam." The fact, while true, should probably be explained differently, for, since the events referred to, the great granaries of the capital, Moldavia, Wallachia, and Egypt, which formerly had to send half of their harvests to the Bosphorus, have been closed. In the interior nobody will undertake the growing of grain on a large scale, because the government makes its purchases according to prices of its own choosing. The forced purchases by the government are a greater evil for Turkey than her losses by fire and the plague combined. They not only undermine prosperity, but they also cause its springs to dry up. As a result the government must buy its grain in Odessa, while endless stretches of fertile land, under a most benignant sky and at only an hour's distance from a city of eight hundred thousand people, lie untilled.
The outer members of this once powerful political body have died, and the heart alone has life. A riot in the streets of the capital may be the funeral procession of the Ottoman Empire. The future will show whether it is possible for a State to pause in the middle of its fall and to reorganize itself, or whether fate has decreed that the Mohammedan-Byzantine Empire shall die, like the Christian-Byzantine Empire, of its fiscal administration. The peace of Europe, however, is apparently less menaced by the danger of a foreign conquest of Turkey than by the extreme weakness of this empire, and its threatened collapse within itself.
[This is the fourteenth of the Letters Concerning Conditions and
Events in Turkey. It is dated from Pera, June 16, 1836.]
Yesterday I returned from a short excursion to Asia, which I really should describe for you in poetry, because I ascended Mount Olympus. But since I did not reach the summit, and did not climb farther than the foot, or more properly speaking the toe, of the giant you will get off with prose.
I embarked on the eleventh, in the afternoon, in a small Turkish vessel, and a fresh north wind carried us in four hours to the rocky promontory of Posidonium (today Bosburun, the point of ice), a distance of eight miles. Here the sea was running very high, and our reis, or helmsman, who was squatting on the high and delicately carved stern of the ship, was beginning to chant his Allah ekber—God is merciful—when the wind died down so completely toward dusk that we did not reach Mudania before eight o'clock next morning.
The horses were soon ready, and up to Brussa I passed through a country that was doubly charming after the lonesomeness of Roumelia, which had been all I had seen for six months. Everything is under cultivation, planted less with corn than with vines and mulberry trees. The latter, which serve as food for the silkworms, are trimmed low like bushes, with the crowns cut off, as we do with willows. Their large bright green leaves cover the fields far and wide. The olive trees grow here in groves of no mean size, but they have to be planted. The whole richly cultivated country reminds one of Lombardy, especially of the hilly landscape near Verona The distant view is as magnificent as the foreground is lovely. On one side you see the Sea of Marmora and the Princess Islands, and on the other the glorious Mount Olympus, whose snow-clad peak rises above a broad girdle of clouds. The flowering vineyards filled the air with rich scent, assisted by caprifolium blossoms in luxuriant growth, and a yellow flower the name of which I do not know.
When we had crossed a ridge of low hills, we saw Brussa stretched out before us in a green plain at the foot of Mt. Olympus. It is indeed difficult to decide which one of the two capitals of the Ottoman rulers is more beautifully situated, the oldest or the newest, Brussa or Constantinople. Here the sea and there the land bewitches you. One landscape is executed in blue, the other in green. Relieved against the steep and wooded slopes of Mt. Olympus, you see more than one hundred white minarets and vaulted domes.
The mountain rises to the regions of almost perpetual snow, and supplies the inhabitants of Brussa with wood to warm themselves in winter and with ice for their sherbet in summer. A river, called Lotos, winds its course through rich meadows and fields of mulberry trees, where giant nut trees with dark foliage and light green planes, white minarets and dark cypress trees rise to the sky. Vines climb up the mighty trunks and attach themselves to the branches, whence they droop again to earth, while Caprifolium plants and thriving creepers superimpose themselves on the vines. Nowhere have I seen such a wide and thoroughly green landscape, except from the tower of Lübbenau, overlooking the woods along the Spree. But here you have in addition the richer vegetation and the glorious mountains which surround the plain. The abundance of water is surprising; everywhere brooks are rushing along and springs are gushing from the rocks, ice cold and boiling hot, side by side. In every part of the city, even in the mosques, water is bubbling from countless fountains.
As is the case with all Turkish cities, the beautiful picture vanishes the moment you enter Brussa. The smallest German town surpasses Constantinople, Adrianople, or Brussa in the charm of its buildings and still more in comfort. Only the mosques and the Hanns, or caravansaries, the fountains and public baths are magnificent. In the earlier times of the Ottoman monarchy no ruler was permitted to build a mosque before he had won a battle against the infidels. The mosques in Brussa are smaller and less beautiful than those which were built later, but they possess the added interest of historical memories. There you find such names as Orchan, Suliman, Murad, in short, all the heroes of the victorious period of Islam.
The mosque of Bajasid attracted me most because of its excellent architecture. Bajasid is the man whom the Turks call Ilderim, or the Lightning. The monument of the mighty conqueror, who himself was conquered and died in a cage according to the legend, stands alone in the shadow of mighty cypress trees. The largest of the mosques used to be a Christian cathedral. It is lighted from above, the middle vault having been left open. The beautiful Asiatic starry sky itself has become its vault. The opening is covered with a wire screen, and below it in a wide basin a fountain is playing.
I will not say that even the largest mosques, the Sultan Selim, for instance, in Adrianople, or Sulamanich in Constantinople, make the same impression or inspire the same reverence as St. Stephan's in Vienna, or the cathedrals of Freiburg and Strassburg. But every mosque, even the smallest, is beautiful. There is nothing more picturesque than the semi-circular, lead-covered domes and the slender, white minarets rising above the mighty planes and cypresses. When the Ottomans conquered the provinces of the Eastern Roman Empire they preserved the Greek Church architecture, but they added the minarets, which are of Arabian origin.
[Illustration: COUNT MOLTKE]
The Hanns are the only stone dwelling-houses to be found. They are built in the shape of rectangles with an open court. Here, at least in the larger ones, you will find a mosque, a fountain, a small kiosk for noble travelers, and a few mulberry trees or plane trees. All about the court there is a colonnade with pointed arches; and, beyond that, rows of cells, each one with its individual vault. A mattress of straw is the only furniture for the traveler, who finds neither service nor food in these Hanns.
We dined in thoroughly Turkish fashion at the Kiebabtshi. After our hands had been washed we sat down, not at but on the table, where my legs were terribly in the way. Then the Kiebab, or small piece of mutton, broiled on the spit and rolled in dough, was served on a wooden platter. It is very good and tasty. It was followed by salted olives, which are wonderful, by the helva, i. e., the favorite sweet dish, and by a bowl of sherbet. This consists of water poured over grapes and thoroughly iced. The whole dinner for two hearty eaters cost one hundred and twenty paras, or five shillings.
The comforts of the Turkish baths I have described to you in an earlier letter. The baths of Brussa are distinguished, because they are not artificially but naturally heated, and so much so that you would not think it possible, at first, to enter the great basin of clear water without being parboiled before you could leave it again. From the terrace of our bath we had a beautiful view, and it was so comfortable there that we hated to leave.
On the thirteenth we rode to Kemlik, at the end of the Bay of Mudania, where there is a dockyard. This is the most beautiful spot I have seen. The clear surface of the sea is lost here between the high and steep mountains, which leave just enough space for the little town and the olive woods. Twilight is very brief in this country, and night had come when we reached the town gate, but what a night! Although the moon happened to be new, objects were distinguishable at a considerable distance, while the evening star shines here so brightly that shadows are cast by its light.
At three o'clock in the morning we were again in the saddle, riding toward the East through a valley and between high mountains, along the same road which Walther von Habenichts once followed with his twelve thousand crusaders. The hills were covered with olive trees and flowering bushes filled with nightingales. At sunset we reached the extensive lake of Isnik. The gigantic walls and towers on the opposite shore used to protect a powerful city, for which the crusaders often fought. Today they surround the few miserable huts and rubbish heaps which centuries ago were Nicea. It was here that an assembly of one hundred learned bishops expounded the mystery of the Trinity, and decided to burn all who held a different view. What would these proud prelates have said if a man had prophesied to them that the time would come when their rich and mighty city would be a rubbish heap, and their cathedral the ruins of a Turkish mosque; when the empire of the Greek emperors would be destroyed, and their own exegesis, yes, even their entire religion, would have disappeared from these parts, and when for hundreds of miles and through hundreds of years the name of the camel-driver of Medina would be the only one in the mouths of the people.
The Moslems, who abhor all pictures, have covered with whitewash the paintings in the Greek churches. In the Cathedral of Nicea, where the famous council was held, there glistens even today through the white coating of the wall, where the high altar used to be, the proud promise, I.H.S. (in hoc signo, i. e., under this sign, the cross, you will win). But directly over it is written the first dogma of Islam, "There is no God but God." There is a lesson of tolerance in these faded inscriptions, and it seems as if Heaven itself wished to listen as well to the Credo as to the Allah il allah. One of the chief pursuits of the honest Turks is what they call Kief etmek, literally "creating a mood." It consists of drinking coffee in a comfortable place and smoking. Such a place par excellence I found in the village where we made a stop. Imagine a plane which extends its colossal branches horizontally for almost one hundred feet, burying in its deep shadow the nearest houses. The trunk of the tree is surrounded by a small terrace of stone, below which water is gushing from twenty-seven pipes in streams as thick as your arm, and rushing off as a lively brook. Here, with their legs crossed, the Turks sit, practising—silence.
[This is the forty-third letter of Moltke's Letters from Turkey, and is dated from Dshesireh on the Tigris, May 1, 1838.]
I told you in my last letter that we should be going on an expedition against the Arabs. This did not materialize. Nevertheless, I had the opportunity of making the acquaintance of a very interesting part of the country. On April 15, von Mühlbach, I, and two fully armed agas of the pasha, together with our servants and dragomans, embarked on a vessel built in a style well known even in the times of Cyrus, a raft supported by inflated sheep-skins. The Turks look upon hunting as a sin, they despise venison and beef, but eat an enormous quantity of sheep and goats. The skins of these animals are cut in front as little as possible and removed from the carcass with great care. Then they are sewed up and the extremities tied up. When the skin is inflated (which is done quickly and without touching the skin to the mouth) it is exceedingly buoyant and can hardly be made to sink. From forty to sixty such bags are tied together in four or five rows under a light framework of branches. There generally are eight skins in front and eighteen in the back. The whole is covered with a litter of leaves over which rugs and carpets are spread. Taking your seat on these you glide downstream with utmost comfort. Because the current is swift, oars are not needed for progress, but only for steering the raft, keeping it in the middle of the course, and avoiding the dangerous rapids. On account of these rapids we had to tie up every night until the moon was up, but in spite of this we covered the distance, which by land would have taken us eighty-eight hours, in three and one-half days. The river, therefore, must flow with an average velocity of almost four miles per hour. In places it is much swifter, and in others decidedly slower.
The Tigris leaves the mountains near Argana-Maaden, and flows past the walls of Diarbekir, where it is apt to cause slight inundations in summer time. It then receives the Battman river flowing in a southerly direction from the high Karsann-Mountains and carrying more water into the Tigris than this river contained before. Immediately after the union of these two rivers the Tigris enters another mountainous territory formed of sandstone. The gentle curves of the broad and shallow river are transformed into the sharp criss-cross angles of a ravine. The banks are abrupt, often vertical on both sides; and on top of some steep, rocky slopes your eye may discover groves of dark-green palms, and in their shadows the settlements of tribes of Kurds, who in this region are mostly cave-dwellers.
The town of Hassn-Kejfa (Hossu-Keifa), situated on a high rock whence a narrow staircase descends to the river, offers a most unusual aspect. The old city below has been destroyed, and only a few minarets still pointing to the sky indicate that mosques and houses once stood here. The inhabitants were obliged to retreat to the top of the cliff, where they built a wall of defence on the only accessible side. In the narrow ravine I discovered huge blocks which had rolled down from above. People have hollowed them and are using them as dwelling places. These "huts" today make up a small, very irregular town, which, however, possesses even a bazaar. By far the most noteworthy remains are the ruins of a bridge which used to cross the Tigris. There was one gigantic arch with a span of between eighty and one hundred feet. I do not know whether the credit for such a daring structure should be given to the Armenian kings or the Greek emperors, or perhaps even to the califs.
It is impossible to travel more comfortably than we did. Stretched out on downy pillows, and provided with victuals wine, tea, and a charcoal basin, we moved down the stream with the rapidity of an express coach and without the least exertion. But the element which propelled us persecuted us in another form. Rain poured from the sky incessantly after our departure from Diarbekir. Our umbrellas no longer protected us, and our cloaks, garments and carpets were soaked. On Easter day, just as we were leaving Dshesireh, the sun broke through the clouds, warming our stiffened limbs. About two miles below the city the ruins of another bridge across the Tigris are still in existence, and one of its piers creates a fierce whirlpool whenever the water is high. The exertions of the men at the oars were of no avail, and irresistibly our small ark was attracted by this charybdis. With the speed of an arrow we were sucked down below the surface, and a big comber broke over our heads. The water was icy cold, and when in the next moment our raft, which had not capsized, continued its way downstream as innocently as if nothing had happened we could not help laughing at one another, for we were a sad looking sight, everyone of us. The charcoal basins had gone overboard, a boot swam alongside, while each one of us hastened to fish out some little object. We made a landing on a small island, and since our bags were as thoroughly soaked as we were ourselves, we had to disrobe and spread our entire toilet in the sun to dry as well as possible. At some distance a flock of pelicans were taking their rest on a sandbank and sunning their white plumage as if in derision of our plight. Suddenly we saw that our raft had got loose and was floating off. One of the agas immediately jumped after it and fortunately reached it. If he had failed we should have been left on a desert island in nothing but nature's own garb.
When we were tolerably dry we continued our journey, but renewed downpours spoiled the moderate results of our previous efforts. The night was so dark that we had to tie up, for fear of being drawn into other whirlpools. In spite of the biting cold, and although we were wet to the skin, we did not dare to light a fire which might have attracted the Arabs. We silently pulled our raft into the shelter of a willow tree and waited longingly for the sun to appear from behind the Persian frontier mountains and to give us warmth.
Not far from Dshesireh the Tigris enters another plain and leaves behind the high and magnificent Dshudid mountains on whose bright and snow-clad peaks Noah and his mixed company are said to have disembarked. From here on the scenery is very monotonous; you rarely see a village, and most of those you see are uninhabited and in ruins. It is apparent that you have entered the country of the Arabs. There are no trees, and where a small bush has survived it is a siareth or sanctuary, and is covered with countless small rags. The sick people here, you must know, believe they will recover when they sacrifice to the saint a small part of their garments.
On the top of an isolated mountain of considerable height we could see at a great distance the ruins of an old city. When we approached it we actually passed along three sides of this mountain, on the north, east and south. The city was, I suppose, the ancient Bezabde of which the records say that it was situated in the desert and surrounded on three sides by the Tigris. Sapor laid siege to it after he had taken Amida and, when he had captured its three legions, gave it a Persian garrison.
Gliding past the ruins of the so-called old Mossul we discovered toward evening the minarets of Mossul. This is the most easterly point which I have visited, and my Turkish companions had to face west when they offered their evening prayer, while in Constantinople the moslems are looking for the Kibla in the southeast.
Mossul is the important half-way station for the caravans from Bagdad to Aleppo. Being situated in an oasis of the desert the city must at all times be on the lookout against the Arabs. The walls which completely surround the city are weak but high, and offer sufficient protection against the irregular bands of mounted Bedouins. The Bab-el-amadi gate, mentioned in the time of the crusaders, is still standing, although it has been walled up. Most of the dwellings are built of sun-dried bricks and a kind of mortar which hardens within a few seconds. Following an Oriental custom great weight is attached to beautiful and large entrance doors (Bab). You can see arched portals of marble (which is quarried immediately outside the city gates) in front of houses and mudhuts the roofs of which scarcely reach to the points of the arches. The roofs are flat, made of stamped earth (Dam), and are surrounded by low walls and parapets. In most of the larger houses you can see traces of their having been hit by bullets, and the fortress-like aspect of these dwellings reminds you of the palaces of Florence, except that here everything is smaller, humbler and less perfect.
The inhabitants of Mossul are a remarkable mixture of the original Chaldean populace and the Arabs, Kurds, Persians and Turks who successively have ruled over them. The common speech is Arabic.
Indshe-Bairaktar, the governor, received us with great courtesy and had us quartered with the Armenian Patriarch. The Nestorian and Jacobite Christians of Mossul have the most beautiful churches I have seen in Turkey, but they are living in discord and hatred. One of these churches happened to belong, I do not know why, to two congregations, and since everything which the one did in these sacred halls was an abomination in the eyes of the other, the beautiful vault had been divided by a brick wall directly in the centre.
Our Jacobite Patriarch was greatly troubled about having to house heretics, but he much preferred us to Nestorians or Greeks. Since no Christians, moreover, had ever been received with so much honor by the Pasha, and the most important Mussulmans came to pay us their respects, he treated us well, and even sold me a Bible in Arabic and Syrian (Chaldean).
In the northwesterly corner of the city the plateau falls off abruptly toward the river. Here the water of the Tigris is raised by a contrivance, which makes use of a high kind of derrick, leathern hose, and a rope which is pulled by a horse. The long nozzle of the hose empties into huge brick basins whence the water is distributed over fields and gardens. But only the empty areas within the walls and the fields adjacent to the city are cultivated. If only a fraction of all the water rushing past Mossul could be used for irrigation purposes this whole country would be one of the most fertile of the world. This idea undoubtedly induced the people ages ago to build the powerful stone dikes which hem in the course of the river a few hours above the city. Surely, it would not be difficult to irrigate all the fields from there, but the Arabs hovering about the city make the harvesting of the crops too uncertain.
There is a bazaar especially for the Arabs immediately outside the walls of Mossul, built there for the purpose of keeping these suspicious characters from entering the city proper. Over the confusion of many small mud-huts some slender palm trees rise to majestic heights, the last ones of the desert. These palms are like reeds grown to the proportions of trees. They are typical of the south, and give confidence to the Arabs who seem to feel that they are way up north and yet still in the land of the myrrh and the incense. Here the children of the desert congregate and, pushing their bamboo-spears into the sand—point down, squat on the ground to admire the glory of a city—even though it be a city which affects the European with the very opposite of glory, but which for hundreds of miles has no equal.
Perhaps no people have preserved their character, customs, morals, and speech as unchanged through centuries as the Arabs, and have done so in spite of the most manifold changes in the world at large. They were nomads, shepherds and hunters roving over little-known deserts, while Egypt and Assyria, Greece and Persia, Rome and Byzantium rose and fell. And then, inspired by one idea, these same nomads suddenly rose in their turn and for a long time became the masters of the most beautiful valley of the old world, and were the bearers of the then civilization and science. One hundred years after the death of the Prophet, his first followers, the Sarazenes, ruled from the Himalayas to the Pyrenees, and from the Indies to the Atlantic Ocean. But Christianity and its higher spiritual and material perfection, yes even its intolerance, which its high morality should have made impossible, drove the Arabs back again from Europe. The rude force of the Turks undermined their rule in the Orient, and for the second time the children of Ishmael saw themselves driven out into the desert.
Those Arabs who had reached a higher state of culture, and had settled down to the pursuit of agriculture, commerce, or industry, had to sink the lower before the oppression of a rule of iron. The artificial dealings of a government trying to imitate European methods, and the assistance of the Franks, the introduction of the census and of taxes, of duties and monopolies, standing armies and conscriptions, the barter of offices and the leasing of custom houses, slavery and the vices of the east, together with the energy, indomitable will and marvelous luck of Mehmet Ali, all combined in one grand achievement—I mean the monumental tyranny, never yet equalled, under which the fellahs today are groaning in Egypt and the Arabs in Syria, and under which a whole country has been transformed into a private domain, and a whole people into personal slaves.
By far the greater part of the Arabic nation, however, had remained true to its old customs, and no despotism could get hold of them. The extent of the Asiatic and African deserts, their fiery sky and parched soil, and the poverty of the inhabitants have ever been the protection of the Arabs. The rule of the Persians, the Romans, and the Greeks was never more than partial, and often existed only in name. The Bedouin today, like his fathers of old, is still living the life of want, care, and independence, roving through the same steppes as they, and watering his herds from the same wells as they did in the time of Moses or of Mahomet.
The oldest descriptions of the Arabs fit the Bedouins of our day. Unquenchable feuds are still dividing the several tribes, the possession of a pasturing place or of a well still determines the welfare of many families, and blood-feuds and hospitality still are the vices and virtues of this people of nature. Wherever along their frontiers the Arabs come in contact with foreign nations war is the result. The children of Abraham divided among themselves the rich and fertile countries, while Ishmael and his tribe were cast out into the desert. Shut off from all the other people the Arabs consider foreigners and foes to be identical and, unable to procure for themselves the products of industry, they believe they are justified in appropriating them wherever they find them.
The pashas of the frontier provinces repay these constant depredations with repressive measures on a big scale and are not concerned about the individuals who are made to suffer. When they saunter forth with a few regiments of regular cavalry and a field gun they are sure to scatter even the biggest ashiret or encampment. The Arab does not like to stand his ground against gun-fire and never resists an artillery-attack which he cannot of course return. He does not fear so much for his own life, as for that of his horse, for a full blooded mare often makes up the whole wealth of three or four families. Woe to the horse which with us is owned by three or four masters. With the Arabs it has as many friends to take care of it.
When the Turks succeed in surprising an ashiret they take away the herds of sheep and goats, a few camels, and possibly some hostages whom they keep in miserable bondage. In a small hut or stable of the serail of Orfa I found nine old men. A heavy chain attached to rings around their necks fastened the one to the other, and twice daily they were driven to the watering trough just like cattle. The Turks had demanded of their tribe the exorbitant ransom of 150,000 piasters, of which one third had actually been offered. When I saw the old men, there was little chance of their ever being ransomed at all. The pasha, however, promised me that he would set them free. I do not know whether he kept his word.
Such examples do not deter the Arabs, and, as far as their horses are able to go, no settlement can endure. The entire southern slope of the Taurus, the ancient Oszoene, is dotted with indications of their devastation. Here wonderful brooks are flowing from the mountains, and a superabundant supply of water, a hot and ever bright sky, and a most fertile soil have combined in creating a paradise, if only men would not always destroy it. Snow is unknown here, and olive-trees, vines, mulberry trees, palms and pomegranate trees spring up wherever you guide a stream of water, however small, while the yield of grain, rice, and cotton is phenomenal. But of Karrat, now Harran, the seat of Abraham, only a mound of earth and a few crumbled walls remain. Dara, the magnificent creation of Justinian, lies in ruins, and on the site of Nisibin, which had been completely destroyed, Hafiss-Pasha has built only recently some new cavalry barracks, under whose protection the city and the surrounding villages have taken a new lease of life. Orfa and Mossul finally, the only large cities, appear like outposts of Mesopotamia.
In their robber-expeditions the Arabs have the hope of booty before them and behind them the assurance of a safe retreat. They alone know the pasturing grounds and the hidden wells of the desert, they alone can live in these regions, and do so by the help of the camel. This animal, which can carry a load of from five hundred to six hundred pounds, takes all their property, their wives, children, and old men, their tents, provisions and water from one place to another. It can make six, eight, even ten days' marches without drinking, and a fifth stomach keeps a final draft in reserve in case of greatest need. Its hair is made into garments and cloth for the tents; its urine yields salt, its droppings are used for fuel and, in caves, are transformed into saltpeter from which the Arabs make their own gunpowder. The milk of the camel serves as food not only for the children, but also for the colts, which grow thin but strong like our horses when they are in training. Camel meat is tasty and wholesome, and even the skin and the bones of a camel are good for something. The most wretched feed, dry grass, thistles and brambles, satisfies this patient, strong, helpless and most useful of all animals. Next to the camels, which even the poorest Arab owns in almost incredible numbers, the horses represent the chief wealth of these children of the desert. It is well known that these animals grow up in the tents together with the children of the family with whom they share food, deprivations and hardships, and that the birth of a colt of fine lineage marks a day of joy in the whole ashiret.
In Europe the Arabian horses are classified according to an erroneous and incomplete system. I am thinking especially of their division into Kohilans and Nedshdis. This latter name designates the numerous tribe of Arabs inhabiting the high plateau of the interior of Arabia, and breeding, it is true, excellent horses. But just as little as every Arabian horse is full blooded, just as little every Nedshdi is a Kohilan. This is the whole matter: Kohilan was the favorite horse of Hasaret-Suleiman-Peigamber (His Highness Solomon the Prophet). It is, moreover, true and no legend that the better horses receive at birth their family-tree, in which their parents, and often their grandfathers, are mentioned, and which they carry through life, generally in a triangular capsule, by a string around their neck. In the course of centuries several of Kohilan's descendants have so greatly distinguished themselves that they have become sires of note in their own name. Among the most notable descendants of Kohilan I heard mentioned the colts of Meneghi, and next of Terafi, Djelevi, Sakali, and many more. Mahomet himself rode a Kohilan of the family of Meneghi on his flight from Medina. You understand, therefore, that not every Nedshdi has to be full-blooded, and that a Kohilan may be as well an Aenesi or Shamarly as a Nedshdi.
The Arabs of the race of Shamarr who camp in the country between the two rivers, and who can muster ten thousand mounted men, had recently been guilty of many robberies, and had refused to recognize the new sheikh whom the Porte had appointed over them. Hafiss-Pasha, therefore, decided to give them a most thorough chastisement. The pashas of Orfa and of Mardin were to march against them, and he wanted to have the pasha of Mossul, who is not under his jurisdiction, do the same. If this had been done, the Arabs would have been forced back against the Euphrates, beyond which the Aenesi Arabs live who are hostile to them. But Indshe-Bairaktar did not fancy an expedition which was expensive and promised little booty. When finally definite orders came from the Bagdad-Valesi, the other pashas had already scared away the enemy, who had disappeared into unknown regions.
After a brief and interesting sojourn, therefore, we decided to return through the desert with a caravan which was on the point of starting. Since the Arabs had been greatly incensed by the recent attacks, the expedition was increased by forty horsemen. We joined it toward evening in its encampment, about two hours from Mossul, near the Tigris where everybody wished to have one more last good fill of water. The Kyerwan-Bashi, or leader of the caravan, whom the pasha had notified of our arrival, at once made his appearance and had his tent made ready for us. He also presented us with a goat for supper.
For five days we traversed the Tsull, or desert of northern Mesopotamia, without seeing any human habitations. You must not think of this desert as a sea of sand, but as an interminable green plain with only occasional, very slight undulations. The Arabs call it Bahr, the sea, and the caravans proceed in an absolutely straight line, taking their direction from artificial mounts which rise above the plain like prehistoric graves. They indicate that once upon a time a village existed here, and that, therefore, a well or a spring must be nearby. But the mounts often are six, ten or even twelve hours distant the one from the other. The villages have disappeared, the wells have gone dry, and the rivulets are bitterly salt. A few weeks later this green plain which now is nourished by copious daily dews will be a wild waste parched by the sun. The luxuriant growth of grass which today reaches to our stirrups will be withered and every water-course run dry. Then it will be necessary to follow the Tigris in a wide détour, and none but the ships of the desert, the camels, will be able to traverse this plain, and they only by night.
Our caravan consists of six hundred camels and four hundred mules. The big bags carried by the former contain almost exclusively palm-nuts for the dye houses of Aleppo, and cotton. The more valuable part of the freight, silk from Bagdad and shawls from Persia, pearls from Bassora, and good silver money which in Constantinople will be recoined into bad piasters, is small in proportion to the bulk carried.
The camels go in strings of from ten to twenty, one behind the other. The owner rides ahead on a small donkey, and although his stirrups are short his feet almost touch the ground. He is continually shoving his pointed slippers into the flanks of his poor beast and placidly smoking his pipe. His servants are on foot. Unless the donkey leads, the camels refuse to stir. With long thoughtful strides they move along, reaching the while with their thin restless necks for thistles or thorns by the roadside. The mules are walking at a brisk pace. They are decorated with little bells and beautiful halters gaily set with shells.
When the caravan has come to the place where the night is to be spent, the Kjerwan-Bashi canters ahead and designates the exact spot for the camp. The beasts of burden are unloaded as they arrive, and the huge bags are placed together as a kind of fortification in the shape of a quadrangle, within which each one prepares himself a place of rest. Our tent, which was the only one in the caravan, stood outside and was given a special guard of Bashi-Bazouks. The camels and mules were turned loose in the high grass where they were expected to look also for all the water they needed.
As soon as it grows dark the camels, which have roved often at half an hour's distance, are collected. The leaders call to them, and since each one knows his master's poah! poah! they obediently come home. They are arranged in rows within the quadrangle. The smallest boy can control these big, strong, yet harmless and helpless animals. He calls: Krr! krr! and the huge beasts patiently sink to their knees. Then they fold their hind legs, and after a series of strange, undulating movements all are lying in regular rows, moving their long necks in every direction and looking about. I have always noticed the resemblance of a camel's neck with that of an ostrich, and the Turks call these birds deve-kush, the camel-birds. A thin cord is then tied around one bent knee of each camel. If it should rise it would have to stand on three legs, and would be unable to move.
On this evening we were visited by several friendly Arabs, short and thin, but strong and sinewy people. Their complexion was yellowish-brown, their eyes were small and vivacious. An assumed dignity barely disguised their native vivacity, and their guttural speech reminded us very strongly of the Jews. Their dress consisted of a rough cotton shirt, a white woolen cloak and a red and yellow kerchief, half-silk, which each man had fastened about his head with a string, just as you see it on the Egyptian statues.
[Illustration: MOLTKE AT SEDAN ANTON VON WERNER]
Hunting-in the Tshull is highly successful. There are countless gazelles, pheasants and partridges hiding in the tall grass. On the third day we were just on the point of following some bustards, which clumsily rise on their wings and after some time descend again to the ground, when a general alarm arose in the caravan. "The Arabs are coming!" was shouted everywhere. A throng had been noticed in the distance approaching very rapidly. The head of our column stopped, but since our whole caravan was stretched out to the length of approximately four miles, there was little hope of protecting it with a guard of some sixty armed men. The horsemen galloped ahead to an artificial mount, where the Arabs were pointed out to me. There were indeed numerous black spots moving rapidly through the plain, but since I had a small telescope with me I could quickly convince my companions that what we saw before us was nothing but a huge herd of wild boars bearing down upon us. Soon the beasts could be recognized with the naked eye.
Tonight the Kjerwan-Bashi told me a characteristic story of an Arab which I had heard before in Orfa.
A Turkish general of cavalry, Dano-Pasha at Mardin, had been negotiating for some time with an Arab tribe concerning the purchase of a full-blooded mare of the Meneghi breed. Finally a price of sixty bags or almost fifteen hundred dollars was agreed upon. At the appointed hour the sheikh of the tribe arrives with his mare in the courtyard of the pasha. The latter is still trying to bargain, when the sheikh proudly replies that he will not take one para less. The Turk sulkily throws him the money saying that thirty thousand piasters are an unheard of price for a horse. The Arab looks at him in silence, and ties the money very complacently in his cloak. Then he descends to the courtyard to take leave of his mare. He mutters some Arabic words in her ear, strokes her eyes and forehead, examines her hoofs, and walks all around her, carefully studying the attentive horse. Suddenly he jumps on her bare back, and, in the same instant, off she shoots like a dart out of the courtyard.
In this country the horses generally stand ready with their palans or felt saddles on, day and night. Every distinguished man has at least one or two horses in his stable ready to be mounted as soon as they have been bridled. The Arabs, however, ride without bridles. The halter serves to check the horse, and a gentle tap with the open hand on the neck makes it go to the right or the left. Not more than a few seconds, therefore, elapsed before the agas of the pasha were mounted and in hot pursuit of the fugitive.
The unshod hoofs of the Arabian mare had never yet trodden cobble stones, and very carefully she picked her way while she hastened down the steep, uneven road leading from the castle. The Turks, on the other hand, galloped over the steep descent with its loose pebbles just as we often gallop up a sandy slope. Thin, circular shoes, forged cold, kept all harm from the feet of their horses, which were accustomed to such trips and made no false steps.
Where the village ends the agas have almost caught up with the sheikh, but now they are in the plain, the Arabian mare is in her element, off she darts, straight ahead, for here there are neither ditches nor fences, neither rivers nor mountains to delay her course. Like a clever jockey who leads a race, the Arab wishes to ride as slowly and not as quickly as possible. Constantly looking back at his pursuers, he keeps out of gunshot. When they approach he pushes on; when they fall behind, he slows the pace of his horse; when they stop, he walks his mare. Thus the chase continues till the fiery orb of the sun verges toward the horizon. Then for the first time the Arab demands of his horse every ounce of her strength. Crouching over her neck he drives his heels into her flanks, and with a loud "Jellah!" is gone. The sod resounds under powerful hoof-beats, and soon only a cloud of dust indicates to his pursuers the course he has taken.
Here where the sun descends to the horizon almost in a vertical line the twilight is exceedingly brief and soon dark night had swallowed up every trace of the fugitive. The Turks, without provision for themselves or water for their horses, realized that they were some twelve or fifteen hours away from home and in an unknown locality. What could they do but return and bring to their irate master the unwelcome news that both the horse and the rider with the money were gone? Not until the third evening did they reach Mardin, half dead of exhaustion and with horses hardly able to put one foot ahead of the other. Their only consolation was that here there was another instance of Arabian perfidy for them to revile. The traitor's horse, to be sure, they were obliged to praise, and they had to confess that such an animal could hardly be paid for too dearly.
Next day, just when the Imam is calling to morning prayer, the pasha hears hoofbeats under his window, and into the courtyard the sheikh is riding entirely unabashed. "Sidi," he calls up, "Sir, do you want your money or my horse?"
Somewhat less quickly than the Arab had ridden we reached on the fifth day the foot of the mountain and near a clear rivulet the large village of Tillaja (Tshilaga), doubtless the ancient Tilsaphata, where the starving army of Jovian on its retreat from Persia to Nisibin found its first provisions. There I learned that on that very morning Mehmet-Pasha had started with an army on an expedition against the Kurds in the north. I at once decided to join him and, leaving the caravan, arrived at his camp that same evening. There I was told that Hafiss-Pasha had sent a guard of fifty horsemen to meet us, whom we had missed, because they had looked for us in the direction of Sindjar.
[From a letter written by Moltke to his brother Fritz and dated
October 28, 1846.]
My most interesting experience was a bullfight. At three in the afternoon my Frenchman and I betook ourselves to the circular arena where twelve thousand people were assembled to watch the Corrida de Toros. There are about twenty stone steps on which the people take their places, just as in the ancient amphitheatres, and on top there are two tiers of boxes, of which the one in the centre is reserved for the queen. The arena proper where the fight is to take place is perfectly empty, and is separated from the spectators by a barrier of beams and planks seven feet in height. A small platform makes it possible for those who fight on foot to vault safely from the arena when they can avoid the bull in no other way.
After some delay the gates opened and the alguazil, some kind of a higher official clad in old-fashioned garb, rode in and announced that the game was about to begin. He was everywhere greeted with hoots, ridicule and disrespectful whistling; I do not know why. But he seemed to know what to expect, for he apparently did not mind his reception in the least. The Romans in the circus made sport of their consuls and emperors, and the Spaniards at a bullfight are permitted an equal latitude of behavior.
Then the chulos entered—on foot, with gay hangings draped over their right arms. They were followed by six picadores on horseback, dressed in leather jerkins and breeches, protected on the right side with bands of iron. They wore Spanish hats and carried each a heavy spear on which there was an iron point only half an inch long. Their saddles were of the high cowboy type, and they sat their horses well. Under the accompaniment of deafening applause the matador (literally, the murderer) took his place at their head. His name was Cuchiera, and he was a famous and celebrated hero of the arena. Thus this phalanx advanced toward the royal box, where Queen Christine, wife of Muñoz, Duke of Rianzares, was seated, and dropped to their knees to offer her the royal salute; whereupon twelve thousand people hissed.
At last the chief actor entered, a powerful black bull with sharp horns and fiercely glistening eyes. He had been in a room with holes in the ceiling through which he had been poked with pointed sticks. He was, therefore, tolerably ill-humored before he entered the arena. As soon as the doors of his prison were opened he shot forward to the centre of the field, looked fiercely about him, greatly astonished, pawed the sand with his feet, and then hurled himself upon the nearest picador. This man held his ground, and permitted the maddened bull to rush against his pointed spear. The horse had his right eye bandaged lest he see the bull and bolt. The attack, however, was so fierce, and the rider so firmly seated in his saddle, that both he and his horse were lifted up and thrown over backwards. At the same moment the sharp horns of the bull were fastened in the horse's belly. A stream of blood, thick as your finger, spurted out directly from the horse's heart. The picador was lying under his charger, and was prevented by his costume from freeing himself. His certain end was at hand if the chulos had not come to his assistance with their gay draperies. The bull immediately let go his prey and hurled himself upon the men on foot, or rather upon their gaudy cloaks. He chased one the entire length of the arena and, when his foe had escaped him by jumping the barrier, he made the stout fence tremble under his hammering horns. At the disappearance of his enemy the bull stood stock still, as if dumfounded, until a second picador met his glance. This horseman had the same experience as his predecessor, but before the chulos could bring help the bull buried his horns a second time in the belly of the convulsed horse and carried it high up in the air through half the length of the arena. The third horse was ripped open in a trice. The wretched animal actually caught his feet in his own entrails and dragged them from his body bit by bit. In this condition he was beaten and given the spurs and was forced to await a second attack by the infuriated bull.
Since the bull each time had received a terrific thrust on his left shoulder from the spear, he finally refused to charge another one of the picadores. Their places, therefore, had to be taken by the banderilleros. These gay-looking people are men on foot with arrows two feet long, each with a hooked point. On the other end these arrows are decorated with little flags, brass foil, tinsel, and even bird cages whence gaily decked birds are permitted to escape. With these arrows the banderilleros walk right up to the bull, and, when he is ready to charge, jump to one side and thrust their weapons deep into his neck, halfway between his ears and his horns. Then the beast grows altogether mad and furious, and often chases a whole band of chulos in wild flight over the barrier, which calls for noisy shouts of ridicule from the crowd. Once the bull straddled the fence, and there have been times when he has succeeded in scaling it. One of the chulos was so bold as to put his gaudy cloak over his shoulders, so that the bull charged straight at him. But as the beast lowered his head and threw himself forward with closed eyes, the man jumped over him and stood by his side.
When finally the rage of the bull is at its height, but his strength is waning, the matador faces him, all alone. At once a hush falls over the spectators, who sit in rapt attention, for the matador's work is by far the most dangerous.
He is a fine-looking man, in shoes and white stockings. His silk coat and breeches are sky blue; his hair is tied in a net, in his left hand he carries a small scarlet cloak, and in his right a diamond-shaped blade of sharp Toledo steel, four feet in length. It is necessary to drive this into the neck of the bull at a very definite point, for if it hits him elsewhere he can shake it off and break it into splinters. In order to hit the right spot the man must let the bull pass him at a distance of only two or at best three inches. Everything is based on the assumption that the bull will attack the red cloth rather than the man, and will continue his course in an absolutely straight line. There are exceptions, and then the matador is lost.
Very deliberately the caballero walked up to his black antagonist and shook his red cloth at him. Twice he let him pass under his arm. At the third attempt he thrust his blade up to the hilt into the neck of the beast. For another minute perhaps the bull rages, then he begins to bleed from his mouth, he totters and then collapses. Immediately a kind of hangman's assistant sneaks up from behind and plunges a dagger into the neck of the bull, who expires on the spot.
At this juncture five mules decorated with ribbons and tinkling bells came trotting into the arena; they were hitched up to the horses and then to the bull, and at a fast clip carried the corpses away. Some sand was then sprinkled on the puddles of blood, and a new bull brought out. In this way eight bulls were driven to death. Twenty horses fell dead, while several more were led away mortally wounded. A single bull killed eight horses. No men were seriously hurt.
The horses, it is true, are of such a quality that, if they are not killed today, they will be taken to the horse-butcher tomorrow. Good horses would not only be too expensive, but they would also refuse to await the attack of the bull without shying or offering resistance, even if their right eyes were bandaged. The more horses the bull has killed and the more dangerous to the men he has become, the louder is the applause. One bull persistently refused to attack the picadores. He ran up and down the arena, trembling with fear, while the crowd shrieked curses and imprecations. At last they yelled: Los perros! (the dogs!) When the dogs arrived in the arena they could hardly be restrained. Madly they rushed upon the bull, who at once gored one of them and tossed him high in the air. The others, however, fastened on him, one of them seizing his tongue so firmly that he was swung high up in the air and down again. You could have torn him to pieces before he would have let go. Finally four dogs had the bull in a position where he could not free himself, and the matador struck him down.
While this butchery was at its height, the young queen with the Infanta entered, accompanied by Don Francesco, her husband, and the Duke of Montpensier. Aumale had arrived earlier. The queen looked very happy and is by no means so ugly as the papers say. She is blonde, rather stout, and not at all plain. The Infanta is small, extremely dark and thin. The queen was greeted by the matador just as her mother had been, but by the spectators with much enthusiasm. When the eighth bull was killed, it began to grow dark, but all the people yelled "un otro toro," and the ninth bull was hunted down almost in darkness—which is very dangerous for the matador.
This, then, is the spectacle which the Spaniards love better than anything else, which is watched by the tenderest of women, and which brought a smile to the face of the Infanta, a recent bride. So far as I am concerned, one bullfight was quite enough for me, and its description, I fancy, will be enough for you.
Thursday, August 28th
The City of Moscow takes it for granted that the Emperor has not yet arrived. A few assert that he has been since yesterday at the Castle Petrofskoy, an hour's ride from here, where he is holding court and reviewing a hundred thousand Guards; but that is his incognito; officially, he is not yet here.
The Holy City is preparing for the reception that is to take place tomorrow. They are hammering and pounding in all the streets and on all the squares. Most of the houses here stand alone, in the centre of a garden or court. Large tribunes for spectators have been erected in these spaces. In several of these I counted three thousand numbered seats. Before the houses themselves, moreover, small platforms with chairs have been erected, protected by linen awnings, decorated with tapestries, carpets and flowers. There must be at least several hundred thousand seats, so that there can be no crowd. Only those who cannot pay the few kopecks,[39] the Tschornoi Narod, or "the black brood of the people," will form the movable mass, and the police will have to restrain them.
All palaces and churches have laths nailed on their architectonic lines, upon which the lamps for the festive illuminations are to be fastened. The Giant Ivan, which will speak from the mouths of twenty-five large bells, bears upon its golden dome a crown formed of lamps, surmounted by the great glittering cross, which the French pulled down with immense toil and danger, and which the Russians victoriously reinstated. As an atonement for the offense, they laid one thousand guns of the godless enemy at the feet of Ivan, where Count Morny can see them to this day.
Half of the population of the city are in the streets, looking about, and they are allowed to go everywhere, even in the Kremlin.
Every day six-and eight-horse teams, mostly dark gray and black, which are going to convey the state coaches of the Empress and the Grand-Duchesses, are going to and fro from the Kremlin to Petrofskoy. Strangely enough, the outriders sit on the right front horses. An equerry of the Guards walks by each horse and leads it by the bridle. Yesterday their Excellencies carried a fearfully heavy canopy, supported by thick gold posts, through the salons and over the stairs of the palace. The aides-de-camp walk by the side of it, and balance it by golden cords.
The state coaches, most wonderful products of former centuries, have been drawn out of their semi-obscurity in the Arsenal, where they have rested twenty-eight years. The oldest are entirely without springs, are suspended by leather straps six feet long over a tongue twenty feet long and correspondingly thick, which is so bent that the coach almost reaches the ground. Those of the Empresses are ornamented with diamonds and jewels. It will hardly be possible to use the oldest. There is, further, a kind of house on wheels, made of gold, velvet, and crystal, which Peter the Great received as a present from England, and compared to which a thirty-six pounder is but a child's toy. In short, everything is life and activity here, in expectation of the volleys of cannon which will announce tomorrow from the old gate towers of the Kremlin the solemn entrance of the Czar.
Yesterday the Emperor wished to ride through the camp of the Guards, whom he has not seen since he ascended the throne, because, in consequence of the war, they had been removed to Lithuania and Poland, and are now encamped at an hour's distance on a vast plain. A solemn mass, at which the Empress was also present, preceded this. We drove out in complete gala dress through thick clouds of dust. The Emperor rode with his suite. He looked very well on horseback. At this moment it began to rain, and poured uninterruptedly. Fortunately we found shelter under the open tent in which the altar was, and in which the mass was said, or, rather, sung. All further inspection was countermanded, and we returned home.
In the evening I drove to Petrofskoy. It lies in the midst of a wood, and has a very odd appearance. The castle proper is a three-storied quadrangle with a green cupola. The entrances are supported by the most singular bottle-shaped bulging columns, and the whole is surrounded by a turreted wall, with battlements and loopholes. This red-and white-painted fortress, the light of which radiates from the high windows through the dark forest, recalls a fable of the Arabian Nights. All monasteries and castles here are fortified. They were the only points capable of holding out when the Golden Tribe rushed upon them with twenty or thirty thousand horses, and devastated all that flat country. Long after their yoke was broken, the Khans of Tartary in the Crimea were formidable enemies. The watchmen from the highest battlements of the Kremlin were continually observing the wide expanse toward the south; and when the dust-clouds rose thence, and the great bell (kolokol) of Ivan Welicki rang the alarm, every one fled behind the walls of the Czar's palace or to the monasteries, upon whose walls the infuriated horsemen struck and dashed in vain. The Christianity, science, and culture of the Russian nation sought shelter in the cloisters, and from them started afterward Russia's deliverance from the domination of the Mongolians and Poles.
Today there was again mass in the open air, and five battalions received new flags, which in addition were blessed by the priests; then the Metropolitan Archbishop walked the length of the front and sprinkled the troops thoroughly with holy water; some of the men were practically soaked to the skin. The Emperor and both Empresses not only kissed the cross, but the archbishop's hand. Then the Emperor passed the front of every battalion, and, with a true military attitude, spoke a few words to the men, which were received with endless applause. He was an excellent rider, and rode a well-trained horse. Then he inspected the front of the whole camp—one and a half German miles. There were seventy-four battalions, with eight hundred men apiece—about sixty thousand men in all. They stood unarmed and in caps, all of them old, bearded, and dark-faced.
I care nothing for the deafening hurrahs that lasted two hours; but these old, mustached men show how glad they are to see their Czar.
The Emperor spoke to some of them. They answered their Batuschka (little father) without embarrassment. In Russia the family is the microcosm of the State. All power rests with the father. All theories of representative government in Russia are pure nonsense. "How can human statutes circumscribe the divine right of a father?" asks the Russian. So that the unlimited power in the hands of the Emperor is necessary and beneficial in a land where nothing is done that is not ordered from above.
Whoever should gaze, as I have done, on a warm, sunny day, upon the city of Moscow for the first time from the height of the Kremlin would certainly not think that he was in the same latitude in which the reindeer graze in Siberia, and the dogs drag the sleighs over the ice in Kamtchatka. Moscow reminds one of the South, but of something strange never seen before. One seems to be transported to Ispahan, Bagdad, or some other place—to the scene of the story of the Sultaness Scheherezade.
Although Moscow does not count more than three hundred thousand inhabitants, it covers two square miles with its houses, gardens, churches, and monasteries. In this flat region one can hardly see beyond the extreme suburbs, and houses and trees extend to the horizon.
No city in the world, with the exception of Rome, has so many churches as the holy Stolitza of Russia. It is affirmed that Moscow boasts of forty times forty churches. Each one has at least five, and several even sixteen, cupolas that are brilliantly painted, and covered with colored glazed bricks, or richly silvered and gilded, glittering in the blue atmosphere like the sun when it is half above the horizon. Even the graceful towers, rising sometimes to considerable heights from the immense mass of houses and gardens, are similarly ornamented, and neither do the larger ones among the palaces lack the addition of a cupola.
The dwelling houses are almost always in gardens, and are distinctly outlined against the dark background of trees by their white walls and flat iron roofs painted light green or red. The oldest part alone, close to the Kremlin—the Kitai-Gorod, or the Chinese quarter—forms a city according to our notions, where the houses touch each other, and are carefully enclosed by a beautiful turreted wall, here, of course, painted white. All the rest seems to be a large collection of country houses, between which the Moskwa winds its way.
The Kremlin contains (besides the palaces of the Czars and the Patriarchs) the Arsenal and the treasures of the church. Here are concentrated the highest civil and religious powers. The cloisters, mostly at the extremities of the city, are fortresses in themselves.
It was in the Kitai-Gorod that the commercial guild established itself, needing for its wares, imported from China, Bucharia, Byzantium, and Novgorod, the protection of walls. The rest, and by far the larger part of Moscow, was built by the nobility for themselves; and long after the first Emperor had raised a new capital upon the enemy's ground it was looked upon with contempt by the grandees of the Empire, still faithfully clinging to the customs of their fathers.
The venerable city of Moscow, with its ancient, sacred relics and historical reminiscences, still remains an object of veneration and love to every Russian; and, often coming from a distance of hundreds of miles, when getting a glimpse of the golden cross on the Church of Ivan Welicki, he falls on his knees in reverence and patriotic fervor. St. Petersburg is his pride, but Moscow is nearer to his heart. And, in truth, Moscow has no resemblance to St. Petersburg. There is no Neva here, no sea, no steamers; nowhere a straight street, a large square, or a wooded island. But Moscow has as little resemblance to any other city. The cupolas, the flat roofs and the trees remind one of the East; but there the cupolas are more curved, covered with gray lead, and surmounted by delicate minarets; the houses show no windows toward the street; and the gardens are enclosed by high, dead, monotonous walls. Moscow has a character of its own; and if one wishes to compare it with anything, it must be called Byzantine-Moresque. Russia received her Christianity and first civilization from Byzantium. Until of late years she remained completely shut off from the East, and what culture she once adopted became rapidly nationalized. The heavy scourge of the Mongolian and Tartar domination, which burdened this country for nearly three centuries, prevented for a long time any further progress. All culture was confined to the monasteries, and to these they afterward owed their deliverance. The Khans of Tartary never required their submission to Islam; they satisfied themselves with the tribute. In order to raise this, they had recourse to native authority. They supported the power of the Grand Dukes and of the priesthood; and the despotism of the Golden Tribe, much as it circumscribed further improvement, strengthened the oppressed in their faith in their religion, fidelity to their rulers, and love to their mutual fatherland.
These are still the characteristics of the people; and when one reflects that the embryo of this nation, the Great Russians—thirty-six million people of one root, one faith, and one language—forms the greatest homogeneous mass of people in the world, no one will doubt that Russia has a great future before her.
It has been said that with an increase of population this boundless empire must fall to pieces. But no part of it can exist without the other—the woody North without the fertile South, the industrial centre without both, the interior without the coast, nor without the common joint stream, navigable for four hundred miles—the Volga. But, more than all this, the national spirit unites the most distant portions.
Moscow is now the national centre not only of the European Empire, but of the ancient and holy kingdom of the Czars, from which the historical reminiscences of the people spring, which, perhaps, is big with the destinies of the future empire in spite of a deviation of two centuries.
The foreign civilization which was forced upon them has never penetrated the mass of the people. The national peculiarity has remained complete in language, manners, and customs, in a highly remarkable municipal constitution, the freest and most independent existing anywhere; and, finally, in their architecture. The last can, of course, only be applied to the churches. In Russia nearly everything is new. What is older than a hundred years is looked upon as an antiquity. The Russian dwelling-house is of wood, and therefore never reaches that age, unless, like the one of Peter the Great, it be encased by a stone one. Even the palaces of the Emperor are new, and only here in Moscow can be found a ruin of the old Dworez of the Czars. There are churches in existence of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries (a great age for Russia), and the strictly conservative spirit of the priesthood has been instrumental in retaining the same style of architecture in the later buildings.
The St. Sophia, in Constantinople, is the model upon which all Russian churches are built. It was imitated everywhere, but never equalled, not even by St. Mark's in Venice. There was lack both of material and skill to build an arch with a span of one hundred and twenty-six feet. What could not be accomplished in width was attempted in height. The domes became narrow and tall, like towers. The rough stone, handled without art, rendered clumsy pillars and thick walls necessary, in which the windows, like embrasures, are cut narrow and deep. The brightest light falls through the windows in the thinner wall which supports the cupolas. Nearly all churches are higher than they are long and wide. The clumsy tetragonal pillars contract the already narrow space. One has nowhere a free view, and a mystic twilight reigns everywhere. The most famous Russian churches can only accommodate as many hundreds as a Gothic cathedral can thousands. It is true most of them were built by Italian masters; but the latter were obliged to conform to the rules and forms already in use.
Since the architectonic conditions were unfavorable to the creation of a magnificent whole, an attempt was made to ornament the individual parts with brilliancy and magnificence. Not contented to gild the churches inside and out, the floors were paved with half-precious stones, and the pictures (of no artistic value) were covered with jewels, diamonds, and pearls. Only the faces and hands are painted; the garments, crown, and all else are plated with silver, gold, and jewels.
Sculpture is entirely prohibited, as far as representing the human form is concerned; but they do not hesitate to represent God himself on canvas. The gilt background is of itself disadvantageous for the carnation of the pictures, and added to this are the long-drawn outlines of the Byzantine and old German schools, without the genuine feeling of the latter. Gigantic scarecrows gaze down from the cupolas, meant to represent the Virgin Mary, Christ, St. John, or God the Father. A Russian buys no holy picture that is not quite black or faded out. A lovely Madonna of Raphael, or a fine Sebastian of Correggio, does not seem to him expressive. His creed needs the obscurity of his church—the clouds of incense which at every mass veil the mysterious movements of the priests.
The Byzantine element in the Russian architecture is then historically easy to explain. The Moresque originated with the necessity of decorating the individual parts, and relates only to these.
The railings of the Ikonostase are interlaced with vines, garlands, and animal forms. The flat walls, principally where they are not gilt, are decorated with leafwork, rosettes, and twining vines. Where this could not be cut in stone it was painted, and the deficiency in drawing was supplied by a variety of the most glaring colors. Of course, they remained far behind the tasteful, artistic arabesques of the Alhambra and the Alcazar.
The craziest thing in the way of architecture is the Church of Ivan Blajennoj, on the Red Square before the Kremlin. It cannot be described. This building stands on uneven ground, although the fine level Place is before it. It crouches on the edge of the hill, and leaves one leg hanging down. There is no trace of any symmetry. It has no central point, and no one part is like another. One cupola looks like an onion, another like a pineapple, an artichoke, a melon, or a Turkish turban. It contains nine different churches, each having its own altar, Ikonostase, and sanctuary. You enter several of these on the ground floor. To reach others, you ascend a few steps. Between these is a labyrinth of passages so narrow that two people can with difficulty pass each other. Of course, all these churches are very narrow. The one in the main tower can scarcely contain more than twenty or thirty persons, and yet its vaulted roof reaches into the tower at a height of over a hundred feet. This church is painted with all the colors of the rainbow, inside and out, and plated with silver and gold. The cupolas shine with red, green, and blue glazed bricks, and even the masonry has been colored by the artist.
This monstrosity emanated from the brain of Ivan Hrosnoj, "the Terrible John." When he saw the architect's work complete he was delighted, loaded him with praise, embraced him, and then ordered his eyes to be put out, that no such second masterpiece should be attributed to him.
But, with all its singularity, this church does not produce a disagreeable impression. It cannot be denied that it is at least original.
Everything, on the contrary, left from the old Dworez (palace) is really beautiful. There is a strange four-story building narrowing toward the top. There is a balcony formed by each receding story, from which there is a fine view. The second story contains, besides the rich but small chapel, a banquet-hall, like the Kanter's,[40] in Marienburg, only that there the entire vaulted roof is borne by a slender column, and here by a thick pillar. The entrance is in one corner; the throne stands diagonally opposite in the other. At present, the walls are covered with splendid tapestries, and the great throne draped with drap d'or, lined with real ermine. This drapery cost forty thousand rubles. The small but exquisite rooms in the third story are charming. The fourth story is only one large room. It was the Terima, or dwelling of the women—the room in which Peter I. grew up.
At the parole delivery all the regiments were represented, the cavalry mounted. It was beautiful to see specimens of all these dazzling uniforms: the Cuirassiers, with the Byzantine double eagle upon their helmets, something like our Garde du Corps, but with lances; the Uhlans, almost exactly like ours; the Hussars, in white dolmans with golden cords; the line Cossacks, with fur caps and red caftans; the Tschernamorskish Cossacks, in dark blue coats with red jackets over them; and the Ural ones with light blue—all with lances, on little horses and high saddles. The Tartars are nearly all heathen or Moslem. The Circassians appeared in scaly coats of mail and helmets. They showed off their equestrian accomplishments, fired from the horse with their long guns, shielded themselves from their pursuers by their kantschu,[41] concealed themselves by throwing their bodies on one side so that they touched the ground with their hands; others stood upright in the saddle—all done at full gallop and amidst fearful noise.
A regiment of Drushins,[42] an Imperial militia levied on the Imperial apanage estates, pleased me well. They wore a cap with the cross of St. Andrew, bare neck; the native caftan, only shorter and without a button; very wide trousers, the shirt over them (as with all common Russians), and the end of their trousers tucked into their high boots. Such is the uniformed Mujik (peasant). This dress is national, becoming and useful. The men can wear their furs (which are here indispensable) underneath; and I will venture to say that the entire Russian infantry will adopt a similar costume. "Les proverbes sont l'esprit des peuples," and the national dress is the result of the experience of centuries in regard to what is becoming and appropriate.