По пути из Америки

Return to homeland. - On the deck of a German ship. – Shark victim. - Descendant of the Varangians. – Slavic brother and the international language of the Slavic peoples. – Sunday afternoon and two sermons. - American preacher. - The coast of the old world. – Canal and German Sea. - Sorrow and joy. “Where it is good, there is the homeland - Ubi bene, ibi patria,” says the rule of cosmopolitanism. Nothing could be more false than this rule. It is an idle product of the idle imagination of people who have never been in a foreign country, or those whose weathered souls do not have a drop of moral feeling. A foreign side may be interesting to observe, beneficial for making money, but in no case can it replace the fatherland or make it forgotten. Sympathy can be found in people and on the other side, but this sympathy gives little to a person’s heart, and it yearns sadly to go to where the sweet memories of his childhood live, where his hopes are cherished, where everyone who loves him, and everyone whom he himself loves and whom he cannot help but love. I stayed in America for a year and a half. This is one of those countries that can drown out homesickness with a mass of interesting and varied impressions. But this is only for a while. Natural feeling takes over. That is why I received the news of the opportunity to go home with such joyful delight as is rarely experienced. At the huge dock on the Hudson River, the gigantic ship Donau was ready to set off on a long ocean voyage. The cars lifted the gangplank, and the hearts of the passengers and their relatives and friends who saw them off trembled with the pain of separation. The last whistle blew, the ship's orchestra struck a farewell march, the car groaned, the adults shed tears, the children screamed, farewell scarves fluttered over their heads and the blue waves boiled under the mighty blows of the gigantic propeller. Picturesque shores flashed on both sides, and ahead we could already feel the cool breath of the ocean grandfather. The passengers sadly watched the fleeing shores; everyone was immersed in their own thoughts. Separation is always sad, even if it was carried out freely and was followed by a joyful meeting; especially the separation on such a long journey, fraught with all sorts of accidents and dangers. Summer travel across the ocean is considered the most favorable, and thousands of more or less wealthy Americans go to Europe simply for the pleasures of the summer season. However, the immensity of the waterway retains its awesome power to the imagination. My heart involuntarily shudders at the thought that for ten whole days I will have to live under the fear of disfavor from the capricious elements. For me, traveling across the ocean was no longer news. I experienced it during one of the most stormy seasons - late autumn. Now I looked boldly at the path ahead and only wished that the canvas wings of the ship would be more inflated by the tailwind and would carry me faster to the shores of my native continent. Meanwhile, the magnificent panorama of New York and the galaxy of neighboring cities merged into an indifferent gray mass, and when the fiery ball of the setting sun descended to the azure surface of the ocean, the American metropolis powerlessly struggled with the wave, which soon overwhelmed it and it disappeared from view. The ship found itself in an enchanted circle of water and sky, from which the evening stars smiled welcomingly. The ship Danube belongs to the wealthy German company North German Lloyd and sails between New York and Bremen. This is in the full sense a German ship - with German cheapness, a German table and German sailors, although in the healthy broad faces of the latter there is clearly visible a Slavic type, eaten up by German culture. To Bremen the Danube charges the same fare as English ships charge to Liverpool and French ships to Le Havre, notwithstanding the considerable difference in distance. An ocean crossing costs 100 dollars in first class, 60 in second class and 30 in third class. For Americans this equals the same number of rubles, but for a Russian traveler, thanks to the low rate of our exchange rate and the difference in wages, this is exactly twice the amount. The cabins were crowded with Germans who somehow broke the English language. It's interesting to look at these types of American Germans. All of them are full citizens of the American republic, but at the same time they are subjects of their dear fatherland. Most of them arrived in America as wretched emigrants several decades ago. Happiness smiled upon them in their new fatherland, they became rich, started families, and now went to look at their former fatherland, to see their relatives and childhood friends. The story of their life is imprinted on their entire appearance. All these are stern, clumsy faces, in the deep wrinkles of which the story of their hard, much-tested life is written hieroglyphically, but massive diamond rings can be seen on their hands and heavy gold chains from gold pocket watches hang on their chests. The old people continue to speak in provincial German jargon, but the younger generation has already become completely American, speaks pure English and uses German only to console the old people. Material well-being gives moral contentment, and the passengers, freed from the sadness of separation, at the magnificent dinner of the first day turned into a society of cheerful and carefree people. When, after dinner, on the deck of the ship, under the starry sky and with the harmonious splash of quiet waves, the orchestra struck a German waltz, the Germans began to spin in a whirlwind of their native dance. Fun spread across the surface of the floating bramble. When the orchestra finished its music, circles of singers formed, and Grandfather Ocean listened to mixed motives of German and American songs of the happy Teutons until late midnight. But happiness depends not so much on external contentment as on internal satisfaction! When the latter is absent, external joy only depresses the soul even more. Among the carefreely having fun there was a young girl who huddled secludedly against the side and watched the rushing waves with a melancholy, motionless gaze. No one spoke to her and she did not speak to anyone. The next day she stood in the same place and did not take any part in the continuous chatter of the passengers getting to know each other. It was Sunday. The sun shone brightly on a cloudless horizon and the German orchestra opened its pre-dinner concert with the sacred hymn: “My God is my stronghold.” The solemn music of the sacred hymn, together with the music of the softly splashing waves of the ocean, poured bliss into contented souls, but for the unfortunate soul of the gloomy passenger it was a funeral hymn. When the anthem ended and a reverent silence settled under its impression, the girl rose above the side in order, apparently, to better peer into the waves cut by the ship. But then one more moment - the unfortunate woman’s dress just flashed over the side, and she fell into the water, where she was immediately spun by a wave boiling from the blows of the propeller. The passengers screamed in horror, an alarm sounded, a rescue boat was quickly launched, but the unfortunate one was already buried in a bottomless watery grave. Sadness settled on the deck, the passengers looked gloomily at the waves that had swallowed up human life, and they still flowed and gurgled carelessly, and only from their boiling surface from time to time the black back of a terrible sea monster appeared, waiting for a new victim. The unfortunate girl became the prey of a shark, which thus forever consumed both her and the grief that led her to terrible suicide. This terrible incident cast a shadow of sorrow over the entire community of passengers. But other people's grief is fleeting, and in the evening of the same day there was still joy. Among the passengers, besides the Germans, there were persons of all kinds of nations, ranks and conditions. There were: the “truly venerable” (as the official title says) American bishop from Cleveland, with his wife setting off on a summer excursion to Europe, and an American merchant making her way on trade business to the land of the pyramids; a German writer who studied the social life of the Yankees and a Norwegian adventurer returning to his homeland from the wild wilds of the American far west, where he lived for nine months among the red-skinned Indians solely for the sake of adventure; an American preacher, who went to observe the religious and moral life of the Old World, and a Spanish artist, who brought home the monetary laurels reaped in America, etc. All this diverse collection, necessarily united by the limited space of the ship’s deck, merged into one intimate family. For me, these were all equally strangers. But the extensibility of the feeling of relatedness is remarkable. The further you are from your homeland, the wider circle this feeling captures. Those closest to me turned out to be those who were the same in profession, but the closest was the Norwegian, and only because he was from the country geographically closest to my homeland. He is more familiar with Russia than others, has a brother at the Swedish embassy in St. Petersburg and is more familiar with our history than others, which is unusually pleasant to meet after the usual dark ignorance among foreigners in this regard. By natural association, the conversation turned to the question of the Varangians, and the Norwegian turned out to be a zealous supporter of the Norman school in this matter. According to his review, Norwegian historians have carefully developed this period and they do not even have a doubt that the Varangians were someone other than the Norman knights. The word Varangian is still preserved in the language of the Scandinavian and Anglo-Saxon peoples. In Norwegian waranger and in English warrior means warrior, warrior, warrior. Listening to the animated speech of the newest Varangian, one could not help but think that he was a direct descendant of those valiant Varangians who were called upon to establish order in our abundant but unsettled land. We know very little about the ancient history of the Scandinavian Peninsula, and a careful study of it would undoubtedly shed considerable light on the still dark question of the origin of our first princes, over which our historians are still fruitlessly breaking their spears. The honor of the first discovery of the New World belongs to the same valiant Varangians. Very little known, but nevertheless undoubtedly established by Norwegian and American history, is the fact that America saw white people on its shores five centuries earlier than the brave Genoese publicly proclaimed the discovery of this continent. At the beginning of the 11th table. Norwegian Vikings bravely scoured the entire width of the northern half of the Atlantic Ocean, had settlements in Iceland and Greenland, and one of them, Life Erikson, made his way to America, where a colony was founded within the current state of New York, from which archaeological remains have been found. The colony was too weak to withstand the pressure of the redskins, and the colonists had to leave the newly discovered land, and the name of Erickson, along with the path he paved, was forgotten for centuries. Now in America it is planned to build a monument in honor of the valiant Viking, which should have been done long ago, as stated by my interesting interlocutor, who, apparently, was filled with patriotic pride when remembering his historical ancestors. So, days after days passed in idle conversations, and the ship tirelessly rushed along the blue waves of the ocean, making five hundred miles every day. The weather was excellent, and remained so all the time, despite the desperate jumping of guinea pigs, which, according to the observations of sailors, usually foreshadow a storm. In summer, the ocean is much busier than in winter, and every day we met several ships and vessels that, like dots, passed along the outskirts of the water circle. One day, in the rays of the setting sun, I stood on the bow of the ship and peered into the boundless blue, waiting for the appearance of some oncoming ship. A red-cheeked, smug German came up to me and asked what nationality I was. In response to my answer, he said that in the third grade there is a young sick man who does not speak any European language, yet he is extremely helpless and, perhaps, he could be helped in something. Surely he’s Russian, the thought flashed in my head, and I went to him at the direction of the German. A pale and emaciated, poorly dressed young man sat sadly and alone on a bench and presented a living picture of grief and misfortune, the mournful features of which stood out even more clearly from the surrounding picture of German complacency. I addressed him in Russian, and the gloomy features of his face instantly brightened. He understood me and was glad to have the opportunity to break the unbearable silence. It turned out that he was an Orthodox Serb. Just six months ago he went to America with the money he had earned through hard work, hoping to find better happiness for himself there. Unfortunately, he did not know any other European language other than his native Slavic, and therefore could only serve as heavy labor. The backbreaking work quickly broke his body, he fell ill and now returned to his homeland in despair. I have met Serbs before, and they usually do not understand Russian well, but it was as if necessity had implanted in this young man a special intelligence of linguistics, and he understood every word perfectly. Moreover, I deliberately dressed my speech in Church Slavonic form and this, undoubtedly, greatly facilitated his understanding. Our Slavophiles, in their pan-Slavic aspirations, constantly encountered the fact that cooled their impulses towards pan-Slavic brotherhood, that various Slavic tribes do not understand each other, so that for more or less serious relations they have to resort to the medium of some European and mainly German language. It has always seemed to me that the Slavic, at least Orthodox, peoples have such a common, unchanging, classical language that can serve as an international language for them and an excellent means of communication between them and moral unity. This is precisely the Church Slavonic language, in which they all perform divine services in the same way and which they all get used to understanding from childhood. It would only be necessary to pay more attention to it during public education, and then all Orthodox Slavic peoples could easily speak among themselves in a common and, moreover, sacred language, and there would be no need to turn to the German language for help, which serves as one of the most powerful tools for the Germanization of the Slavs. My Slavic interlocutor actually confirmed the truth of this theory. To make his speech more understandable for me, he also began to put it in Church Slavonic form, and concluded the sorrowful story of his adventures with the exclamation: “Hey, brother, it’s good for a healthy man to be in America, but it’s not good for him to be healthy!” The poor man had absolutely no money for travel from Bremen to his homeland, and therefore his joy could not be expressed in any language when, through the active mediation of an American preacher, a small sum of German marks was collected for his benefit. There was another helpless man on the ship, a Swiss who had been poisoned by lead poison in the factory where he worked in America. The American bishop took an active part in it and also collected a certain amount in its favor. Whatever philosophers may say about pure humanism as a completely sufficient source for goodness, only religion can be its real basis. Many of the passengers sympathized with both unfortunates, but without the active initiative of the ministers of religion, this sympathy would hardly have been expressed in actual charity. The ocean giant groaned and worked tirelessly for more than a week, but still could not get out of the enchanted circle of water and sky. One might even doubt whether he was making progress if the number of miles traveled were not daily marked on the map and the point at which he was located that day was not indicated. By the second Sunday, this point on the map had already moved far beyond half the ocean. As a matter of fact, there were only two days left to reach the shores of England, and the passengers, bored by the tedious monotony of the journey, became lively again. On German ships there are no regular services on Sundays, as is the case on English ships. But nevertheless, sea life by its very nature inspires a prayerful mood, and the usual morning concert that day consisted entirely of sacred hymns. After the concert, the passengers were invited into the hall, where a few moments later an American bishop appeared in full ecclesiastical vestments and preached a sermon on the Old Testament text: “People walk here and there and from this their wisdom increases”; the bishop eloquently depicted the importance of travel for the moral and mental development of people and reviewed the facts that had happened on the ship over the past week. After the bishop, an American preacher also delivered a sermon, and to the serious impression made by the bishop’s speech, he added several humorous features common in American preaching. Both sermons were equally interesting and edifying, but of the preachers themselves, the personality of the latter was more interesting to me. This is the typical type of American preacher. He is extremely sociable, the first to meet everyone, an interesting conversationalist, and from the very first days he became the soul of the whole society. In one of the western cities in America he has a parish, in which he is a pastor and preacher. Now he was going to Europe for a summer vacation, and the parish took on all his travel expenses. In his dress and appearance he was in no way different from the other passengers, but at the same time, from the first day he let everyone know that he was a preacher. Preaching is not only his profession, but also his soul. Without preaching, he cannot live at all and literally fulfills the commandment of the apostle: “Preach in time and in time.” Except for Sundays, on weekdays he gathered passengers in the dining room and preached to them, with remarkable skill being able to attract their attention. One day a thick fog covered the entire ocean; the ship blew its whistle every now and then for fear of colliding with some oncoming ship; Out of boredom, passengers gathered in the dining room and drank beer. The preacher appeared in their company, he himself offered those present a glass of beer, and as soon as the Germans clinked their glasses to his health, he took out his notebook and offered them an edifying lecture. After his beer, obviously, it was necessary to listen to his lecture, and the Germans really turned into attentive listeners. Only the German, who was more drunk than the others, was obviously unable to direct his attention to the edification and used every whistle of the ship to pull him up with the appropriate sound. But the preacher pounded his fist on the table so energetically that the inattentive German had to shy away and calm down. I thought this original scene was very interesting. The American preacher not only preached “untimely” according to the apostle’s commandment, but at the same time knew how to “insist, plead and prohibit.” Two days after Sunday, a blue stripe appeared on the eastern edge of the water circle, the appearance of which the passengers greeted with a joyful cry: “Earth, earth”! This was the coast of England, the forward post of the Old World. A few more hours, and the ship was already passing by the very shore, which jutted out into the ocean like a sharp rock. On the rock stood the grandiose building of the trans-oceanic telegraph, through which New York was immediately informed about the safe arrival of the ship. There were still two days of travel left to Bremen, and according to the sailors, this route along the English Channel and the German Sea, due to underwater rocks and shoals, is much more dangerous than the entire ocean route. But at the sight of the land it was somehow difficult to believe it. Along the way, now and then the French and then the English coast appeared, and the diversity of ships and steamships, in multitudes cutting through the water in all directions, inspired a feeling of confidence and security. On June 23, after exactly twelve days of sailing, the ship entered the muddy mouth of the Weser River, dropped anchor, and river steamers took on passengers for transportation to the shore. No matter how joyful it was to set foot on land, at the same time it was somehow sad to part with the ship. When, as the steamer was leaving, the orchestra struck the last farewell march on the ship and the entire crew waved their scarves and hats in farewell, many involuntarily began to cry, and all the passengers barked a final hurray to the valiant crew of the ship for the last time. A crowd of friends and relatives were waiting for the passengers on the shore, and there was no end to the expressions of joyful meeting. But among the general rejoicings, like a terrible ghost of death, one gray-haired old man stood. Despair, horror and boundless grief distorted the features of his face, and he looked around at all the arriving passengers with terrible wandering eyes. At first he seemed to understand nothing, but then the abyss of his terrible grief opened up before his consciousness with all terrifying clarity, and he hit the brick wall of the station and sobbed like a child. This was the ill-fated father of the unfortunate girl who threw herself from the ship into the abyss of the ocean. Before leaving America, she notified him by telegram that she was going to Europe and asked him to come meet her at the pier. The old man joyfully came to meet his only daughter, but met only one boundless grief, which, undoubtedly, would move him closer to the grave. Meanwhile, the train blew its whistle and rushed passengers to the very city of Bremen, thirty miles from the pier, and in this rich and luxurious member of the ancient Hanseatic League, the passengers of the Danube said goodbye to each other - perhaps forever. For some, however, a chance acquaintance on the ship led to a very close union that bound them forever: one young man married a young passenger during the voyage, and it was decided to get married in Bremen. II. From Bremen to St. Petersburg Hanseatic city. - Memories of the past. - German soil. – Capital of the God of Wars. – The Russian spirit is in the heart of the German. – Yaroslavl residents in Berlin and the struggle of Russian culture with German. – On the deck of a ship on the Baltic Sea. - Prussian officers and Russian ladies. – Kronstadt and the vision of Peter the Great. – Again on my native land... An ocean voyage leaves a feeling of fatigue even in the most fertile season in which your journey took place, and therefore it is necessary to rest at the first point of solid land. Such a point was the Hanseatic city of Bremen. I stayed there for two days and, I must say, it is difficult to find another city more convenient for moral and physical peace. Judging by the fact that Bremen is one of the richest trading centers in central Europe and through it there is a continuous stream of European emigration heading to America, one might assume that this is a noisy bazaar of the bustle of everyday life. In fact, this is one of the most graceful cities I have ever seen. The streets are unusually clean and tidy, and the magnificent houses are surrounded by a sea of ​​greenery and flowers. It is evident that the culture here has reached a high level of development and has managed to turn the bazaar of everyday vanity into a pleasant residence of grace and beauty. The very streets bear the names of cultural heroes, and I had to see inscriptions on forms that this is Schiller Street, and this is Humboldt Street, etc. As an ancient historical city, Bremen has many important sights, but I will only mention the cathedral, which within its walls contains the most ancient traditions of the city. Its majestic portal faces the market square. This square is now sparsely populated, and the main market has moved closer to the sea. But the cathedral also remembers the time when it was swarming with people - overseas guests, and could tell the story of how rich guests came from beyond the distant Varangian Sea - from Novgorod the Great and Pskov, its younger brother, bringing with them down furs and fleece fabrics, laying them out on the square to the wonder and envy of German beauties, the rocking bells of the overseas church they marveled and, taking off their dear hats, devoutly crossed themselves, remembering the familiar ringing of St. Sophia the Great. Now there is no longer a spirit of guests from Novgorod and Pskov, and at the sight of the cathedral one can’t help but feel sadness that the German city managed to retain its ancient glory to this day, and the glory of our once great and rich cities that belonged to the Hanseatic League barely makes itself felt in the wretched and dilapidated remains of hoary antiquity. Bremen is still a free city and almost miraculously retains its independence from the all-grabbing hand of the iron chancellor. Therefore, when entering the city, neither a passport is asked nor things are examined. But as soon as you enter the railway station leading to the borders of the German Empire, you are greeted by the uniformed angels of the inexorable Chancellor and put their hands into your luggage, looking for something subject to monetary taxation. In this regard, the Chancellor is inexorable and his entire policy in the present time of peace, as is known, boils down to finding something else from the Germans that is free from tax and imposing it under some sophisticated or humane pretext. The train, meanwhile, rushed into the very kingdom of Bismarck, into the heart of the German Empire - Berlin. Along the way, distant and wide plains stretch out in front of you, intersected here and there by forest groves and almost entirely occupied by fields of earing rye and green potatoes. These plains are surprisingly reminiscent of the average Russian plains of the middle provinces. At first glance, no traces of German culture are visible in them, and on the contrary, one senses the expanse and vastness of free Slavic nature. One would think that our Slavic brothers still live here - those valiant brothers and Lutichs who once occupied the entire Baltic Sea, beat the Germans and gave us, according to some historians, our first princes. But it is enough to take a closer look at these plains to see traces of German hand on them. This hand makes itself felt in everything: in cleanly cultivated fields, in cleared groves, canalized swamps and cozy villages showing their red tiled roofs from the fragrant greenery of gardens. At the stations one encounters many broad, bearded faces, in which the Slavic type clearly shines through; but this type is also steeped in German culture, dressed in a German uniform, sucks a German hooked pipe and sings the German patriotic anthem Wacht am Rhein. The closer one gets to Berlin, the more the German spirit thickens, and Berlin itself is the true heart of today’s German culture. It was about eight o'clock in the evening when I stepped onto the pavement of the German capital. A policeman at the station gave me a number for a “Droschken,” as for some reason the Germans call huge carriages, and a mutated German coachman drove me into the city. We drove past a majestic marble column, on top of which some golden winged figure was burning and shining dazzlingly in the rays of the setting sun. The Teuton did not fail to explain that this was a monument to German victories over the French in the last war, and as soon as I had time to discover my interest in this monument, the German took me around it in order to show the foreigner all the glory of the valiant Teutons in pictures. In these images the poor French are subjected to such merciless beatings as they did not suffer in reality. After listening to the coachman’s explanatory lecture, I asked him to go to the hotel as soon as possible, especially since the prudent Germans charge cab drivers according to the number of minutes. However, the War God Pillar left a deep impression. For the Germans this is undoubtedly a source of immeasurable pride, but for the French it is an intolerable monument of shame, and who knows what events await this monument in the future destinies of history? If the Germans once took Paris, then it is not impossible that the French will ever take Berlin, and then there will be no stone left on this monument. What is certain is that such monuments do not strengthen peace on earth and goodwill among people... Meanwhile, a patriotic cab driver drove me to the majestic hotel of the “Imperial Court” (Der Kaiserhof) and I had to pay him not only for transportation, but also for an explanatory lecture. The city of Berlin itself is so famous and close to us that there is no need to describe it. But it should be noted that our prevailing opinion about him does not do him justice. Walking along the magnificent street “Pod Lipami”, I wondered how we could form an opinion of it as a barracks city. Every now and then you see charming buildings, successfully combining colossus with grace, and everything undoubtedly bears the imprint of the highest culture. The shops amaze with their luxury, and between them every now and then there are bookstores, which behind mirrored glass display the literary wisdom of all peoples and, by the way, Russian. Looking at the whole rows of Russian books, one might think that the Germans are engrossed in the works of the Russian mind. There is no doubt that they are keenly interested in our internal and external affairs, and I have seen many German books that have as their subject the fatal disaster of March 1st. Accidentally opening one of them under the title: “Alexander II as a person and as a ruler,” I read the bitter words that “Russia was not worthy of such a ruler, and he was unattainably higher than his people...” With pain in my heart, I hastened to leave both the book and the store. One end of the street “Under the Lips” is occupied by palaces, and just opposite the imperial palace stands the majestic church of science - the university. Such close coexistence of higher science with the imperial government gives a completely different impression than what we are accustomed to in the sad facts of recent times. If there’s one thing that gives Berlin a barracks-like appearance, it’s the mass of military and uniformed people in general that litter the streets. But in this respect it only resembles our northern Palmyra. In general, Berlin is very similar to St. Petersburg, and after being away from my homeland, I already felt the closeness of my native place in it. Despite the proximity of Berlin to Russian soil, the Russian colony there is very insignificant, and consists only of random migratory birds that come to the waters in the spring, and from the waters in the fall, and at the same time make Berlin their main camp for rest. Once only the German capital sensed a truly Russian spirit in itself - in its true originality. No matter how cunning the German is, he still cannot make felt as well as our Yaroslavl residents do, and then one day a Jewish speculator decided to make a good gamble with this. He founded a Russian felt factory in Berlin and hired real Russian Yaroslavl men for it, who, twenty in number, went to the heart of the German Empire. They brought with them a fervent Russian culture, such as the Germans had never seen before. They wore wide beards and sheepskin coats, red shirts and boots smeared with tar. On Sundays, the whole party came to the Russian church, and after lunch they went out in a crowd “under the linden trees,” occupying the entire wide panel and forcing them to avoid all the walking Germans, who stared in amazement at the “barbaric Russians.” In order to introduce the fullness of Russian culture into Nemechina, the Yaroslavich residents sent a woman from their homeland, who began to cook their native cabbage soup for them and started the entire Russian economy, with all its necessary attributes and even cockroaches. So Russian culture was happily settled in the very heart of the German Empire. But, alas, it is sad to say that little by little she began to submit to German culture. According to the original ancestral custom, Yaroslavich residents sleep side by side on bunks and eat meat only on holidays. In imitation of this, the Jewish speculator also built bunks for them in Berlin and fed them meat in Russian. At first, it didn’t even occur to the Yaroslavians that anything was wrong here. But then, having settled down and noticing that the Germans slept in separate beds and ate plenty of meat, they realized that their “rules were legal,” and therefore, without hesitation, they sent intercessors to the Russian embassy with a complaint against the Jew that he was not treating them “in the German way.” So the nasty non-mechanism prevailed even over representatives of true Russian culture. But the latter almost repaid the Germans dearly for their cultural victory. Once the Yaroslavichs went to the nearby forest to collect mushrooms, and had a glorious stroke of luck, collected a large load, and the woman salted them. The next day they had a great holiday-revelry: the Yaroslavichs sat in a cheerful circle, put out a bucket of green wine, drank a great ladle, snacked on mushrooms for sweetness, remembered their native land and sang cheerful songs. But - didn’t the woman add salt like that, and that’s what the German mushroom is like, only the next day all the Yaroslavich residents died, and a great misfortune befell them - an unfortunate illness. The fatal news spread across Berlin that the Russian colony was engulfed in cholera; the press sounded the alarm, the sanitary committees came into action and strong quarantines were quickly established around the living quarters of our Yaroslavich residents. But we know that the German is a coward. There was no cholera at all, but I felt a little sick, and soon the Yaroslavichs recovered, and they were still throwing down the felt, mentally cursing the German mushroom. Soon, however, the Yaroslavians felt stuffy in the non-mechanism, a mighty, heavy sadness crept into their chests, and they abandoned the Jew-Antichrist with his damned invention, and went to their homeland, the land of Yaroslavl - to their wives and children. Some of them, however, succumbed to German influence so much that they remained in the German market even after the cessation of felt production, and at present they represent an interesting type of Russian person, consumed by German culture. There were many other interesting phenomena in the life of this simple Russian colony. In it, direct Russian culture collided with German culture in a most interesting way, and a more detailed observation of this collision would undoubtedly yield a lot of interesting facts that could have more than curious significance. There are two routes from Berlin to our native land - railway and sea. In the summer it is so pleasant to enjoy the freshness of the sea air that I preferred to take the sea route, and for this purpose I went to Stetin, from where ships regularly depart to Russia. On the river The German steamship Moscau had already separated steam from Odere and set off early in the morning. There were only about a dozen passengers on the German "Moscow". All of these were Germans and German women, but with the makings of Russification. At the very first table I heard Russian words with German flavoring. Some of them had already visited the barbaric Russland, and, having filled their purses, went to see their dear Fatherland; others were just on their way to try their luck. In this respect, Russia for Western Europeans is the same as America. Western Europeans emigrate to both countries for profit, with the only difference being that America assimilates these flying kites on its soil, and from Russia they fly away again, taking with them a load of prey. Among the passengers, two handsome men attracted particular attention, from under whose ordinary dress strictly disciplined manners clearly peeped out. Whenever they had free time, they sat in a corner and diligently read some sophisticated books that required terrible effort. I listened and realized that they were pondering Russian grammar and one of Turgenev’s stories. It turned out that these were Prussian officers who were traveling to Russia for practical study of the Russian language, the theoretical basis of which they had already laid in the officer school, where Russian was compulsory for them along with French. The officers turned out to be very developed, educated and kind gentlemen, and I happily whiled away the monotonous time of the voyage with them; but only a cold shudder ran through the thought that these educated people were none other than the emissaries of that bloodthirsty demon of German militarism, which holds all of Europe under the formidable sword of Damocles, threatening every moment with the horrors of destruction and bloodshed. The officers went to villages near Moscow, where the Russian Countess N and the Russian Princess X awaited them with heartfelt yearnings. These Russian ladies, having outlived all Russian meaning in themselves through their wanderings abroad, now, obviously, already serve only as Russian stoves, on which snakes and scorpions, poisonous to their native land, are heated. Undoubtedly, the officers, under their attentive leadership, will perfectly understand the Russian language and then - oh, if only this had never happened! - leading the wild hordes of German squads, they will do ten times more harm to poor Russia... Meanwhile, the cargo ship was tirelessly cutting through the quiet area of ​​the Baltic Sea, and now it had already entered the Gulf of Finland. My native land was soon to appear, and I peered with trembling attention at the eastern edge of the water circle. The eyes had not yet seen anything, but the heart already sensed the closeness of a loved one, and the invisible became, as it were, visible. But then, over the water, something like two candles of white wax immediately lit up, and after a few moments the eye clearly distinguished the churches of God in them. And my heart trembled joyfully, and the blood began to roar in my head from sweet excitement. Meanwhile, a wonderful panorama of the crown city and coastal settlements began to be cut out more and more from the water - above which slender golden-domed towers rose. This wonderful panorama, together with a dense swarm of all kinds of ships and steamships, among which a slender row of gigantic monitors stood majestically, presented an almost magical picture, and I, with admiration, grabbed both officers by the hands, enthusiastically exclaimed: “Look, here is the land of the Tsar! Have you ever seen anything like this? The Germans, apparently, were fascinated by the magical picture and seriously answered: sehr imposant, sehr imposant (very impressive), and one of them thoughtfully added: “Wonderful picture, but I am surprised here not so much by what I now see, but by Peter the Great himself, who with his genius managed to create all this in the swamps!...” A few more tedious hours, and I was already on the soil of my native land. Having safely passed through the ordeal of customs and taken a cab, I joyfully drove along the royally wide square of Nevsky Prospekt, and involuntarily thought about how many terrible volcanic upheavals my native land had experienced during this time, how many terrible and historically significant changes had happened in it, and how terribly the prices of cabs had risen in it at the same time.