2. From Bremen to St. Petersburg

A Hanseatic city. — Memories of the past. — German land. — Capital of the god of war. — Russian spirit in the heart of Germandom. — Yaroslavl men in Berlin and the struggle of Russian culture with German culture. — On the deck of a steamer on the Baltic Sea. — Prussian officers and Russian ladies. — Kronstadt and a vision of Peter the Great. — Again on native soil…

Ocean travel leaves behind a feeling of exhaustion even in the most favorable season in which one makes the crossing, and therefore it is necessary to rest at the first stopping point on solid ground. 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 suitable for moral and physical rest. Judging by the fact that Bremen is one of the richest commercial centers of central Europe and through it flows a continuous stream of European emigration directed toward America, one might suppose it to be a noisy bazaar of worldly bustle. In reality, however, it is one of the most elegant cities I have ever seen. The streets are extraordinarily clean and neat, and magnificent houses stand amid a sea of greenery and flowers. It is evident that culture has reached a high development here and has managed to transform a bazaar of worldly bustle into a pleasant residence of elegance and beauty. The streets themselves bear the names of heroes of culture, and I came across inscriptions on signboards indicating this was Schiller Street, or Humboldt Street, and so forth. As an ancient historical city, Bremen has many important landmarks, but I will mention only the cathedral, which within its walls contains the 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 remembers the time when it teemed with people—foreign guests—and could tell the tale of how from across the distant Varangian Sea came wealthy guests from Great Novgorod and Pskov, its younger brother, bringing with them downy furs and patterned fabrics, laying them out on the square to the wonder and envy of German beauties, marveling at the sound of the foreign church bell and, removing their dear hats, devoutly crossing themselves, remembering the native bell of great Saint Sophia. Now there are no traces of Novgorod and Pskov guests here, and at the sight of the cathedral one involuntarily feels sadness that the German city has managed to retain its ancient glory to the present day, while the glory of our once great and wealthy cities that belonged to the Hanseatic League can scarcely be discerned in the poor and decaying remains of hoary antiquity. Bremen remains a free city to this day and almost miraculously preserves its independence from the all-grasping hand of the iron chancellor. Therefore, upon entering the city, neither passport is requested nor is baggage inspected. But as soon as you enter the railroad station leading into the territory of the German Empire, you are met by the uniformed angels of the inexorable chancellor who thrust their hands into luggage, searching for something subject to taxation. In this respect the chancellor is inexorable, and all his policy in the present peaceful time, as is known, amounts to finding something among the Germans still free from taxation and taxing it under some cunning or humane pretext.

The train, meanwhile, rushed into Bismarck’s kingdom, into the heart of the German Empire—Berlin. Along the way, far and wide plains stretched before you, intersected here and there by forests and almost entirely occupied by fields of ripening rye and greening potatoes. These plains remarkably resemble the middle Russian plains of the central provinces. At first glance, you see no traces of German culture in them, and conversely, feel the spaciousness and breadth of free Slavic nature. One might think that our brother-Slavs still inhabited here—those valiant Obodrites and Lutitians who once occupied all the Baltic coast, fought the Germans, and, according to some historians, gave us our first princes. But one only needs to look more carefully at these plains to see the traces of the German hand upon them. This hand makes itself known in everything: in the cleanly cultivated fields, in the cleared forests, in the drained swamps, and in cozy villages displaying their red tile roofs from amid fragrant garden greenery. At the stations one encounters many broad-bearded faces in which the Slavic type is clearly visible; but this type too is consumed by German culture, dressed in a German uniform, sucking a German curved pipe, and singing the German patriotic hymn “Wacht am Rhein.” The closer to Berlin, the denser grows the German spirit, and Berlin itself is truly the fervent heart of present-day Germandom.

It was about eight in the evening when I stepped onto the pavement of the German capital. A police officer at the station gave me a number for a “Droschke,” as the Germans for some reason call huge cabs, and a mutilated German cabdriver drove me into the city. We passed by a majestic marble column, on top of which some golden winged figure blazed and glittered dazzlingly in the rays of the setting sun. The Teuton did not fail to explain that this was a monument to German victories in the recent war against the French, and no sooner had I shown interest in this monument than the German drove me around it to show the foreigner in its pictorial representations all the glory of the valiant Teutons. In these depictions the poor French undergo such merciless beating as they never experienced in reality. After listening to the cabdriver’s explanatory lecture, I asked him to drive to the hotel more quickly, especially since the fees for cabbies among economical Germans are charged by the minute. Nevertheless, the column of the god of war made a deep impression. For the Germans it is undoubtedly a source of boundless pride, but for the French it is an unbearable monument to shame, and who knows what events await this monument in the future course of history? If the Germans once took Paris, there is nothing impossible about the French someday taking Berlin, and then not a stone of this monument will remain. Certainly it is true that such monuments do not foster peace on earth and good will among men… The patriotic cabdriver meanwhile drove me to the majestic “Imperial Court” Hotel (Der Kaiserhof), and I had to pay him not only for the ride but for the explanatory lecture as well.

The city of Berlin itself is so well known and familiar to us that there is no need to describe it. But it must be noted that the prevailing opinion about it among us does not do it justice. Walking along the magnificent “Unter den Linden” street, I was astonished at how we could have formed the opinion of it as a barracks city. Constantly you see exquisite buildings that successfully combine colossal size with elegance, and on everything there undoubtedly lies the stamp of the highest culture. The shops strike one with their luxury, and among them bookshops constantly gleam, which behind mirror glass display the literary wisdom of all peoples, including the Russian. Looking at entire rows of Russian books, one might think that Germans are absorbed in reading the works of Russian minds. It is undoubtedly true that they take a lively interest in our internal and external affairs, and I saw many German books devoted to the fateful catastrophe of March 1st. Casually opening one of them with the title “Alexander II as a Man and as a Ruler,” I read bitter words that “Russia was not worthy of such a ruler, and he was immeasurably above his people…” With a heavy heart I hastened to leave both the book and the shop. One end of the “Unter den Linden” street is occupied by palaces, and directly opposite the imperial palace stands a magnificent temple of science—the university. Such close coexistence of the highest learning with imperial government makes quite a different impression than what we have grown accustomed to in the sad facts of recent times. If anything gives Berlin a barracks appearance, it is the mass of military and uniformed people who adorn the streets. But in this respect it only resembles our northern Palmyra. In general, Berlin closely resembles Petersburg, and I, after being away from home, felt in it the proximity of my native land already.

Despite Berlin’s proximity to Russian soil, the Russian colony there is very insignificant and consists only of chance migratory birds who fly to the waters in spring and fly from them in fall, making Berlin their chief resting place. Only once did the German capital sense in itself a genuinely Russian spirit—in its authentic individuality.

No matter how cunning the German is, he still cannot make felt as well as our Yaroslavl men do, and so once a Jewish speculator decided to make good business from this. He founded a Russian felt factory in Berlin and imported genuine Russian Yaroslavl peasants, who set off in the number of twenty men to the heart of Germandom. They brought with them authentic Russian culture such as the Germans had never seen before. They wore wide beards and sheepskin coats, red shirts, and shoes smeared with tar. On Sundays they all appeared as a party at the Russian church, and after dinner would go out “under the Linden trees” in a crowd, occupying the entire wide sidewalk and forcing all passing Germans to give way, who gazed in astonishment at the “barbarous Russians.” To introduce the full measure of Russian culture into Germandom, the Yaroslavl men brought from home a woman who began to cook them native cabbage soup and established all Russian housekeeping with all its necessary attributes and even cockroaches. Thus Russian culture happily settled in the very heart of Germandom. But, alas—it is sad to say that gradually it began to submit to German culture. According to ancient ancestral custom, the Yaroslavl men sleep huddled together on benches and eat meat only on holidays. Following this example, the Jewish speculator also arranged benches for them in Berlin and fed them meat in the Russian manner. At first the Yaroslavl men did not think that anything was amiss here. But then, as they settled in and noticed that Germans sleep on individual beds and eat meat abundantly, they realized that their “customs” were not “proper German ones,” and without delay sent representatives to the Russian embassy with a complaint against the Jew, that he was not keeping them “in the German way.” Thus repulsive Germandom overcame even the representatives of authentic Russian culture. But the latter was about to make German culture pay dearly for its cultural victory. Once the Yaroslavl men went into a nearby forest to gather mushrooms and met with brilliant success, filling a large basket, and the woman salted them. The next day there was a great celebration: the Yaroslavl men sat down in a merry circle, placed a bucket of green wine, drank cup after cup, nibbling on mushrooms in sweetness, remembering their native land and singing joyful songs. But—whether the woman did not salt them properly, or the German mushroom is such, only the next day all the Yaroslavl men lay ill, and a terrible misfortune befell them—an unfortunate sickness. Across Berlin the fateful news ran that the Russian colony was seized with cholera; the press sounded the alarm, sanitary committees sprang into action, and strong quarantines were quickly established around the dwelling of our Yaroslavl men. But it is well known—the German is a coward. There was no cholera at all, they simply fell somewhat ill, and soon the Yaroslavl men recovered, and they continued making felt, bitterly cursing the German mushroom. Soon, however, the Yaroslavl men grew weary in Germandom, melancholy and heavy grief crept into their mighty hearts, and they abandoned the Jew-antichrist with his cursed invention and departed for their homeland, to their Yaroslavl land—to their wives and beloved children. Some of them, however, became so susceptible to German influence that they remained in Germandom even after the cessation of felt production, and at present represent an interesting type of a Russian person consumed by German culture. In the life of this simple Russian colony there were many other interesting phenomena. In it there remarkably collided direct Russian culture with German culture, and more detailed observation of this collision would undoubtedly have furnished many interesting facts of more than curious significance.

From Berlin, two roads lead to the native land—rail and sea. In summer it is so pleasant to enjoy the freshness of sea air that I preferred to take the sea route, and for this purpose traveled to Stettin, from where steamers regularly depart for Russia. On the Oder River, the German steamer “Moscow” was already raising steam and in the early morning set out on its journey. On the German “Moscow” there were only about a dozen male and female passengers. They were all Germans and German women, but with signs of becoming Russian. At the first table I heard Russian words with a German accent. Some of them had already been in barbarous Russland, and, having filled their purses, were traveling to see their beloved fatherland; others were only now going to try their luck. In this respect Russia for Western Europeans constitutes the same as America. Just as to the one, so to the other do Western Europeans emigrate for profit, with the only difference that America assimilates these migratory vultures on its soil, while from Russia they fly away again, carrying with them weighty plunder. Among the passengers, two handsome men attracted particular attention, from under their ordinary clothes there was plainly visible strictly disciplined manners. In any free time they sat in a corner and diligently read some profound books requiring terrible concentration. I listened and understood that they were struggling with Russian grammar and one of Turgenev’s tales. It turned out that these were Prussian officers who were coming to Russia for practical study of the Russian language, the theoretical foundations of which had already been laid in the officers’ school, where Russian is obligatory just as French is. The officers proved to be very cultured, educated, and amiable gentlemen, and I pleasantly whiled away the monotonous time of sailing with them; but only a cold shudder ran through me at the thought that these educated people were none other than emissaries of that bloodthirsty demon of German militarism which holds all Europe under the terrible sword of Damocles, every moment threatening the horrors of destruction and bloodshed. The officers were traveling to villages near Moscow, where they were awaited with heartfelt longing—one by a Russian countess N., and the other by a Russian princess X. These Russian ladies, having exhausted all Russian sense in their foreign wanderings, now evidently serve only as Russian stoves on which poisonous snakes and scorpions dangerous to the native land warm themselves. Undoubtedly, under these ladies’ careful guidance, the officers will perfectly master the Russian language, and then—oh, if only this never happened!—leading savage hordes of German soldiery ten times greater in number, they will cause far more harm to poor Russia…

The ponderous steamer, meanwhile, tirelessly cut through the quiet expanse of the Baltic Sea, and soon it entered the Finnish Gulf. Native soil should soon appear, and I gazed with trembling attention at the eastern edge of the watery circle. The eye had seen nothing yet, but the heart already sensed the nearness of home, and the invisible seemed to become visible. But then suddenly two candles of white wax seemed to light up over the water, and after a few moments the eye plainly distinguished in them the churches of God. And the heart rejoiced and trembled, and from sweet excitement the blood roared in my head. Meanwhile, from the water there emerged more and more the wondrous panorama of the crown city and coastal settlements—above which rose stately golden-domed towers. This wondrous panorama, together with the dense swarm of all sorts of vessels and steamers, among which stood majestically a neat row of giant ironclads, presented an almost magical picture, and I, with delight seizing both officers by the hands, exclaimed rapturously: “Look, there is the land of the Tsar! Have you ever seen anything like it?” The Germans were evidently enchanted by the magical picture and replied seriously: very imposant, very imposant (very impressive), and one of them added thoughtfully: “A wonderful picture, but I am surprised here not so much by what I now see as by Peter the Great himself, who with his genius was able to create all this on marshes!…”

A few more torturous hours, and I was already on native soil. Having safely passed through the customs ordeal and taking a cab, I merrily drove along the majestic spacious prospect of Nevsky Avenue, and could not help reflecting on how much during this time the native land had endured terrible volcanic upheavals, how many awful and historically significant changes had occurred in it, and how terribly, at the same time, cab fares had risen in it.