4. Paris

French soil. – Paris and first impressions. – Sights of interest. – The Cathedral of Notre-Dame. – The Panthéon. – The tomb of Napoleon I. – Divine service in the church of St. Roch. – Russian church and divine service in it. – Parisian morals. – Counterfeit money under the name: liberty, equality, and fraternity.

A few minutes after leaving Geneva the train crosses the Swiss border. Switzerland ends, but the mountains do not yet end. For two or three hours the train races along the bank of the Rhone, as if using the path it has cut; and indeed, according to its flow nature has heaped up terrible rocky heights, which only the wild elements and not man could breach. But these are the last efforts of Swiss nature, its strength noticeably weakens. When meeting with the Lyon branch of the railway the train turns sharply northward and—the mountains are gone: before you opens a distant green plain, on which the eye sees only continuous rows of slender poplars. This is the land of the French. Halfway to Paris again begins earth to heave, and the train passes many tunnels, but toward Paris itself the mountains fade and give place to plains, on one of which is located this modern Babylon.

It was night when I stepped on the pavement of Paris. By hiding from the eyes of the newcomer this famous capital of the world, darkness thus promoted the development in the imagination of monstrous pictures of the sights and life of this city, whose name is inseparably linked with a multitude of great—both in the tragic and in the comic sense—world-historical events. But the natural fatigue of the road took its toll and for a time forced the forgetting of both Paris and the entire world. On the next day the first thought was to go to the Triumphal Arch, from which according to descriptions opens a wondrous panorama of all Paris. Here before me is the entire city. From the arch, rising on the Place of Stars, straight streets—avenues lined with trees—fan out in all directions; beyond them already seen are chaotic masses of houses, above which occasionally rise brown towers and—only… The panorama completely fails to meet expectations, and infinitely yields to the panorama that opens from the bell tower of Ivan the Great onto Moscow. Inside, however, Paris overwhelms with its diversity and in two or three days it is quite impossible to orient oneself in it to gain a definite impression. One can examine only separate points.

The broadest of the fan-like streets radiating from the Place de l’Étoile, the so-called “Champs-Élysées,” leads to the famous Place de la Concorde. It was hard to set foot on this square while maintaining composure of spirit. Historical memories burst forth like a turbulent torrent into the soul and deprive one of the possibility of calm contemplation. How much human blood has been spilled here, how many savage and insane crimes have been committed! On the right and left, magnificent fountains murmur, ejecting water in many and varied streams—yet the murmur of these transparent jets only intensifies the remembrance of the streams of blood shed here. On this square the revolutionaries of the past century raged furiously; here the king and queen were beheaded and the demonic machine—the guillotine—performed its bloody work on thousands of human heads. Here the final Commune also held sway; beyond the garden rise the mournful ruins of the once magnificent Tuileries Palace. On these ruins, as if in mockery of sound human reason and in affront to the noblest human aspirations, shines—defiled by wicked, criminal hands—the grand maxim: liberty, equality, and fraternity. No, this is not the Place of Concord, but the place of madness, crime, and blood! Yet one recollection brings solace to the Russian heart: here, on this square, in 1814, in the presence of three sovereigns with Emperor Alexander the Blessed at their head, a solemn thanksgiving service was performed celebrating the victory completed by the entry of the allied armies into Paris over one who had forgotten the bounds of moderation—the military genius Napoleon I. Russian troops were then quartered in the Champs-Élysées. In the very center of the square stands a magnificent Egyptian, the so-called Luxor, obelisk, inscribed with hieroglyphics glorifying Pharaoh Ramses II. This forty-century antiquity brings some peace to one’s understanding of the square. The obelisk, by some miracle, escaped the senseless fury of the Communards.

After viewing a whole series of palaces and the richest Louvre Museum, I set out for the famous cathedral of Notre-Dame de Chartres. This cathedral is more interesting, it seems, for the historical memories connected with it than for its outward appearance. It is gloomy and somber, and its two headless towers inspire mournful thoughts. Indeed, how many times in the course of even a single century the city patronized by Notre-Dame lost its head! On its walls one constantly sees again that same revolutionary maxim: liberty, equality, and fraternity. Letters of this maxim, carved on stone tablets, here gleam red in color—the color of blood shed here many times. As is well known, this cathedral was more than once the object of insane sacrilege by the leaders of the Revolution. In 1793, a wild crowd, intoxicated with destruction, wanted to destroy Notre-Dame itself, but contented itself only with destroying the sculptural statues that adorned its walls in great numbers. The same crowd fully satisfied itself with inflicting internal outrage upon the temple. In that same year it was transformed into a temple of the mad religion of Reason; the statue of Liberty was placed instead of the Virgin, and in place of church hymns, the walls resounded with free-patriotic songs of the National Guard. On the choir a torch of Truth blazed, and above it rose the temple of Philosophy with busts of Voltaire, Rousseau, and others. In the midst of the temple on a throne sat a figure of Reason in the guise of a ballet dancer Meylar, receiving divine worship from the crazed admirers of Reason. Maidens in evening gowns with torches in their hands ceremonially circumambulated the temple, but then, turning into the side chapels, indulged in wild orgies. Such desecration befell this great Parisian shrine. The Commune also wished to try its destructive instincts on the people’s sanctuary—the riotous crowd set fires beneath it, which, fortunately, did little harm. All these recollections are involuntarily experienced by the visitor to the cathedral, especially since the guides to the cathedral constantly and with particular interest pause to point out signs connected with these memories. The interior and exterior of the cathedral are adorned with a multitude of statues—both religious and simply historical. For example, one gallery is entirely occupied by statues of French kings. Looking at this wealth and variety of statues, one thinks one is in one of the departments of the Louvre Museum. The center of the temple is separated from the other parts by a high railing, on which are posted notices about prices for places there. The cathedral treasure room (trésor) is of particular interest to visitors, containing a great wealth of church vessels and luxurious archiepiscopal vestments, donated by various kings. It is difficult to compare this Parisian treasure room with our Moscow patriarchal treasury, because in style and contents they differ greatly; but the French treasure room, at first glance, strikes one with no less brilliance and luxury than the Moscow one—though perhaps the effect is greatly enhanced here by the extraordinarily skillfully made repositories: before your eyes they reveal their treasures with truly theatrical dexterity and elegance. Among the treasures shown here are the crown of thorns of the Savior, acquired by Louis the Saint, the golden cross of Emperor Manuel Komnenos, a part of the Life-giving Cross, as well as one rich Russian banner lost by us at Sevastopol, and the blood-stained vestments of several Parisian archbishops who fell from the hands of revolutionaries, and much more. Steep spiral staircases lead to the towers. On entering the platform of the temple, from which properly the towers begin, one is struck by a multitude of stone statues representing the wildest forms of the devil and his angels. Here, it seems, all the forms of the devil that dark Catholic medieval imagination could devise are depicted; you see, for example, a most hideous fiend that in fury gnaws at a cat, etc. It is difficult to look at these statues indifferently. In one of the towers hangs the famous French bell—Bourdon[1], constituting for Parisians an object of the same pride as for Muscovites the famous Tsar Bell. The Frenchman explained with enthusiasm the mechanisms by which the clapper of the bell is set in motion; but I sinned against modesty and interrupted the Frenchman with a remark that in Russia we have whole dozens of such bells and even some several times larger—and we ring them all without any mechanism whatsoever. In truth, the French Bourdon is a complete dwarf compared to our Tsar Bell and weighs less than a thousand poods. Next to Bourdon hangs our Russian bell, taken by the French at Sevastopol. Our Sevastopolet is much smaller than Bourdon, and I, striking it with a hammer to compare its sound with the proud sound of the vessel, wished to hear the mournful tale of its captivity and longing for home; but to my surprise—its sound turned out to be deeper and more bass than Bourdon itself, though perhaps this depends on its Russian “coarseness” in comparison with its refined French neighbor. The view from the towers presents nothing special. One can only admire the blue windings of the Seine, disappearing in the masses of huge buildings.

Another of the most interesting Parisian temples is the temple of St. Genevieve or the Pantheon. Its foundation dates to the time preceding the Great Revolution, but the revolutionaries endeavored to make it their temple and transformed 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 in it. But to this day the church presents a strange mixture of religious and political elements. Its interior is very decorous, adorned with magnificent statues and pictures of religious Catholic worship, and for a pious Catholic soul there is certainly much that is instructive and edifying; but its exterior bears a wholly political and, one might say, pagan character. First of all, the inscription on the front says that this is not a church but a simple monument. It reads: “Grateful fatherland to great men.” This in itself would be nothing, of course: the church is not alien to great men. But look at the bas-reliefs, and you will see the pagan element. The front bas-reliefs represent in the form of women: the fatherland, freedom, and history. The fatherland, naturally, at the urging of its companions, distributes palms to the great men to whom it owes its grandeur and glory. On the sides stand the great men in crowds. On the right are military geniuses, and among them in the foreground Napoleon I, and on the left are crowded scholars and philosophers, and among them, alongside Fénelon, Laplace, Cuvier, and Lafayette, men such as Voltaire, Mirabeau, and others receive reward palms from the indiscriminate fatherland. The church is particularly inclined toward Voltaire, and in its basement preserves his coffin as a holy relic, as well as his statue—with his well-known sarcastic physiognomy, which here appears even more sarcastic—perhaps because it stands out of place. On the interior walls, a series of paintings depicting the life of St. Genevieve—from childhood to death—draws particular attention. Many very interesting and characteristic episodes from contemporary female historical figures (from the time of Attila) are introduced into the paintings. On two columns are posted notices inviting people to special services for the benefit of Alsatians and Lorrainians. What meaning these services have—political or simply charitable—I could not discover. The architectural exterior of the temple fully answers to its name—Pantheon. Somewhat similar to the described temple is the Invalides cathedral, which contains the tomb of Napoleon I: the same mixture of religious and political elements. Outside, between excellent columns of the Greek style, stand statues: of Charlemagne and Louis the Saint, and below them statues of four virtues: Justice, Temperance, Prudence, and Strength. A golden dome, it seems, unique in Paris, proudly rises above the colonnade. The interior of the temple strikes one with its aristocratic quality. White marble walls and floor shine with extraordinary elegance and cleanliness, which even confuses the unaccustomed visitor. Upon entering within—in the midst of the temple you see, as it were, a round fountain basin. But when you approach closer—before you in the depths opens the tomb of the great Napoleon. The impression is powerful but difficult to define. The sarcophagus of red Finnish marble, presented by our Emperor Nicholas Pavlovich, stands in the very depths, and on both sides of it stand, as if on guard, sculptural figures of the twelve main companions-in-arms of Napoleon. Beside them are fixed a multitude of flags and victorious trophies of military genius; the flags incline toward the tomb. Among them, there are undoubtedly Russian ones, but with insufficient light it was difficult to examine them. Above the tomb rises a magnificent altar with an inscription expressing Napoleon’s cherished desire—to find a place of rest in his beloved fatherland. On the temple walls are many painted images. A painting on the dome is especially interesting, depicting Louis the Saint handing to Jesus Christ the sword with which he defeated the enemies of Christianity.

Many interesting and distinctive features are presented by the other Parisian temples I visited, but their description would take up too much space. I will mention only the church of St. Sulpice, where on the walls are posted numerous notices announcing the distribution of indulgences with a list of deeds giving the right to them; the church of St. Magdalene, presenting the type of a Greek temple; and the church of St. Roch, celebrated for its artistic music. I happened to be at a service in this church. It was on Saturday the 20th of October, the 1st of November by the new style, a great holiday for the French—“All Saints’ Day.” There were many worshipers, so many that there were not enough chairs, and many pressed and crowded along the walls. Deathly silence reigned in the temple, broken only by the barely audible exclamation of the clergyman. But then the exclamation ended and “amen” from the stentorian tenors resounded through the walls. On the distant choir, the organ began a melody and it was taken up by an enormous chorus below, accompanied by several contrabasses. The impression was grandiose and the singing pleasant to the ear; but it was difficult to persuade oneself that one was in a temple: these rows of chairs, these contrabasses with bows, these suisse (suisse) in theatrical costumes, with clubs in their hands and triangular hats on their heads, and the choir itself with its artistic singing—all of this had the character of a concert, not a service. When the singing ended, the organ in the distance continued the melody, which then seemed to die away on the choir. One would have to be a Catholic to draw even a drop of religious feeling from this sea of aesthetics.

On the following day, Sunday, the measured strokes of a bell were calling Orthodox pilgrims to the Russian church. Abroad, love for one’s native land is always felt more strongly, and the Orthodox “bell-toll” of the Russian bell responded with joyful tidings in my heart and with irresistible force drew me to the Orthodox temple. The service was conducted by the venerable rector of the church, Protopriest V. A. Prilethaev: the French choristers sang harmoniously and tunefully the Orthodox songs incomprehensible to them, and, to my surprise, pronounced the words so distinctly and well, even such a long song as the Creed, that one forgot about their nationality and it produced the impression of genuinely Russian church singing. The performance of the Cherubim Song (No. 3 of Bortniansky) was especially harmonious and beautiful and recalled in miniature the singing of our excellent Alexander Nevsky Metropolitan choir. The church was full of worshipers, perhaps the entire Russian colony in Paris, headed by His Imperial Highness Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolaevich the Elder, who occupied a place at the right kliros. Thus there was here a purely Russian atmosphere: Russian worship, Russian people. The deep, solid bass of the deacon fully completed the Russian picture. However, no, it was not the bass of the deacon that completed this picture, but Russian beggars standing in the vestibule. One must wonder where Russian beggars came from in Paris, but it is a fact and its explanation can only be found in the inviolable word of the Savior: “the poor you always have with you.” The church itself, in purely Moscow style with five golden domes, makes a very good impression and serves for Paris as one of the zealously displayed sights of its inhabitants. It is a pity only that it stands on a completely unfavorable spot, in a courtyard surrounded by not particularly artistic buildings, with an exit to an insignificant, blind, narrow, and neglected street, on which empty lots with trash stand unused for whole decades. This unassuming setting greatly diminishes its grandeur and beauty. The interior is very decorous, and the side recesses with paintings by Bogolyubov produce a strong aesthetic impression. The base of the dome is occupied by the writing of a song—“Let all flesh be silent.” Glancing through it with my eyes, I noted several fairly crude grammatical errors: and one could not help but regret the insufficient attention to the Russian shrine of those who could have ensured greater accuracy of the text. But in any case, the overall impression remains magnificent, and I left the temple with a sense of complete satisfaction.