По пути в Америку

I. From St. Petersburg to Vienna Western Russian region and border. - The capital of the triune empire. - Attractions. - Slavic brothers. – The Germans and speculation on nihilism. The condition of a person going abroad for the first time is interesting. Until that time, he was accustomed to seeing around him both nature and people whom he had looked closely at since childhood and who did not evoke special feelings and ideas, covered with a veil of everyday life. Now a new world is preparing to open up before him - a new nature and new people, and he focuses with hasty attention on everything that bears even the imprint of “foreignness”. The writer of these lines looked out of the carriage with such hasty attention after leaving St. Petersburg in early October 1879 on a trip abroad. Night interrupted curiosity, but the next morning aroused it with renewed vigor: the train, tirelessly rushing on the invisible wings of steam, managed to rush into the Western Russian Lithuanian region, and new views were presented to the traveler’s eyes. The Russian land is wide and flat like the sea, approaching the western borders, as if shuddering, and wavy mountains, like wrinkles on a restless, suffering face, crowd in a thick row on the sides. Through one of the lovely wooded valleys a charming view of Vilna opened up. I have never seen such species in Russia; they really have their own imprint on them. At the station you are struck by the non-Russian dialect: the Polish-Jewish-German element obscures the Russian element; Non-Russian money also appears. The city of Vilna itself completely discourages you from thinking that you are still on your native soil: the streets are narrow to the point of impossibility, original buildings with tiled roofs, churches, Polish-Jewish faces. Taking advantage of the short interim time between trains, I quickly explored the city. What a wealth of historical monuments it contains and how many thoughts they arouse even in a casual viewer! Here you can read the entire long-suffering history of the Western Russian region, you can trace the entire bloody struggle between the two principles of Orthodoxy and Catholicism. This story is glorious for its end - the victory of Orthodoxy. But in the city this is not noticeable, at least to a cursory glance. Everywhere you see churches with Latin inscriptions and sculptural statues, kneeling pilgrims with raised or crossed arms crowd around them, priests often cross your path, accepting signs of respect from those around you. My Pole driver constantly took off his hat when he reached one or another church, which let me know that this was a church and not an Orthodox church. Perhaps Catholicism here gains the upper hand by its appearance, which it loves so much, and not by its inner strength, not by that religious feeling that moves mountains: but whatever - the impression of this strength leans towards Catholicism. On the large city square there is a massive cathedral church with colossal statues. Above it rises a picturesque mountain, where the fire of Catholic preachers once burned - a grandiose impression. Driving back to the railway station past the Lithuanian theological seminary, I mentally wished her to continue to tirelessly fight for the dominance of the true Christian principle in the region, and to further and more put up figures for this struggle, as she had put them up until now. Beyond Vilna, the native land is still not calming down, it is worried; About ten miles away the train even passes through a tunnel through a mountain. But then the plains and fields begin again - the settlements of the ancient glades, the present Poles. And here is the heart of Poland - Warsaw. The city is rich, luxurious; but after Vilna he no longer represents anything extraordinary or new: the type is the same. Only, it seems, there is less religious fanaticism here than in the Catholic population of Vilna; at least here you didn’t see so much kneeling and raising of hands as in the Lithuanian capital. Beyond Warsaw the plains stretch again. At rather dirty stations you are struck everywhere by the crowds of Polish Jews, and it must be admitted that the great writer, describing them in his Taras Bulba, has not yet used all the colors to depict their unbearable appearance and dirty typicality. But here is the border. My heart involuntarily trembled at the sight of the inscription “Border” at the last Russian customs station. Here our land ends and the kingdom of the Germans begins. After a quick passport check, the Austrian train rushed us across the border to the Austrian customs station. Here there is already a complete kingdom of Germans - German uniforms, German speech, although with an admixture of sidelocks and Polish faces. After a quick but thorough inspection of the passengers' belongings by Austrian customs officials, the train rushed on. And it’s remarkable - not only people, but nature itself has quickly changed. High mountains began to loom in the distance, and neat villages flashed along the sides. The companions began to be almost exclusively Germans - with their vague philosophy, bad cigars and prejudice towards Russia; there are Jews and Poles, but certainly with German speech. Seeing this, you involuntarily feel the great advantage of the Germans over us in the assimilation of subject peoples: the same Poland, the same Poles and Jews here, but here everything took on a German image; but in our Russian Poland everything remains the same as in the times of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, and in Warsaw you can rarely meet a person who understands Russian well. “Here comes Vienna, our beautiful Vindobona!” - cried out my German neighbor, a terrible reasoner and philologist, who bored me all the way with his philological considerations and proceedings, between which the similarity he found between the words Jehovah and Jupiter seemed especially witty to him. He derives the name “Vienna” from vina-do-bona, as if the Romans called it. It was night, and therefore it was impossible to immediately verify the correctness of the German patriot’s review of the beauty of the capital of the triune empire. In the morning I went to explore Vienna and its attractions, and, to be fair to the German, he did not exaggerate at all when he called Vienna beautiful. This is truly a beautiful capital, and it amazes the visitor both with the grandeur of its buildings and the elegance of their architecture, the cleanliness and tidiness of the streets, gardens and alleys. The main street, called the Ring, is as wide as Nevsky Prospekt, but its grandiosely charming buildings, rich and luxurious shops, continuously stretching alleys on both sides - give more impressions than the rather monotonous, albeit charming, avenue of our northern capital. Ring Street circles around the oldest center of the capital. In this central part, the streets are narrow and irregular, and right there on Stefanovskaya Square rises the majestic Cathedral of St. Stefan. Its Gothic tower is visible from the Ring. At her direction, I went to this miracle of architectural art. It is difficult to convey the impression made by the cathedral. You are standing, as it were, before a gigantic finger of the earth itself, which has directed it to the sky to indicate to tiny humanity fussing around its eternal destination, which is often forgotten by them in the bustle of life. The appearance of the cathedral is stern and gloomy: it bears the burden of more than seven centuries. Its foundation dates back to 1144. Its tower, which, according to experts, is one of the most elegant examples of Gothic art, rises 62 1/2 fathoms above the base, and after the Strasbourg tower is the tallest in the world. With reverence I entered this church of eternity. Inside he is just as gloomy as on the outside, and yet everything, however, directs his spirit to grief. Several pilgrims stood quietly and reverently before various altars and said a prayer. The walls of the cathedral are covered with many inscriptions, but time has discolored them so much that they can only be read with great difficulty. Of course, sculptural works are more visually striking, and they amaze with both the beauty of their style and the originality of the composition. How much food there is for religious-aesthetic feeling and how much material for historical science! The half-worn inscriptions of the cathedral contain a centuries-old chronicle of the historical destinies of both the city and, perhaps, the people. Happy are the people who can point to such a grandiose monument to their antiquity: this is a sufficient witness to their fruitless life on earth. With the same reverence with which I entered the church, I left it, organizing the impressions I had made in my head. There is a notice posted on the door. I approached him, thinking to find a notice about some kind of divine service or celebration, as is usual abroad, and suddenly I read it and can’t believe my eyes. The announcement literally reads as follows: “It is forbidden to bring dogs with you to the church, or to walk through the church with them, and it is also not allowed to carry large weights through the cathedral, so as not to disrupt the worship service.”... My elevated feelings could not at first reconcile such a strange announcement, but it turned out that this announcement was caused by an urgent need. The current descendants of their pious ancestors, the builders of the cathedral, did not retain in themselves the respect for the shrine that animated the latter, and, not wanting to take the trouble to bypass the cathedral, they preferred to cross to the other side of Stefanovskaya Square directly through the cathedral, leading their dogs and carrying various burdens - baskets, bales, etc. With a heavy feeling, I left the portal of the famous cathedral. – Another completely new example of the Gothic style in Vienna is the so-called Votivkirche - funeral church. It was erected in memory of the salvation of Emperor Franz Joseph from the villainous hand. The church was also built in a purely Gothic style, but is less impressive, despite all the richness of its window paintings, which I did not notice at all in the Cathedral of St. Stefan. Upon entering the church, I also noticed an advertisement, but fortunately not with the same content: the advertisement said that a “church leader” was for sale. The guide is written quite thoroughly and sensibly. This awakened a thought in me: why shouldn’t our Moscow archaeologists create a similar guide to Moscow shrines? Any admirer would probably prefer to pay a few kopecks for it, just to sensibly and calmly inspect the precious shrines, without being attacked by annoying and illiterate cicerones, who most often turn their eyes to the pockets of fans when viewing. The German custom is really not bad. Walking further along the Ring, I noticed at a colossal building with huge columns and bas-reliefs a lot of people entering and exiting the building. Assuming that this was also a church of the Most High God and having resolved in my mind the question of the religiosity of the inhabitants of the Austrian capital, I also entered the building; but the predominance of Jewish faces in the crowd immediately made it clear that this was not the church of the Most High God, but the church of Mammon, that god whom our speculative age worships with such zeal. This is the Vienna Stock Exchange, which is why there are a lot of people here, not like in St. Stephen or in other churches. Other attractions in Vienna include the Imperial Library, the Imperial Treasury and many different museums. In the treasury you can see the regalia of Charlemagne, the emerald of Charlemagne of 2,780 carats, the scimitar of Timur, as well as various sacred things and remains: nails from the life-giving cross, a tooth of St. John the Baptist, part of the clothes of St. John, several rings from the chains of the apostles Peter and Paul, part of the life-giving cross and part of the tablecloth that lay on the table during the Last Supper. In the church of St., located not far from the treasury. Augustine shows the artistic group of the famous Canova, representing the mausoleum of the Duchess Maria Christina. The white marble group makes a charming impression with its excellent composition and artistry. In the same church lie the relics of several popes, and in the middle of the church itself there is a mug with a modest inscription: “For his papal sanctity of Leo XIII.” Inspecting the capital of the triune empire, more than half of which consists of Slavs, I looked in vain for signs of the existence of our blood brothers in the empire. Everything is covered with a German element, which even on signs gives way to a few places only to the French element and, even in the outback, to the Magyar element. There is no Slavic spirit. And among people I looked in vain for my brothers - German speech was everywhere. I was already despairing of seeing Slavs in the capital of a semi-Slavic state, when suddenly I unexpectedly met a Czech. This was my cab driver. Having learned that I was Russian, the Czech bombarded me with questions, first of all about whether I had been near Plevna (that was the impression this memorable Plevna made!). Seeing that I did not understand his Viennese jargon well, he tried to speak to me in Czech; but of course my “understanding” turned out to be even weaker here and the Czech again turned to German jargon. To my question whether there are many Slavs in Vienna, the Czech replied that there are many of them here, and almost with admiration he began to tell me that the coachmen, janitors, messengers, sex workers - almost all are Slavs, there is no place for Germans here. “Poor Slavs, I thought; “You are also glad that at least here you are successfully fighting the Germans.” We drove past a colossal building under construction - like a palace. The Czech explained that a new parliament was being built and did not fail to mention that Czechs would also sit in it. Yes, it’s certainly good that they will sit,” I answered the Czech, “but won’t they occupy the same position in this parliament that they occupy in the parliament of public life... It is difficult for a straightforward Slav to fight a crafty German. He strives to exploit it from all sides, taking advantage of every opportunity. The latest regrettable internal unrest in Russia, produced by the hundred-headed hydra of nihilism, gave the Germans a reason for the widest speculation about this nihilism - and, moreover, on the book market. When looking around bookstores, your eyes are filled with books that treat nihilism; there are also quasi-scientific inheritances about the origin of nihilism, its development and goals, and there are also ones with titles such as: “a novel by a nihilist.” There is no need to say what kind of game all these little books are filled with, what a confusion of concepts and ideas they show in their authors - but their general motive sounds in a sharply hostile tone towards the Slavs in general and towards the Russians in particular. Among this German-Jewish literature on nihilism, there are several Russian books - the most real nihilists. One had only to open and read at least one of them to come to the conviction that these little books can really be printed only where the complete incomprehensibility of the content cannot even discourage a typesetter from working on this pitiful work of human madness. But one thing involuntarily catches the eye is that both German and Russian nihilistic writers strike the same note in unison - angry and hostile towards the entire Russian and the state system on which the Russian people worked for a whole millennium, created it with sweat and blood and defended it with their heads. Alpine species. – Nature and people. – Zurich and its attractions. – Socialism and the fight against it. - Literary curiosity. – University and lectures by Johann Scherr. The fast train from Vienna is rushing at terrifying speed. Every now and then you see pretty villages huddled on sloping hills; however, there is still nothing that would attract the eye. But here is the border of the triune empire; beyond it begins Bavaria, constituting the southern part of the German Empire put together by the iron chancellor. Here is Munich, but, unfortunately, I could not stop there. Beyond Munich the views change quickly. The already undulating soil begins to sway more and more; Hour by hour the waves rise higher and more menacing. You admire this play of the undulating earth; but now your gaze is cast over the waves, and above them the Alps rise like clouds. It is difficult to convey the feelings that surround this spectacle. You fix your fixed gaze on these sky-high heights and cannot tear yourself away. In these heights, in these crude works of nature, there is so much enchanting power, so much greatness that before them all the most grandiose constructions of human hands seem pitiful. But the train moves tirelessly. The Alpine heights are gradually shedding their cloudy robe, and now they are already near you. A few more moments and the train is already roaring among the inaccessible rocks of the Bavarian Alps. Landscapes change with uncontrollable speed: now you are rushing at the base of a mountain merging with the heavens, now suddenly over a yawning abyss in which an ancient forest seems like an insignificant bush, now you are piercing a mountain with a tunnel. The eyes finally get tired of this unusual change of extreme opposites. You rest for a few moments, looking at the velvety, pure spring greenery of the valleys. And these valleys are perhaps even more interesting. Almost magical villages huddle here, with houses of immaculate whiteness and cleanliness all around. You might think that these are toy houses and a person with his ordinary everyday, almost necessary (according to our Russian concept) uncleanliness does not live in them, and yet real people live in these houses, with ordinary worries and labors. Over there, among the velvety greenery, a patch of black land stands out and a gentleman in a jacket and smart trousers is fumbling around with a pickaxe in his hands: this is a peasant cultivating his land. But some lady is sitting under a tree with a book, and not far away, beautiful and large cows with bells are nibbling lush grass: this is a shepherdess grazing her flock. Mountain streams, rushing noisily through the valleys and, at the direction of man, irrigating fields and flowing around houses, complete the picture. Many times I have admired alpine views in works of painting, but I have never seen anything more beautiful than what nature itself presented to my eyes, even in these works, which, however, often aroused the thought of exaggeration and inconsistency with reality. Looking at this earthly paradise, one cannot even think that a person here could also be dissatisfied with anything. And yet he is dissatisfied, and his discontent here is even more formidable than elsewhere in less fertile countries. But this, however, rather refers to Switzerland itself, and not to Bavaria, which is in question. Having crossed from Lindau by steamship across the delightfully picturesque Lake Constance, I landed on Swiss soil. The train rushed to Zurich. The Swiss species in this direction no longer represented anything special and were inferior to the described Bavarian ones. Even the villages are not as clean and the people are not as neat as there. Taking advantage of this, I went deeper into myself and remained in this state until Zurich. Not without embarrassment did I enter this city. Here socialism has built a long-standing nest for itself, here is the refuge of revolutionaries from all over the world, here our Russian nihilism finally enjoys its full freedom. But as soon as I enter the city I hear the sounds of music and songs; this encouraged the spirit, because, according to the truthful saying of the German poet, “where they sing, you can be calm: evil people do not know songs” 1 . Zurich, as it turned out later, is a very melodious and musical city. Its general appearance, however, makes a rather difficult impression. The houses are tall, but gloomy, with small windows, of ancient architecture. But the location is charming. The beautiful Zurich lake bursts into the city with a large bay, and with its two streams cuts through it and divides it in half. On the sides there are picturesque forested mountains. The streets are narrow, irregular, and some are so steep that one can only climb them with great difficulty. There are few churches in Zurich - and those are of ancient construction. Above the main stream on the hill rise two towers, as if competing in height. This is the main cathedral of the city, the so-called Grossmiinster. They are gloomy and, apparently, decrepit; its towers seem to be effortlessly supporting themselves in an upright position. This temple is truly a remarkable antiquity; it is almost the same age as the city. Some archaeologists suggest that the construction of the cathedral dates back to the 8th–9th centuries, but of course not in its current form. It was rebuilt, renewed, and built on several times. The interior of the church is simple and austere. Three paintings on the windows representing the Savior and St. Peter and Paul, constitute its entire decoration. Instead of an organ there is a large harmony. But poor in decoration, this cathedral is rich in its memories. Within its walls the bold sermons of the famous Swiss reformer Zwingli were heard for the first time; here he celebrated his first simplified mass - on a simple table with wooden vessels; here was his last sermon - before he died in a bloody battle for his religious principles. In the middle of the churchyard there is a spring decorated with a statue of Charlemagne. -Across the bridge on the other side of the stream stands another cathedral, Fraumunster, almost contemporary in antiquity to the first. It owes its foundation to a certain abbess, which explains its name - the Women's Cathedral. Not far from it stands the Church of St. Petra; her appearance is as gloomy as the first two; Lavater, famous for his original physiognomic research, was a priest in this church. Now, as they say, many listeners are attracted to this church by the famous preacher Heinrich Liang, a representative of the so-called free Christianity in Switzerland. Next to it stands again the gloomy and ancient Augustinian church, now belonging to the Old Catholics. The presented review of churches shows with sufficient clarity that the ideas of the Swiss reformer about the excess of appearance in worship have completely taken root among the population and are clearly expressed in the carelessness in which church churches are maintained in Zurich. When examining Zurich, I was most interested in the question: where, in what, exactly, is that terrible, hundred-headed hydra called socialism hidden here, which supposedly built itself a calm nest here and from here spreads its destructive tribe throughout Europe? In the city itself there are no signs of its existence, if only such signs are considered to be the expressions of anger of the poor against the rich, or the proletariat against the owners. The workers here are good-natured like Russians, polite like the French. True, you will hear here how a drunken blouse walking down the street desperately hums and whistles Marseillaise; but you will immediately notice that he sings it with such innocence and with the same good intentions with which we sing the tunes of the famous patriotic opera. Along with the unusually widespread motifs from William Tell, the Marseillaise is also sung by boys on the streets, while at the same time throwing a top. This is obviously not socialism. But along steep streets, often giving way to stone stairs, you climb the slope of a lovely suburban mountain. On the sides stretch endless vineyards, from the golden field of which the green caps of pear trees majestically emerge. Look back down: before you is an incomparably beautiful panorama of the city with the lake, its streams and the opposite heights. But forget about the surrounding nature, look into the city itself and you will see the nest of socialism. Factory chimneys rise like towers above the tall, narrow-windowed houses, belching clouds of choking smoke that spread the stench throughout the city. These pipes are almost as numerous as houses. This is where socialism lies. Almost the entire landless population of the canton is crowded into the Zurich factories and factories, and they live in these smoky dens, without rest and without seeing sunlight, without even breathing the fresh mountain air, which immediately spreads over the mountains, as if deliberately teasing the sufferers and delighting the foreign Englishmen prowling the picturesque slopes of the mountains on well-groomed horses. Seeing this picture, it even becomes strange why socialism did not take even more drastic forms here than in which it exists now. But this is explained by the common sense of the population, which understands the fatal necessity of their position and considers it more profitable to obey it than to indulge in any unrealizable and yet criminal dreams. In addition, public and private charity comes to the aid of the working class here, which also somewhat paralyzes socialist aspirations. In Zurich there are quite a few societies that have in mind the improvement of the position of the working classes in religious, moral and material terms. In the first respect, particularly important services are provided to the working people by the “evangelical society”, which has been successfully conducting its religious, moral, educational, and at the same time charitable activities for more than 40 years. It has several special institutions for this purpose. Of these, the most famous are: the library, from which books of religious and moral content are distributed to workers to read; a reading room where adult workers can spend their leisure hours reading newspapers, and an almshouse with serving deaconesses, where the sick and elderly find shelter. In material terms, important services are provided by the "auxiliary society", which gives aid and loans to the workers and has a canteen where the workers can have healthy food at the cheapest price. Both societies, together with many other secondary ones, contribute extremely much to improving the situation of the working people and successfully cut off many of the especially poisonous heads of the socialist hydra. Thus, socialism does not have sharply conspicuous forms in Zurich. The same can be said about literary socialism. Looking around the bookstores, I could hardly count five or six books with socialist content - it is clear that the demand for them is insignificant. But on the other hand, Russian nihilism has its manifestations in greater numbers than in Vienna in the local book world, although these manifestations, again, are not such that one can say that this is where this Beelzebub of our time and fatherland sits. The books behind the glass of the shops are the same ones that I saw already in Vienna, and only two or three new ones, of which I will name two books: “Scopal Spiritual Songs” and “The Life of Jesus” by Renan, a new popular edition. I stopped with bewilderment at the latest edition, which the well-wishers of our people called “popular.” How they managed to make another particularly popular publication out of such a popular book by a French writer remained a mystery to me, and I didn’t have to look inside the book. By the way, I had to meet here with one mysterious literary curiosity. Among other Russian books, I noticed a skinny little book, seemingly from a Moscow market edition, entitled: “Rebel in the Village, Berlin 1879.” Assuming that this is the creation of some semi-literate nihilist popularizing his ideas to the village people, I wanted to get acquainted with this little book once again to be convinced of the inability of propagandists to communicate with the Russian people. Imagine my surprise when, reading it, I found in it, in a dramatic form, a consistently presented refutation of the nihilistic nonsense on the part of the sophisticated Russian peasants. Whatever you want, the qui pro quo is quite pleasant, although, it must be admitted, the book, despite its theoretical value, was obviously compiled by a person who does not fully understand the spirit of thought and speech of the Russian peasant, since he often puts into the mouths of his talking persons knowledge, considerations and speeches that are completely beyond the control and alien to the ordinary Russian people. But, of course, we must be grateful to the author for his good intentions. But why he published his book abroad in Berlin - near Lipami - is incomprehensible. One of the attractions of Zurich, which gives it particular fame in Russia and Europe, is its famous polytechnic school, of which the university is part. The building of the polytechnic is enormous and occupies an excellent position on a high mountain, offering a distant view of the entire panorama of the city and its environs. I considered it my duty to visit this church of sciences. Among the many students of all kinds of nations scurrying back and forth, I also met several Russians. One of them especially diligently presented himself as Russian, but his type and speech clearly revealed that he was Russian - a Jew. He complained bitterly that the polytechnic did not accept Russian documents without an exam. Among the notices posted on the university walls, I noticed a handwritten notice from the famous writer, professor of world history Johann Scherr, that on October 24 (12) he would open lectures on the history of the second half of the 19th century. I did not fail to take the opportunity to listen to the famous professor and writer. The lecture was scheduled at 5 o'clock. evenings. A large audience gathered in a large auditorium. The lamps were lit. Professor Johann Scherr entered, greeted by the respectful bow of the audience. Having ascended to a high pulpit, at which one can only stand, he began the introductory lecture. His speech is loud, clear and bold, like the syllables of his writings. He chose as the subject of his lecture an assessment of the comparative significance of the materialistic and idealistic worldview for the development of mankind. Having expressed several bitter but truthful reproaches to modern practical materialism, which suppresses and drowns out the highest impulses of the spirit, he said that materialism as a scientific theory has some developmental significance, but very limited. It promotes a detailed scientific study of phenomena and nature, but the inevitable question for the human mind is: why, where, for what? – but is it not supported by materialistic theory? Therefore, the greatest minds, who make up the color and beauty of humanity, have always leaned more towards an idealistic worldview, one of the forms of which is religion. “Trace carefully the history of mankind,” said the inspired professor, “and you will find that everything great and glorious in human affairs has its source in this world view, just as the light and heat on our planet have its source in the central luminary of your solar system.” I left the audience at the end of the lecture with a feeling of deep satisfaction. The impression made by the lecture was enormous, and the students vied with each other to share it. I myself will never forget this impression, and it will forever remain with me as one of my dear memories. The famous publicist-professor is already elderly, with thick gray hair, but cheerful and young in spirit like a youth. Having gone into the university reading room and looked through the newspapers, I left the polytechnic and went down the staircase street into the city. The heart of Switzerland. – Geneva and the national celebration in it. - Attractions. - Two philosophers. – Ferney Patriarch and his palace. – Russian Church and Russian Library. - Taming the wayward. – What is freedom? The next day I left Zurich and the train rushed to Geneva, through the very heart of Switzerland. And it must be said that this small republic has a great and, at the same time, quite stony heart. Gigantic mountains are piled one on top of the other and, like gray-haired thousand-year-old giants, with luminous bald heads, silently and gloomily look from behind the clouds at the train, which, like a snake, wriggles among them, looking for gorges for passage. The clouds do not dare to rise to their peaks and stealthily make their way along the loins of the stone giants, and only Alpine eagles soar freely above the clouds and take their royal rest on the sparkling white peaks. Man usually grovels humbly at the foot of the mountains, but sometimes he rises to dizzying heights, and there, on the narrow slopes of the mountains, his dwellings huddle like eagles’ nests. And the train still rattles and twists, and then rises into the blue heights, under which an abyss yawns, then bursts into the dark womb of the mountains, where instant night settles down. But then - it was as if a new sky suddenly opened at the bottom of the train; Passengers rushed to the windows in surprise and saw the famous Lake Geneva in front of them. It is impossible to find colors to depict the truly wonderful beauties of this lake. For two hours, the train rushes along its shore, bordered by golden vineyards, and you cannot tear yourself away from the enchanting spectacle, which, however, is every now and then interrupted by gloomy tunnels, as if deliberately calculated to further enhance the impression of beauty by extreme contrast. Beyond the charming town of Lausanne, nestling on a slope leading down to the lake, Geneva appeared in the distance, and in a few minutes I was already in the very capital of the Geneva Republic. Walking along the clean and straight streets of the city, I was struck by their emptiness and deadness. Not a soul was visible on the streets, the shops were closed and curtained. I was ready to pronounce a verdict unfavorable for the city regarding its lifelessness, but I remembered that it was a Sunday, and everything was immediately explained. It is clear that historical lessons are not in vain and the stern preaching of the Swiss reformers was reflected in this reverence for Sunday. Unnoticed, however, I came out onto the square adjacent to the lake embankment, and it was swarming with people. Among the crowd stood a monument, on which the gaze of thousands of people was fixed. Not understanding what was the matter, I asked questions, and one should have seen the zeal with which the Genevan French began to introduce a foreigner into the subject of their celebration. It turned out that on this day the opening of a monument to the Genevan patriot Duke Charles of Brunswick took place. “Yes, monsieur,” one Genevan told me, “the Genevan people know how to honor their great men! Look how lovely this mausoleum is! What grace and luxury of form,” and the Genevan, with sparkling eyes and a voice trembling with patriotic flame, began to explain both the significance of the monument itself and especially the greatness of the “Geneva people.” I was interested not so much in the monument as in the talking Genevan, who apparently embodied all the patriotic fire of the tiny people. I have never encountered such burning patriotism among large nations, and I saw an interesting confirmation of the historical truth that the strength of patriotism among a people is in inverse relation to its numerical or spatial magnitude. As for the merits of the hero of the occasion, as it turned out, it consisted in the fact that the duke, when dying, bequeathed to the city his entire enormous fortune, worth up to twenty million francs. Obviously, with such merits, there was not only something to erect a good monument to him for, but there was also something to erect it on. Meanwhile, evening came, stars sparkled in the sky and in the lake, and a golden moon emerged from behind the gray coastal mountains. Masses of people moved smoothly and quietly along the magnificent embankment, the magical lights of the boats flashed against the dark background of the lake, and somewhere in the distance the sounds of the strange braying of a pack donkey were faintly heard. On the very shore, a lover of the beauty of nature set up a telescope and offered those who wanted to admire the surrounding mountains, the golden moon, and the ring-shaped Saturn. It was a wondrous sight and filled the soul with some indefinably sweet feeling rarely experienced. Geneva is an elegant and pretty city in appearance. This, they say, is little Paris. It is rich in attractions of all kinds, but I was most interested in its two main attractions - the philosophers Rousseau and Voltaire. The shadow of these giants of the last century still lives in Geneva, where they mainly created their transformative and destructive theories. There you can see monuments to both of them. The monument to Rousseau was erected above the lake, in the place where its blue waters noisily rush to the exit into the Rhone River. The remarkable philosopher, who saw all the evil in humanity in its deviation from the natural, primitive order of nature and in all his writings proclaimed his constant motto - Returnons a la nature (let's return to nature!), sits thoughtfully over the manuscript, and swans swim and splash around him in the fence. The situation is successful and fully corresponds to the spirit of the philosopher, who loved nature and was eager to reach it from the deadening shackles of artificial life. I have always been and am amazed by the deep inner truth of the ideal of the Genevan philosopher. One may not agree with its particulars and external superstructures and interpretations, but its general spirit is the spirit of all humanity. In it one can hear the longing of the human spirit for the lost primitive state of paradise, where man lived with nature and was blissful in harmonious unity with it. After all, indeed, all the disasters depressing humanity trace their origins to the moment when man, through his disobedience, violated the law given to him and broke his connection with nature, and when the divine voice of truth thundered: cursed is the earth in your deeds! Another philosophical attraction of a different nature is the Ferney patriarch Voltaire. He is called a friend of Rousseau. This is a mistake: there was no psychological basis for friendship between them. They were just friends in the ordinary sense of the word. The monument to Voltaire stands not in Geneva itself, but in its suburb of Ferney, about three miles from the city, on the French border. Humanity loves great people, even if they only wittily mocked his stupidity, as Voltaire did, and therefore the road to Ferney is paved by thousands of travelers who consider it their indispensable duty to visit the mental giant. I mechanically followed the example of others and took a cab ride to the residence of the destructive genius. Ferney is a small settlement founded by Voltaire and located beyond the Swiss border. The Genevans, as is known, expelled Voltaire from their city for his blasphemy and restless temper. To annoy his persecutors, the philosopher founded his residence outside the Swiss border, three miles from the city, and from there began to tyranny the Genevans with his poisonous witticisms. Mocking others about the small size of the city, Voltaire said that he only had to shake his wig to cover the whole of Geneva with a cloud of dust. This witticism, in my opinion, is very significant. The venerable philosopher really had a lot of dust, not only in his shaggy wig, but also in his head itself, and it was this dust, which he deftly knows how to throw into the eyes, that made him famous. Take seventy-eight volumes of his works - there is so much dust in there, and woe to anyone who reads them without the protective glasses of criticism and reason. Meanwhile, the Geneva driver, cracking his whip and urging his horse with strange interjections - du! du! - he drove up to Ferney himself, and there on the first tavern there was a sign of the great philosopher. “Tavern Voltaire,” the sign read. Other establishments did not lag behind the tavern, and the name of the great philosopher was visible above the doors of the small tavern. But this was not the main church of the priest of unbelief. Voltaire had his own palace, in which he received worship from his many slaves and from where he sent his destructive attacks to the world. There was solemn silence all around when I approached this palace; only the slight whisper of the centuries-old chestnut trees surrounding him could be heard and the fountain in the middle of the courtyard threw out gurgling streams. Majestic nature spilled peace and bliss into the soul; but among this enchanting and caressing nature, the sarcastically Mephistophelian face of the owner of the palace himself looked like a demonic ghost. I have seen statues and portraits of the philosopher many times, but nowhere does he so clearly express the entire essence of his spirit. “I will destroy the world, and I will only mock the work of my destruction,” this face says clearly and loudly. Meanwhile, several more travelers arrived, and the old servant took us to explore the palace and its attractions. “Here is the office where Voltaire wrote... here is the bedroom where he slept... here is the stick with which he walked, and here are the shoes that he put on in the morning,” the servant sang in a mechanical recitative, and all the travelers examined both the stick and the shoes with trembling emotion, and the sarcastic face of the owner of these things looked from different walls of the palace with his piercing gaze and invariably repeated: “Oh, people, people! how pathetic and stupid you are!” Behind the palace fence stands a small church with a rooster instead of a cross, and the pediment inscription reads: Deo erexit Voltaire - “Voltaire erected to God.” In moments of complacency, Voltaire loved to blaspheme, and at one of these moments he decided to build a church in order to perpetuate his blasphemy with a lasting monument. And what could be more blasphemous than the inscription with which he decorated this church? This is the satanic pride of those who want to be like gods... At one time, however, this church served as a parish church for the villagers and Catholic services were performed in it, but now it serves only as an object of surprise for idle tourists. There are few real churches in Geneva and they are all of a simple type, so they do not represent anything special. Both in Zurich and here the preaching of the Swiss reformers, apparently, fell on good soil and bore fruit in the form of a disdainful attitude towards the appearance of the church. But the Russian Church stands out among them all the more clearly. Situated on a spacious platform that forms one of the ledges of a large terrace, it, with its five golden domes on the Byzantine body, constitutes a true decoration of the city. The Genevans are fully aware of this and therefore diligently place it among the sights of the city in their photographic albums and even on notepaper as a decorative vignette. It is small in size, but this makes it even more light and beautiful. The thick curly acacias surrounding her complete the charm of the picture, from which the sweet greetings of a loved one emanate. I didn’t have to go inside the church, and I also didn’t have to learn about the size and composition of the local Russian colony. But that it was quite numerous could be judged by the signs that caught the eye when examining the city. In Geneva, more than in the two previous cities I saw, there were objects indicating the presence of a Russian element. So, there were often Russian inscriptions on the signs, and one sign in gold letters announced “Russian Easter and Easter cakes.” But most of all, Russian inscriptions were visible above various bookstores, announcing the sale of Russian books. Finally, in one place I was happy to read a large sign announcing the entire “Russian Library”; but as soon as he approached the mirrored window of the store and looked at the rows of books displayed there, he realized that the sign told a warring lie. This is not a Russian library at all and is even immeasurably less Russian than any French or German library. True, Russian letters and words can be seen on the books, but their spirit, the spirit - alas - is nihilistic, and therefore, of course, not Russian. And there’s just something missing, oh, just God! A good half of the books, like treasures offered for sale, are already old and dirty rags. But there are probably smart buyers for it too. By the way, I had to meet the spirit of nihilism not only in dead books, but also in a living body. On the very day of my arrival in Geneva, walking along the lake embankment in the evening and admiring both the quiet splash of blue waves and the surrounding silence of a Sunday afternoon, I was suddenly struck by a dull rumble escaping from some closed place. As soon as I had time to pay attention to this noise, a young blouse turned around the corner and shouted in Russian in a loud voice: “Forward, forward...” No matter how joyful it was to meet a fellow countryman in a foreign land, in view of the fact that the fellow countryman was too diligent in writing Russian thoughts, I only began to watch him from afar and was an involuntary witness to the impossible tyranny of the republican police. Before the fellow countryman had time to sing the first verse of his anthem, a police sergeant turned out from somewhere, angrily tugged him by the shoulder, and sternly said: “Monsieur, I ask you to shut up, otherwise I will arrest you for disturbing public order.” The free son of freedom shuddered and interrupted his anthem mid-sentence. Having recovered a little and looking at the sergeant with dull eyes, the blouse in the French-Nizhny Novgorod language either apologized to the sergeant, or reproached him for restricting his freedom; but in any case he tamed his temper. Swaying, he trudged on, only saying to himself in a thin and plaintive voice: forward, forward... With that, he disappeared into some slums. And I was left to enjoy the newly established silence of a Geneva Sunday, and involuntarily thought about what freedom is?.. The police sergeant obviously thought that he was defending freedom by taming my compatriot, and my compatriot, on the contrary, thought that the sergeant was restricting his freedom. Yes, “a damned question,” they would say to Heine. French land. – Paris and first impressions. - Attractions. - Cathedral of Our Lady. - Pantheon. – The coffin of Napoleon I. – Divine service in the Church of St. Rock. – Russian Church and worship in it. - Parisian morals. – Counterfeit money under the brand: freedom, equality and fraternity. A few minutes after leaving Geneva, the train crosses the Swiss border. Switzerland ends, but the mountains do not end. For two or three hours, the train rushes along the banks of the Rhone River, as if using the path laid by it; and indeed, along its course, nature piled up terrible rocky heights, which only the wild elements, and not man, could break through. But these are the last efforts of Swiss nature; its strength is noticeably weakening. When meeting the Lyon branch of the railway, the train turns sharply to the north and - the mountains are gone: a distant green plain opens up before you, on which the eye sees only continuous rows of slender poplars. This is the land of the French. Halfway to Paris, the soil begins to ripple again and the train passes through many tunnels, but towards Paris itself the mountains fade away and give way to plains, on one of which this modern Babylon is located. It was night when I stepped onto the pavement of Paris. Hiding this notorious capital of the world from the eyes of the newcomer, the darkness thereby contributed to the development of monstrous pictures of the views and life of this city, the name of which is inextricably linked with many great - both in the tragic and in the comic sense - world-historical events. But the fatigue that was natural along the way took its toll and made me forget about Paris and the whole world for a while. The next day, my first thought was to go to the Arc de Triomphe, from which, according to the descriptions, a marvelous panorama of the whole of Paris opens. Here is the whole city in front of me. From the arch rising on Star Square, slender streets radiate in all directions - alleys covered with rows of trees; behind them one can already see chaotic masses of houses, above which brown towers occasionally rise and - only... The panorama does not live up to expectations at all, and is infinitely inferior to the panorama that opens from the Ivan the Great Bell Tower to Moscow. Inside, however, Paris is overwhelming in its diversity and in two or three days it is completely impossible to navigate it in order to make a definite impression. You can only inspect individual points. The widest of the streets radiating from the Square of the Star, the so-called “Champs Elysees”, abuts the famous Place de la Concorde. It was difficult to enter this square while maintaining peace of mind. Historical memories burst into the soul like a stormy stream and deprive the possibility of calm contemplation. How much human blood has been shed here, how many wildest and most insane crimes have been committed! To the right and to the left, magnificent fountains roar, throwing out water in many and varied streams - but the murmur of these transparent streams only intensifies the memory of the streams of blood spilled here. Revolutionaries of the last century raged in this square; here the king and queen were beheaded and here the demonic machine - the guillotine - carried out its bloody work on thousands of human heads... It was here that the last commune was mainly rampant; beyond the garden rise the sad ruins of the once magnificent Tuilerie Palace. On the ruins, as if to mock common human sense and to insult the best human aspirations, there flaunts, disgraced by unclean, villainous, criminal hands, the great motto: freedom, equality and brotherhood... No, this is not the Place de la Concorde, but the square of madness, crime and blood! One memory, however, pours joy into the Russian heart: here, on this square, in 1814, in the presence of three kings with Emperor Alexander the Blessed at their head, a solemn thanksgiving prayer was performed for the victories over the military genius who had forgotten the limits of moderation - Napoleon I, which ended with the entry of the allied armies into Paris. Russian troops were then stationed in the Champs-Elysees. In the very center of the square stands a magnificent Egyptian, so-called Luxor, obelisk, covered with hieroglyphs glorifying Pharaoh Ramses II. This forty-century antiquity brings some peace to the idea of ​​the square. The obelisk somehow miraculously survived the insane rage of the Communards. After visiting a number of palaces and the rich Louvre Museum, I went to the famous Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. This cathedral is more interesting, it seems, for the historical memories associated with it than for its appearance. He is gloomy and gloomy, and his two headless towers make him sad. After all, how many times in the course of even one century did the city patronized by Our Lady of Paris lose its head! On its walls the same revolutionary motto is constantly striking: freedom, equality and brotherhood. The letters of this motto carved on stone slabs here are cast in red, the color of the blood shed many times here. As you know, this cathedral has more than once been the subject of insane blasphemy by the leaders of the revolution. In 1793, a wild crowd, intoxicated with destruction, wanted to destroy the Cathedral of Our Lady, but limited itself to only destroying the sculptural statues that adorned its walls in abundance. But the same crowd was completely satisfied with causing internal insult to the church. In the same year, it was turned into a church of the insane religion of Reason, the Statue of Liberty was placed in the place of the Mother of God, and in place of church hymns, free-patriotic songs of the National Guard were heard within its walls. The torch of Truth burned in the choir, and above it stood the Church of Philosophy with busts of Voltaire, Rousseau and others. In the middle of the church, on a throne, sat the figure of Reason in the form of the ballet dancer Maillard and received divine worship from the maddened admirers of Reason. Virgins in ballroom costumes with torches in their hands solemnly walked around the church, but then, turning into side chapels, indulged in wild orgies... The great Parisian shrine was subjected to such desecration. The last commune also wanted to try its destructive instincts on the people's shrine - a violent crowd placed fire under it, which, fortunately, did not do much harm. A visitor to the cathedral involuntarily experiences all these memories, especially since the leaders of the cathedral now and then dwell with particular interest on indicating the signs associated with these memories. The interior and exterior of the cathedral are decorated with many statues - both religious and simply historical. So, for example, one gallery is entirely occupied by statues of French kings. Looking at this wealth and variety of statues, you think that you are in one of the branches of the Louvre Museum. The middle of the church is separated from the rest of the parts by a high grille, on which advertisements are posted about prices for places there. Of particular interest to the visitor is the cathedral treasury (tresor), which contains many rich church utensils and luxurious archiepiscopal vestments donated by various kings. It is difficult to compare this Parisian treasury with our Moscow patriarchal sacristy, because they differ a lot in style and content: but the French treasury, at the first superficial review, amazes with no less brilliance and luxury than the Moscow one - although perhaps the effect here is greatly facilitated by extremely skillfully made storage facilities: before your eyes they reveal their treasures with truly theatrical dexterity and grace. Among the treasures here are shown the crown of thorns of the Savior, acquired by Saint Louis, the golden cross of Emperor Manuel Komnenos, part of the Life-Giving Cross, as well as one rich Russian banner that we lost in Sevastopol, and the bloody robes of several Parisian archbishops who fell at the hands of revolutionaries, and much more. Steep spiral staircases lead to the towers. Upon entering the church platform, from which the towers actually begin, you are struck by many stone statues representing the wildest forms of the devil and his angels. Here, it seems, are depicted all the forms of the devil that the gloomy Catholic fantasy of the Middle Ages could create; you see, for example, the ugliest devil who is frantically gnawing on a cat, etc. It is difficult to look at these statues with indifference. In one of the towers hangs the famous French bell - Bourdon 2, which is a source of pride for Parisians as the famous Tsar Bell is for Muscovites. The Frenchman enthusiastically explained the mechanisms by which the tongue of the bell is set in motion; but I sinned against modesty and interrupted the Frenchman with the remark that in Russia we have dozens of such bells and even several times more - and they all ring without any mechanism. In fact, the French Bourdon is a complete dwarf compared to our Tsar Bell and weighs less than one thousand pounds. Next to Bourdon hangs our Russian bell, taken by the French in Sevastopol. Our Sevastopol resident is much smaller than Burdon, and I, hitting him with a hammer so that his sound could be compared with the proud sound of a vessel, wanted to hear the plaintive story of his captivity and longing for his homeland; but to his surprise, his sound turned out to be thicker and bassier than Bourdon himself, although, perhaps, this depends on his Russian “rudeness” in comparison with his sophisticated French neighbor. The view from the towers is nothing special. You can only admire the blue meanders of the Seine, lost in the masses of huge buildings. Another of the most interesting Parisian churches is the Church of St. Genevieve or Pantheon. Its foundation dates back to the time before the great revolution, but the revolutionaries tried to make it their church and turned it into a simple monument to the great men of the French people. In 1851 it was again converted into a church and services are held there. But to this day this church represents a strange mixture of religious and political elements. Its interior is very beautiful, decorated with magnificent statues and paintings of religious Catholic cult, and for a pious Catholic soul there is undoubtedly a lot of edifying and instructive things there, but its exterior is completely political and, one might say, pagan in nature. First of all, the pediment inscription says that this is not a church, but a simple monument. It reads: “The fatherland is grateful to great men.” This would, of course, be nothing: the church does not shy away from great people... But look closely at the bas-reliefs and you will see a pagan element. The pediment bas-reliefs represent in the images of women: the fatherland, freedom and history. The Fatherland, of course, at the inspiration of its neighbors, distributes palm trees to great people, to whom it owes its greatness and its glory. Great men crowd around. To the right stand military geniuses and between them in the foreground is Napoleon I, and to the left are crowded scientists and philosophers and between them, next to Fenelon, Laplace, Cuvier and Lafayette, such men as Voltaire, Mirabeau and others are awarded palms from the promiscuous fatherland. However, this church is especially supportive of Voltaire and keeps a coffin in its basement as a shrine. him, as well as the statue - with his famous sarcastic face, which is even more sarcastic here - perhaps because it is not in place. On the interior walls of the church, special attention is drawn to a number of paintings depicting the life of St. Genevieve - from childhood to death. Many very interesting and characteristic episodes from modern heroines of historical events (from the time of Attila) are introduced into the paintings. On two columns there are notices inviting people to special services in favor of the Alsatians and Lorraineers. What meaning these services contain, political or simply charitable, I could not find out. The architectural appearance of the church fully corresponds to its name - Pantheon. – The Cathedral of the Invalids, which contains the coffin of Napoleon I, is somewhat similar to the described church: the same mixture of religious and political elements. On the outside, between superb columns in the Greek style, there are statues: Charlemagne and Saint Louis, and below are statues of the four virtues: Justice, Temperance, Prudence and Strength. The golden dome, apparently the only one in Paris, rises proudly above the colonnade. The interior of the church is striking in its aristocracy. The white marble walls and floor sparkle with extraordinary elegance and purity, confusing even the unaccustomed visitor. When you enter inside, in the middle of the church itself you see what looks like a fountain round pool. But when you come closer, the coffin of the great Napoleon opens in front of you in the depths. The impression is strong, but difficult to define. A sarcophagus made of red Finnish marble, donated by our Emperor Nikolai Pavlovich, stands in the very recess, and on its sides, as if on guard, stand sculptural figures of Napoleon’s twelve main associates. Next to them are mounted many banners, the victorious trophies of a military genius; the banners bow to the coffin. There are undoubtedly Russians among them, but in the insufficient light it was difficult to see. Above the coffin rises a magnificent altar with an inscription expressing Napoleon’s cherished desire - to find a resting place in the fatherland dear to his heart. There are many picturesque images on the walls of the church. Particularly interesting is the painting on the dome depicting Saint Louis presenting Jesus Christ with the sword with which he defeated the enemies of Christianity. The other Parisian churches I examined are also very interesting and unique, but describing them would take up too much space. I will only mention the church of St. Sulpicia, where many notices are posted on the walls announcing the distribution of indulgences, indicating the feats that give the right to them; about the church of St. Magdalene, representing a type of Greek church, and about the church of St. Rock, famous for its artistic music. I had the opportunity to attend a service in this church. It was on Saturday October 20th, November 1st according to the new style, on the great feast of “All Saints” for the French. There were so many people praying that there were not enough chairs, and many crowded and pressed against the walls. Dead silence reigned in the church, broken only by the barely audible exclamation of the clergyman. But then the exclamation ended and the “amen” of the thunderous tenors filled the walls. In the choir at a distance, an organ began to play a melody and was picked up by a huge choir below, accompanied by several double basses. The impression was grandiose and the singing was pleasant to the ear; but it was difficult to force yourself to think that you were in a church: these rows of chairs, these double basses with bows, these suits (suisse) in theatrical costumes, with maces in their hands and triangular hats on their heads, and the choir itself with its artistic melody - all this had the character of a concert, but not a divine service. At the end of the singing, the organ in the distance continued the melody, which then seemed to freeze in the choir. You have to be a Catholic to draw even a drop of religious feeling from this sea of ​​aesthetics. The next day, Sunday, the measured sounds of the bell called Orthodox pilgrims to the Russian church. In a foreign land, love for one’s family is always felt more strongly, and the Orthodox “blame” of the Russian bell echoed with joyful news in my heart and with irresistible force drew me to the Orthodox church. The service was performed by the venerable rector of the church, Archpriest V.A. Prilezhaev: the French singers harmoniously and harmoniously sang Orthodox songs that were incomprehensible to them and, to their surprise, they pronounced the words of even such a long song as a symbol of faith so clearly and well that they made them forget about their nationality and gave the impression of purely Russian church singing. The performance of the Kherubimskaya (No. 3 of Bortnyansky) was especially harmonious and good and resembled in miniature the singing of our excellent Alexander Nevsky Metropolitan Choir. Bogomoltsev had a full church, perhaps the entire Russian colony in Paris, and at its head was His Imperial Highness Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich the Elder, who occupied a place at the right choir. Thus, there was a purely Russian atmosphere here: Russian worship, Russian people. The deacon's thick, solid bass completely completed the Russian picture. However, no, it was not the deacon’s bass that completed this picture, but the Russian beggars standing in the vestibule. One must wonder where the Russian beggars in Paris came from, but this is a fact and its explanation can only be found in the immutable word of the Savior: “you always have beggars with you.” The church itself, of purely Moscow style with five golden domes, makes a very good impression and for Paris serves as one of the attractions diligently shown by its inhabitants. The only pity is that it stands in a completely unfavorable place, in a courtyard surrounded by not entirely artistic buildings, with access to an insignificant, remote, narrow and abandoned street, on which vacant lots with garbage stand unoccupied for decades. This nondescript setting takes away a lot from its greatness and beauty. The interior is very beautiful, and the side recesses with Bogolyubov’s paintings make a strong aesthetic impression. The base of the dome is occupied by the writing of a song - “Let all flesh be silent.” Having skimmed through it, I noticed several rather gross grammatical errors: and one could not help but complain about the lack of attentiveness to the Russian shrine of those on whom the greater correctness of the text could depend. But in any case, the overall impression remains magnificent, and I left the church with a completely satisfied feeling. While viewing the sights of Paris, I naturally wanted to penetrate into the inner life of its inhabitants. But I must admit that there was no way to achieve this in the short time that was at my disposal. The life of such a crowded city is too complex for one to navigate it in two or three days and make more or less interesting observations. I saw the life of Parisians only on the street, and not in those secret hiding places where it manifests itself without any embellishment; and it must be said that the street life of Parisians makes a pretty good impression and does not at all justify those current ideas about its debauchery that exist in Russia. Perhaps the former easy-going Paris, taught a lesson by the ordeal of the last war, has settled down and with severe abstinence wants to make amends for its former iniquities, but in any case, the “exhibition of vice” with which, according to legend, the capital of the French shone in the past, is now completely invisible. On weekdays, Paris is even somewhat boring and seemingly deserted: on holidays it is extremely crowded, but again quiet and modest. On the big feast of “All Saints” for the French, Paris even presented a touching spectacle: it was a holiday of remembrance of the dead, and one had to see the touching zeal with which everyone rushed to the cemeteries with bouquets, flowers, and immortals to remember their fathers and brothers. Those people have a lot of moral strength in themselves, who love to honor their ancestors, and this is exactly what the Parisians declared themselves to be. In the evening of the same day, folk festivities were organized and, by the way, a ball throwing was held in the Tuilerie Garden. This beloved, completely innocent and, perhaps, children's game gathered vast masses of people around it, and it was interesting to watch how older people competed with children in the strength and dexterity of throwing the ball. This game gave the impression of innocence, but all the more important is the fact that this innocent game attracted many spectators and participants. Needless to say, in these vast masses there was not a single one to be seen of those fellows who, like ours, are so happy about the holiday that they are drunk until daybreak. The silence and calm were amazing and there was absolutely no concern for the “policemen”, who, as we know, disappear on holidays from “business”. Morality is the child of religion, and I tried to find in Paris this causal connection between them. But it’s remarkable that this connection is not noticeable here, unless my observation is correct. Religion with its manifestations seems to hide in some hidden corners in Paris. I with great zeal eg. I looked for church magazines and newspapers - and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find them. I have been to rich reading rooms, where many different newspapers and magazines are subscribed to, but I have not seen a single one from church ones. Even clerical newspapers are hard to come by, and I had to doubt the strength of the local clericalism. True, priests and members of various monastic orders often meet here, for example. capuchins; but they walk like shadows through the streets, not drawing anyone’s attention to themselves, except perhaps the naughty boys who are not averse to gawking at the naked, half-shaved heads of the Capuchins in their wide brown caftans. There is no trace of those kneeling and raising of hands that I saw at every step in our Catholic Vilna. The workers here, this main contingent of the revolution and the commune, are modest and polite, and walk like turkeys on the streets in their starched but unbelted blue blouses. I met many of them in the Louvre Museum, busy examining its artistic treasures. How can we explain after this the horrors of destruction and crime that were carried out recently by these same workers? The greatest blame must undoubtedly be attributed to outside arson, and it is known that with long and frequent ignition and fanning, the rawest material will catch fire. That is why right-thinking people here look at the future with shudder in view of the amnesty announced for the communists. Many of the latter had already returned from exile to Paris and at first declared their obstinate, seditious disposition, and, taking advantage of the workers' congress that took place in mid-October in Marseilles, they tried to agitate the population in favor of the revolutionary plans of the local congress. But so far they have not succeeded. Now all they can do is fruitlessly ring the air with their motto: freedom, equality and brotherhood. This motto, I note, by the way, has recently been completely compromised: under its guise, counterfeit money has appeared - five-franc coins. In France, there are silver five-franc coins, mostly with the coat of arms of the former Emperor Napoleon III; but the malicious counterfeiter chose to issue coins with the republican stamp and the motto proclaiming freedom, equality and fraternity. Anyone now, having received such a coin, fully feels the bitterness and disadvantage of such “freedom, equality and fraternity.” Through carelessness, or rather, inexperience, I got hold of one of these coins and now, with my strict monarchical convictions, I have the unfortunate pleasure of constantly running around with the republican motto. They don’t take it in any shop... The stormy strait is the guardian of Albion. – London and first impressions. – Unbearable atmosphere and ebullience of movement. - Attractions. – Cathedral of St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey. – Bible in London. – Biblical theater. – Festival of “showing the Lord Mayor” and folk fun. A fast train takes several hours to cover the space from the capital of the French to the extreme point of the European continent - the town of Calais. About two hours before arriving in this city, you feel that the mainland is melting before you, and the ever-deepening blue makes you aware of the approach of another element. But here is the famous strait - Pas de Calais. The train stops at the very shore, as if in annoyance that the new capricious elements do not allow it to move forward. Passengers transfer to the ship. The heartbeat involuntarily quickens when the elements change, and this element, as if on purpose, with its restlessness, makes you regret leaving the mainland. The steamer rushed confidently along the foamy waves, but strong squalls did not allow it to move smoothly, and it, shuddering and rocking, conveyed its anxiety to the passengers, many of whom demanded the fatal cups and sat dejectedly over them, paying tribute to the ferocious strait. Grasping the side with both hands (it was unthinkable to stand on the deck without support), I looked at the furious elements with more curiosity than fear and thought: here it is, the native element of the famous seafaring islanders, in it alone is a sufficient guarantee for them of their worldwide domination and their inaccessibility, indeed, this stormy strait is the natural guardian of Albion, and its inflexibility once broke, as is known, almost the indestructible power of the great military genius of the French on the mainland. But then the excitement began to calm down, the steamer cut through the waves more boldly, and the ladies, revived from fear, began to try to walk along one deck plank without support. In the distance, out of the thick blue, the steep white, one might say sugar-colored, if they weren’t chalky, shores of proud Albion appeared. The English train, having received passengers, rushed through Dover to the famous abode of the lords, to London. Two hours later, the train was already thundering right over London, along a rail track laid between houses. The very entry into London - this wonderful trip through massive houses and over bridges spanning the streets - certainly had all the conditions for the famous “metropolis” of the British to make an overwhelming impression on the newcomer. And I really looked down with superstitious fear from the carriage, where masses of people and carriages were fussily moving in the streets, not paying the slightest attention to the roar and whistle of the train rushing over their heads. But London made an even greater impression on me when, upon arrival, I had the opportunity, walking the streets, to observe street life up close and in detail, and not from a bird’s eye view. It must be said that in London the streets are quite narrow and irregular, but this all the more contributes to the crowding of the streets. It is difficult to describe what presented itself to my observation. A multitude of all kinds of carriages and omnibuses stretch back and forth; the coachmen shout at the top of their lungs not so much at the horses as at the masses of people crossing their path; the masses of people literally run along the sidewalks, constantly colliding and getting confused; newspaper boys trumpet the news in shrill voices; They are echoed in bass voices by huge fellows, hung in front and behind with huge pictures with advertisements; begging organ grinders beg for handouts with their squeaky melodies; Not far from them, a plaintive trio of some lady with two little ones can be heard, tearing their fragile lungs with a sad song; street boys in jester's caps, singing, are pushing a cart with some kind of stuffed animal and unceremoniously pushing aside those they meet on the road; agile cyclists fearlessly scurry between the rows of carriages like demons; the groan and hum tear the eardrum of the ear painfully, and the whistle and roar of trains running across the streets every now and then complete this truly Babylonian picture. I had previously read and heard stories about the extraordinary movement in London, but what I saw with my own eyes surpasses all description. Struck by this human bustle, at first I did not even notice the peculiarity of the London atmosphere, but when I went out a second and third time, I realized all its charm. You have to be a true Briton to stand it. I remember in a letter from Zurich I expressed that the main reason for socialism there was the factory atmosphere of the workers. Now I have to take back my word. Such a heavy, suffocating, smoky atmosphere, which the greatest capitalists in the world constantly breathe in London, cannot be found, one can safely say, in any of the unkemptest factories. The sun itself here cannot cope with the fog and only occasionally shows its gloomy red face, which has no shine, over the city. According to meteorological data, the sun in London shone for only eight hours during the week I lived here, although the weather was dry and relatively clear. But, wonderfully, in this unbearably suffocating atmosphere live such tall, healthy, fresh people, which are difficult to meet anywhere else. If about Paris I was forced to say that three days were completely insufficient to explore it, then about London, the greatest city in the world, I must say that even a month was not enough for it, and not just the week that I had to live in it. It is so overwhelming with its gloomy and fussy variety that, after living for a whole week, a person only begins to more or less distinguish individual points from the total mass. I will describe only its most famous sights, not to mention which in a letter from London would be tantamount to describing Rome and forgetting about the pope. I mean the Cathedral of St. ap. Paul's and Westminster Abbey. The majestic Cathedral of St. Paul is located in the city center in the so-called City. This is an extremely impressive and colossal building, which is perhaps even more grandiose because of its black appearance from atmospheric soot. In London, in general, all the houses are black and smoky and give a gloomy impression. Architecturally, this church is similar to the famous Roman church of St. Apostles. Peter and Paul and in terms of vastness it is the third among other churches in the Christian world. Its appearance is richly decorated with statues and various images of not only a religious, but also a political nature. With particular interest, a phoenix with the inscription “Resurgam” (I will rise again) is shown above the southern portico. They say that when the plan of the church was drawn up and a plot of land was measured out, one worker was ordered to bring a stone from the ruins of the old cathedral to lay the foundation for the building; he brought it and there was such an inscription on this stone, which, of course, was considered a favorable sign. The interior of the church amazes with the grandeur of its size and the beauty of the vaults. I was in this church during the evening service. Gas lighting, with fiery arcs describing the arches of the vaults, gave the church a solemn appearance: two harmonious choirs of singers filled the vaults with harmonious antiphonal singing and awakened a sweet feeling in the soul, reminiscent of a distant homeland. The general atmosphere of the service with such antiphonal singing is surprisingly similar to our church service, although the interior of the church differs greatly from the type of Russian churches. After viewing the church of St. Paul, to my surprise, I noticed that there were a lot of political elements in it and the walls were often lined and decorated with statues and paintings representing the apotheosis of various military and political heroes of the English people. Thus I saw a picture of the death of one heroic captain of the English service, who, after many victories over the enemy, was seriously wounded in one battle: an angel with a crown in his hand supports him and takes his last breath. On the left side of the church, the entire battle between the British and the Russians during the Crimean campaign is represented, and, of course, the British win. In view of all this, the Church of St. Paul is not only a church to the glory of the Most High God, but also a church of glory, in fact, British. His preaching pulpit, as high as a tower, is famous in London and its glory is currently successfully maintained by the famous Dean of the Cathedral, Stanley. Across the street from the cathedral there are many signs reading: “Cathedral Hotel”, “St. Paul”, etc. If the cathedral already contains some political elements, then Westminster Abbey with its main church is the real Pantheon of the great men of Albion, the true “church of British glory.” The abbey, first of all, it must be said, is striking in its appearance. This is a series of tall, extremely distinctive buildings topped with towers, more like an old-type fortress than a monastery. Inside it is a real museum. Here to the right and to the left you see statues, slabs, tombs of the most famous people, with inscriptions declaring their services to a grateful fatherland. Admirals and dukes, statesmen and writers, archbishops and orators are buried here - for all of them the fatherland created monuments, one way or another testifying to their great deeds. Some and even many monuments bear traces of highly artistic creativity and for the visitor constitute an object of high aesthetic pleasure. It is not without reason that English poets glorify the abbey in their poetic works, and many claim that viewing its monuments served as one of the strongest motives for their poetic creativity. The Abbey still houses the most remarkable people of England, and I noticed in it the tomb of the recently deceased famous geologist Lyell. The inscription on his tomb reads: “He devoted his entire life to unraveling the fragmentary chronicles of the history of the earth, tirelessly explored the real order of nature and thereby expanded the limits of knowledge, exerting an enormous influence on scientific thought.” How great are Your works, O Lord! Your thoughts are wonderfully deep! In general, from viewing the abbey, the visitor takes away a lot of instructive things: it introduces the cultural history of the English people with its visual monuments. Opposite the abbey stands the grandest church of the living pillars of Albion - Parliament with its Houses of Lords and Commons. I just looked at this kind of architectural miracle from the outside and, waving my hand at it, went inside the “courtyard of justice” standing nearby. Here an almost fabulous picture presented itself to my eyes. A row of desks located in an amphitheater was occupied by harrier-haired lawyers and court officials; Opposite them at a separate table sat two even grayer judges; but my amazement knew no bounds when I noticed that all of them had gray hair. It turns out that in England the servants of justice still retain the medieval form, which certainly required the judge to have gray hair as a real proof of his wisdom. The gray curled wig is also accompanied by a strange medieval wide cloak. Some kind of legal proceedings were taking place, but I did not have to find out how far the English judges in their gray wigs justify the famous saying that says: “A man’s gray hair is his wisdom.” From the world of false gray hair I went to the world of real centuries-old and thousand-year-old antiquities collected in the famous British Museum. The institution is so wonderful that not to visit it during your stay in London would mean committing the greatest crime against science. But at the same time it is so vast and contains so many treasures that when visiting it, I considered it necessary to limit myself to only one of its departments - archaeological, having examined mainly Egyptian and Assyrian antiquities. And how much great and important there is in these fragments of hoary antiquity! This is the source of this new historical science, which has recently begun to shed radiant light on much of the predominantly archaeological data of the Bible. One has only to take a closer look at these seemingly insignificant fragments with a knowing eye and you will see in them scientific, factual confirmation of many biblical legends. Unfortunately, our domestic theological literature has not yet presented a single more or less satisfactory work in this regard. But the British in this regard made the greatest contributions to biblical-historical science and deserve to be set as an example for us - Russians. The English, however, generally love the Bible as much as hardly any other Christian people. In Paris, for example, you will not soon find not only Bibles, but even any church newspaper. Here, on the contrary, you see the Bible first and foremost everywhere. Not to mention the fact that it is the property of every householder, you also see it in public houses and institutions. I was surprised when, entering London into a magnificent, luxuriously furnished reading room at a hotel, the first thing I saw on the table was a Bible in a rich English binding. In the bookshops, which in their wealth and luxury undoubtedly constitute one of the most interesting attractions of London, behind the plate-glass windows you will certainly find in the foreground the Bible - in the most luxurious editions and in the most exquisite bindings. Along with the Bible as a book, the British also love biblical texts. Stores of goods more or less related to religion or church are littered with texts like: “God is love,” “Love your enemies,” etc. Even newspaper advertisements are often supported by biblical texts. So, looking at the advertisements in one newspaper, I was surprised to see a quote from the book of Deuteronomy and with the text reading: “the blood of a man is his life,” but then under the text I read a speculative advertisement announcing that there you can get the best blood purifier in the world, eliminating all kinds of diseases and presenting a sure chance of living to a ripe old age, etc. If we judge, however, by appearance, then we must admit The English are generally the most religious people. The rigoristic reverence with which they treat Sunday is well known. I had to spend one Sunday in London, and I must say that what I saw exceeded all expectations: as if some almighty force instantly stopped this apparently inexorable sea of human vanity. Where on weekdays huge announcements about theatrical performances and various speculative enterprises are posted, on Sunday one could only see the same huge announcements in which various churches were notified of the Sunday sermons they were supposed to deliver. And the people stopped at these announcements with no less curiosity, as well as at the theater ones, and it seems that they went to church with no less zeal. At least the huge Cathedral of St. Paul's on the Sunday I spent in London was overflowing with worshipers. I don’t know to what extent the English church satisfies religious feelings, but that it is quite strong - it seems difficult to doubt this. Perhaps it is only this strong religious feeling of the English, which makes a great demand for its satisfaction, that one should attribute the incredible number of different religious and biblical societies that exist in London. But I find it difficult to say what to attribute to the new “biblical-theatrical society” that has now formed here. This original society set itself the goal of forming a biblical theater, where dramatic biblical stories would find a corresponding theatrical production; Moreover, the costumes and decorations are expected to strictly adhere to the scientific data of biblical archeology. According to newspaper reports, the first of these biblical dramas will be staged on stage, a play entitled “Moses in Egypt”; The role of the Pharaoh's daughter has already allegedly been taken on by one of London's most famous dramatic actresses. It's interesting to see what will come of this. On Monday, November 10th (new style) in London there was a very interesting public holiday “showing the people the new Lord Mayor.” I do not have time or space to describe this holiday, but I will only note that it served as an occasion for Londoners to express their grateful feelings to Premier Beaconsfield and his assistant the old mayor. People greeted both of them through the streets in the obligatory ceremonial procession with cries of “Zulus, Zulus!”, and in one place a huge stone was even thrown at the old mayor’s carriage, which, fortunately, did not harm him. Thus, the people took revenge on the late prime minister for his ambition that had forgotten its limits, to which he sacrificed tens of millions of people’s money with his Zulu war. That evening I witnessed the London folk revelry, and I confess that I had never seen anything like it. The illumination came on and countless masses of people poured into the streets, moving by some kind of continuous element. The British are generally a serious and respectable people, but this evening everything turned into endless fun and childish prank. The male element was armed with some kind of infernal machines, which, when touched by the fair sex, produced a piercing crash, causing a scream from the timid maidens; and the fair sex itself was armed with hand-held fountains, which poured a cold stream over the face of everyone whom the beauties chose as a victim of their pranks. All this was noisy, screaming, laughing and cackling, overwhelmed by an uncontrollable rush of mischief and fun. Never have I seen such carefree childishness among the masses, and especially never could I have imagined that the inhabitants of gloomy and foggy London could indulge in such endless playful fun. But it is remarkable that in this countless, intoxicated mass of people, there were no “cheerful” people in our Russian sense to be seen. Everything was fun, but decent, naughty, but not outrageous, intoxicated, but not drunk, and, of course, there was no news of arrests or protocols. The night before boarding an ocean ship. – Morning and transfer to “Scythia”. – The route from Liverpool to Queenstone. - Open ocean. - Storm. – Condition and hopes of passengers. - Columbus and his faith. – Sunday worship in the middle of the ocean. - The shore of the “other world”. From the gloomy nest of the lords, a fast five o'clock train takes you into the arms of London's younger brother - the rich and second largest industrial city in England, Liverpool. The country weather in England is far from being the same as in London, and I admired the lovely landscapes and landscapes that sparkled in the bright sun with almost spring-like beauty. But the November sun was not generous with its rays and soon disappeared; Meanwhile, the seaside city was approaching, and with it its beauty. Looking out the window about half an hour later after sunset, I no longer recognized the former cheerful landscapes: a blinding fog covered everything in impenetrable darkness, through which it was barely possible to see the thick frost, a white-blue veil, spreading on the ground. My heart involuntarily trembled at the sight of such a dramatic change; in bewilderment, I asked a naive question - what is this? - to his German neighbor, who replied that this is “England is the sister of Siberia.” I have never been to Siberia, but I do not think that it could have such a depressing picture as presented itself in the vicinity of Liverpool. For some reason, right in front of the city, the train stopped for several minutes and, apparently, over some kind of abyss, in which nothing was visible, but from the depths of which came the puffing of some cars, rapid whistles and a dull roar - a truly hellish picture. In Liverpool I had to “have a quiet night,” as the agent of the ocean shipping company on whose ship I had a ticket recommended, so that I could get up early in the morning and go to the ship. “Calm down”... what sarcasm this good-natured word of the affectionate agent sounded to my ear! Have you ever spent the night before an event in your life that was fraught with the greatest dangers, in your opinion, and which required a terrible moral struggle for you to decide on? – This was the Liverpool night for me: there was no question of peaceful sleep. Nevertheless, the strength aches and the straw, and fatigue shackled the excited spirit into a weak, anxious sleep, now looking for the only support in a quiet, but unusually loud and speaking a lot for the heart prayer. In the morning the agent promised to wake me up at 7 o'clock, but the excited spirit forestalled his service: I myself got up much earlier. And surprisingly, yesterday’s anxiety was no longer in my soul! The bright sun dissipated the fog and at 9 o'clock I set off on the ship, which was transporting passengers to the ocean steamship Scythia, which was stationed at a distance from the shore. The ocean giant stood calmly and majestically on the water, breeding couples, and transport steamers fussily ran around it, delivering passengers and cargo. Having taken my cabin, I went to inspect the “small tree”, to which I entrusted my life and on which I pinned my hope - to get to the “other world”. This “tree” was more than 60 fathoms in length with a huge red chimney and several masts. On the deck, in several places, steam hoisting engines were working hard, lifting cargo from barges and steamers, and motley groups of passengers were crowded everywhere. The panorama opened up in all directions and was enchanting. Populated shores were visible on three sides, the fourth merged with the sky: countless ships and steamships in all directions cut through the light waves of the bay sparkling in the sun, and sea gulls swarmed in the air with a cheerful cry. Taking a closer look at the passengers, I noticed that not only young men seeking a spacious life, but also very old men, all of whose desires, apparently, should be limited to a warm, calm place on the mainland, were striving for the “new world”; not only single people, but also family people - with wives and children. For me, in whose mind the “new world” was almost equivalent to the name “the other world,” this was a phenomenon as much as unexpected as it was encouraging. But what surprised and encouraged me even more was the cheerful mood of these passengers: one would think that they were setting off on some kind of trip along the Volga, approximately from Nizhny to Astrakhan, but not at all along the boundless, frightening ocean. From all this I realized that traveling from Europe to America was far from an unusual phenomenon for these people and for these places - and my fears began to dissipate. Entering the magnificent common room or "salon", I also noticed calming signs here: everything here was light and graceful; above the tables on wooden shelves stood crystal and earthenware in recessed places; its integrity obviously suggested the absence of such desperate rocking as the descriptions of ocean voyages frighten. Although later I had to be somewhat unconvinced of the truth of my conclusions, nevertheless they served me well, reassuring me at first. At 12 o'clock on Saturday November 3rd (15th New Style) "Scythia" weighed anchor and moved smoothly, as if with a proud consciousness of its strength, on its long journey. Ships and steamers being overtaken by her flashed on the sides, and behind them they sank in the waters of the shore. With a farewell, sad look I watched the receding shores; and they sank more and more, and finally disappeared completely. A fresh breeze blew in the open space, which, in conjunction with the falling night, forced the passengers to take refuge in their cabins. A magnificent dinner was served in the cabin, after which the passengers, divided into groups, engaged in games, conversations, reading, writing, which all presented a picture of ordinary “earthly” life: nothing made it clear that this whole house with cheerful people was built not even on sand, but right above the abyss, where terrible monsters roam - sharks and whales 3 . The next day, in the morning, the shores appeared and soon anchor was dropped in the magnificent roadstead of the Irish city of Queenstone. This is the first and last station on the great Atlantic route. Passengers were in a hurry to hand over letters to the post office, and some went ashore to listen to the Sunday service and thus stock up on new strength for the great and difficult journey. At 4 pm the ship weighed anchor and said the last “sorry!” to Europe. – The open ocean begins from Queenstone. Anyone who has seen an ordinary sea, in which the shores do not see each other, will not imagine anything special about the ocean in its calm state: the same huge circle of water, mathematically correctly drawn by the compass of illusion, merging with the heavens at its peripheries. This is how I saw the Atlantic Ocean when I went out on deck on Monday morning. The sun was still shining brightly and playing with the waves, and the seagulls were calmly engaged in their usual fishing. So the whole day passed, and I began to reason with myself that the ocean is not a terrible thing at all, traveling on it is not only not dangerous or difficult, but even pleasant, but only somewhat monotonous; and at the same time a thought flashed through my head: if only a breeze would add variety to the journey... Oh, I repent a thousand times of that unfortunate lust! As if wanting to teach a lesson for a rash desire, the ocean decided to leave its calm state: the giant woke up and powerfully moved its terrifying body. By noon on Tuesday there was no longer a clear sun on the horizon, clouds covered his face; Instead, a gusty wind whistled and howled in the ship's rigging. The ocean turned brown and frowned. Foamy waves ran angrily across his face. “Scythia” trembled, but still rushed forward orderly, cutting and repelling the angry waves. And the wind grew stronger and the waves rose higher. The passengers became quiet and, perched on the side of the deck protected from the wind, looked gloomily at the fierce waves. And these servants of the ocean, driven by the whips of the wind, pounced on the “Scythia” with more and more fury and desperately stormed it from the sides. She couldn't stand it and swayed. The rocking soon intensified to the point that it was impossible to stand on the deck without holding on to the railing. The ranks of passengers on deck thinned; the ocean called many to make a disgusting sacrifice to him. But then another desperate blow of the wave - and the ship tilted to the point that a foamy wave rushed onto the deck, and the chairs on which the passengers were sitting rolled noisily towards the side, creating an unimaginable commotion. One venerable mother of the family, carefully wrapped up by her husband, sat calmly with her three children: this blow instantly knocked them all out of their seats and they literally rolled towards the side, where they were doused with foamy water. The father rushed to pick them up in horror, but only the frightened mother took advantage of his services, and the children - oh, they jumped up with a cheerful laugh and turned the object of fear for adults into fun. When the adults saw this, it became more fun. After this, the passengers took refuge in their cabins. All that was left on the deck was the wild sea wind and his friends – the ship’s English sailors. Dressed in leather suits, they made their way along the deck like ghosts and, tightening or correcting the tackle, sang their English work song to the whistle of the wind, the tune of which is almost more bleak than our well-known Russian work “cudgel”. The bell called for dinner (at 6 p.m.), but barely a quarter of the passengers and not a single woman showed up: everyone suffered from seasickness. The salon now presented a heart-rending picture: the plates, despite the bars with places for them placed on the tables, threw out their contents, spoons, knives, forks ran and rattled across the tables, and the dishes hung above seemed to be singing their last farewell song with their ringing and rattling. The sleep that followed obviously could not have been restful, if anyone had it at all. In the morning, the wind apparently began to die down, and the passengers came to life a little; but alas, a new storm, almost from the opposite direction, again whistled through the rigging and instantly destroyed hopes. The ocean was covered with a white foamy veil and looked like snowdrifts, along which foamy splashes rushed and swirled from the wind like a snowstorm. Signal bells and whistles calling on the sailors became more frequent on deck, and more often the wave broke into it. The rocking became so intense that my neighbor advised me not to sleep on my high-hanging bunk. I was about to express hope that the weather would improve, but he confidently noted that tomorrow it would be even worse... And his words were justified. On Thursday, the 8th, the “Scythia” and its passengers had to endure a real fierce storm; the wind raged with terrible force on the deck and tore at the soul with its whistling and thundering howl. A foamy snowstorm rose high above the surface and rushed across the ship. The waves grew to terrifying proportions and, like snowy mountains, moved menacingly across the face of the ocean, as if looking for someone to crush... The huge ship in front of them was reduced to an ordinary insignificant steamer and, barely audibly tapping with its propeller, seemed to beg for mercy... On Tuesday and Wednesday, it can be said that with some confidence it still fought the waves and, repelling their pressure with terrible force, allowed the ocean to feel superior to him of human genius. Now, alas, the ocean was already gaining the upper hand and taking revenge for yesterday's superiority. Waves, one after another, picked up the “Scythia” and threw it to each other like a ball. The rocking that resulted from this surpasses all description, and the water had already completely taken over the deck and was constantly moving along it, noisily flowing from side to side. The cabins were all hermetically sealed, and the passengers, sitting in them, only heard the fierce moisture running above them with a furious roar... How should the passengers feel at this time? - First of all, almost all of them, with a few happy exceptions, to which a favorable fate, beyond expectation, included me, suffered seriously from seasickness. But everyone suffered no less morally: this rocking, which did not give even a moment of physical rest, this continuous crashing of the cabins, causing one to constantly shudder, this rattling of dishes, tearing at the soul, this murmur of water above the head, this, finally, the ferocious howl and groan of the storm - all this fell on the soul with such a heavy burden, under which only those who were quite strong in spirit could stand cheerfully. The first hope of all under such circumstances was, of course, in Him, in whose right hand is life and death of all creation, and it was noticeable that not only the hearts, but also the lips of many reverently prayed. In addition to this shameless hope, faith in human genius served as a significant consolation for many, at least for me personally. In fact, I thought, this storm is not the first on the ocean, and if, despite all its contingencies, the human genius found it possible to establish the correct communication across the ocean, then, obviously, it foresaw all possible contingencies and has the appropriate means of protection in the inexhaustible treasury of its ingenuity. This company, for example, (Cunard Line) has existed for 37 years and annually transports up to 100,000 people across the ocean and so far, as its certified chronicle says, not one of its ships has suffered a single misfortune in which at least one person would have died. It is clear that human genius has generally been able to provide for itself against the fury of the ocean. This means that we can probably assume that a real storm is nothing special... These reflections contained a lot of calming for me and I began to endure the troubles of the rocks more cheerfully. - My thoughts, by the way, occupied with similar discussions on the topic of the greatness of human genius, were transported to several centuries ago, when the ocean first saw a brave man who decided to step across it at any cost. What motivated this man, who first decided to pave an unprecedented road? What did he hope for when he set out on an unknown path that threatened with all sorts of fantastic and real horrors? This is a truly great, brilliant man; but all his greatness drew its real strength from his invincible faith, in such a faith that it is difficult to compare with anything else except that great evangelical faith that moves mountains. In fact, the data of the science of that time humbly remained silent to his requests, the council of the most learned men argued that beyond the plane of water there lay a terrible abyss, and the common people's imagination filled this abyss with terrible monsters, ready to devour anyone who dared to approach them. And despite all this, the leading navigator, obeying solely his brilliant faith, sets out on an unknown path, and - humanity owes him the greatest world-historical event - the discovery of an unknown half of the world, the western hemisphere of the earth. With his faith, he moved the mountains of ignorance from the ocean and paved a clear, wide road through it. Yes, Christopher Columbus was a deeply religious man and his proposed canonization in the Roman Church would have been one of the most successful in it, if only the Curia had been guided exclusively by moral and not political motives. Meanwhile, the sailor came with the good news that the storm was noticeably weakening. Instantly everyone came to life, and a few later the brave souls tried to open the door to the deck. Water was still running through it and did not burst through the door only thanks to the high threshold. The wind weakened, but the waves, like mountains, continued to move across the ocean and every now and then tossed the “Scythia” from side to side. But after what they had endured, it was scary only in appearance, and little by little some dared to make their way onto the deck itself, clinging to the railing. Soon the sun came out welcomingly and fears were gone. Passengers poured out onto the deck and admired the object of the fear they had just experienced. And there was something to admire. Huge waves, blue as if from excessive stress, with foaming peaks, in the bright rays of the sun, represented exactly the Swiss views - only with an additional addition of life and movement. Sea gulls flew along the deep valleys between the water mountains and completed the illusion - which, however, was immediately destroyed by these same waves, mercilessly rocking the poor “Scythia”. The rocking continued for another whole night and only by morning the water mountains, unable to withstand their own gravity, spread out across the ocean. In the morning, the surface of the ocean presented a strange spectacle of a huge plain with flat hills and rather deep lowlands, so that the ship had to either rise to a hill or descend into a basin. The hills and lowlands had an almost unnatural stability for water, and only a slow, quiet swell changed their relationship. The ship's constant companions were again flying above the surface - sea gulls, which, I note by the way, accompanied the ship almost across the entire ocean and only for some reason left it three days into America, probably believing that it would get there without their obligatory and, it must be said, invigorating convoy. They appeared again off the coast. Four days before America, whole flocks of water birds, of the diving duck breed, appeared on the water and signaled the approach of the New World 4 . On Sunday, November 11, a notice was posted above the entrance door of the salon, stating that “a divine service will be performed in the salon at 10:30 a.m.,” to which both sailors and passengers were invited. Indeed, after breakfast, the salon quickly turned into a church of service to the Almighty God: among it stood a velvet lectern, and English prayer books and notebooks with musical transcriptions of hymns appeared on the tables. At the appointed time, sailors in festive dresses and passengers gathered in the salon - and I must say, in such numbers as they did not gather at the table during the entire voyage. The captain of the ship, a respectable elderly man with a gentle and intelligent face, came and took a chair in front of the lectern. A solemn silence reigned. The captain, who was acting as a priest, gave an exclamation, and the passengers responded “amen”, and then there was a general singing of the morning hymn from music notebooks. This singing was like the singing of the brightest daylight rising on the horizon and with its solemn sounds it poured so much joy into the heart, so delighted the spirit that the English verses of the morning hymn in my Russian soul involuntarily formed into Russian rhymes. And I dare to offer, not to the court, but to the condescending attention of the readers, a poetic arrangement of this hymn. The ocean heard the following hymn: Arise, soul, and with the sunshine Throw off the chain of laziness: with a prayer censer Make up for wasted time And begin your holy life again; Shake off the burden of sins And keep the terrible day in your mind. And the conscience is clear as the light of noon; The all-seeing King of Glory sees everything - And there are no secret thoughts before Him! Arise, soul, and with the choir of the heavenly powers, Silently praising the Creator, Glorify you too in verbal tones And, indeed, this singing rather merged with the singing of the choir of heavenly powers than with the singing of the earth. The earth did not hear this singing; it was heard only by the boundless ocean, and the even more boundless sky stretching above it, where the thoughts of the singers were entirely directed. The officiating captain of the ship read several more psalms and prayers, and the reading was antiphonal, that is, one verse was read by the captain, and the next verse was said in chorus by the rest of the worshipers. The service was concluded with the singing of praises of the 100th Psalm (according to the English Bible) in its poetic arrangement. At the end of the singing, the captain stood up from his seat and congratulated the passengers on the holiday, as well as on the safe passage of more than half of the ocean voyage, to which, of course, the passengers responded with appropriate congratulations and expressions of gratitude to the venerable captain for his skillful control of the ship. The festive Sunday mood spread throughout our little world: everyone somehow looked more cheerful and were more sociable, the children played and ran more cheerfully on the deck, the sun shone brighter on the horizon, and the blue waves rumbled more gently overboard. Religion has such a morally life-giving power - even in such an extremely unpretentious and simple worship service as our Sunday service was. Nevertheless, as the company's chronicle says, there were more than once cases when objections were made to the performance of this Sunday service on the ship from people who did not recognize religion, and some of the captains, in view of the rule requiring them to have complete respect for the persons of passengers, actually hesitated in this regard and were ready to cancel the service. But now this possibility has been completely eliminated. The venerable company, sparing nothing to satisfy the most whimsical desires of its passengers, has set a strict rule regarding divine services, allowing no exceptions: without fail, every Sunday during the voyage, perform a divine service, and the captains, in case of new objections, are ordered to simply refer to this rule, which is mandatory for them. One cannot help but salute the venerable company, which with this decisive step showed in itself not only deep religiosity, but also high justice. Indeed, it would be strange, because of the idle boastful objections of individual unbelievers, to abolish a wonderful Christian custom and deprive hundreds of passengers of religious consolation at sea, precisely where the soul most thirsts for prayer, as is beautifully and powerfully expressed in the famous Russian proverb. The remaining days of sailing, in excellent weather, were nothing special. It was only noticeable how, as we approached the mainland, the gaiety and excitement in the company of the passengers increased: everyone, obviously, missed Mother Earth and was now happy to see her soon. The last dinner on the ship was a real banquet: congratulatory speeches were said and cheerful hymns were sung, shouts were heard - hurray, geida! The captain received public thanks from all the passengers in many speeches, in response to which he also made a magnificent and witty speech; causing endless shouts of approval and delight. One of the passengers casually suggested taking advantage of the favorable opportunity “to remember the homeless children of our (of course English) brave sailors and make a feasible sacrifice to the Liverpool care society for them,” and the answer to this call was the friendly ringing of sovereigns and dollars thrown onto the carried plates. For me, the only Russian person in this almost exclusively English society, it was difficult to isolate myself from the general passion for a noble impulse, and I also made my insignificant contribution in favor of the children of the “good sailors,” whom, according to political relations, I should have considered enemies. But it is said - “love your enemies!..” And it is impossible, however, not to love such enemies, especially to those who were with them at sea. It was a pleasure to look at these brave fellows when, in terrible gusts of wind that made it impossible to stand on the deck, they scoured the masts and rigging like squirrels and only cheerfully shouted at the signal whistles: all right - “everything is in order!” On Wednesday, November 14th - November 26th, already in the morning, the outlines of the earth began to be cut out in the distance - some coastal islands. Passengers with binoculars in their hands and with joyful trembling in their hearts greeted the land. At 3 o’clock in the afternoon we were already on the soil of the “New World”, in its capital - New York. This was one of many crossings across the Atlantic Ocean. The general impression from the traversed ocean route is that human genius finally defeated the terrible natural obstacle on the way from the “Old World” to the “New”. Grandfather the ocean humbled himself before this genius and now serves not as a separator, but as a connector of two worlds. And the path, in just ten days, takes you from Europe to a completely new world - America, serves as one of the irrefutable proofs of the unearthly power of the human spirit. In it one sees the fulfillment of the commandment of the Creator, who gave man dominion over nature, and there are still such conquests in it that even bold dreamers never dreamed of. Wo man singt, da lass dich rubig nieder: Bose Menschen haben keine Lieder. Bourdon in Russian can be rendered: bass bell, Basilo. "Scythia" had a terrible collision with a huge whale on one of its voyages. The impact was so severe that it significantly damaged her bow and forced her to return to Liverpool to repair the damage. But the whale did not survive the collision for long: a few days later its huge corpse was found floating not far from the site of the collision. His bones are now kept in the company’s office, like a victorious trophy of “Scythia”. These birds, however, were no longer there the next day, and their strange appearance in the middle of the ocean was explained by the fact that the ship that day passed not far from the great Newfoundland shoal.