On the Rhine I saw the German public traveling. You, Friend, cannot even imagine how much travel is developed among the Germans! Almost every German saves up a few dozen marks in order to take his German woman in the summer, take a ride along the Rhine, drive to Saxon Switzerland, walk in the mountains. You can find German tourists everywhere. The Germans have a whole science of traveling. And everything is reduced to a template again. Often it was just funny to me to look at the traveling Germans. They are very funny in their stupid self-satisfaction. A German will certainly wear a special suit for the trip. In the cities, there are special shops with things for tourists. If a tourist is going to the mountains, then the comedy begins in the plains. On the feet are shoes made of thick leather with iron spikes on the soles. Next, high, above the knees, thick stockings. A bag on his back. The whole figure is covered with a cloak; In his hands is an impressive stick with a sharp iron end. It seems that the tourist is going either to the North Pole or to the top of Mont Ball. And what an important view! So everyone says: "Look, I'm going on a journey, terrible dangers await me, but I'll overcome everything!" The German, I think, travels more for hygienic purposes, to temper himself, to lose fat, to increase blood circulation, to work up a good appetite and sound sleep. For him, admiration for the beauty of nature is also valuable, by the way, because they promote digestion. A relative of mine, who traveled a lot, very angrily ridiculed the German way of traveling. "The Germans," he said, "have signs on the mountain paths: 'Here you need to stop and admire the view to the right,' 'Here you need to express your delight with an exclamation,' and so on." He tries not to miss a single view, not a single attraction. A German tourist always has a guidebook in his hands. Not to see anything mentioned in the guidebook is a misfortune for a German. Of course! For his money, he could have seen it and did not see it! And the money is spent! Thus, my friend, the German and the Russian travel differently. For the Russian, the journey itself is evoked by the breadth of nature, which wants to embrace and contain as much as possible. A German is petty, calculating and boring when traveling.

As I sailed along the Rhine, my attention on the steamer was attracted by the figure of a Catholic clergyman. I saw a shaved face in a cassock. Isn't he a Catholic student? - a thought flashed through my mind. I sat down next to the companion who interested me and spoke to him. It turned out to be not a student, but a Pfarrer, a village priest from Bavaria, that is, a face no less interesting. We talked for a long time on various issues, even had lunch (forgive me, Lord!) together, although my companion was not distinguished by talkativeness. He graduated from the University of Munich, but apparently broke with science immediately after completing his university course. It turned out that I was no less familiar with German theological books than the Bavarian village priest. I also did not notice any special intelligence and good manners in my interlocutor. I was interested in his stories about church affairs, about the life and work of the Catholic clergy. After graduating from the university, it turns out, you can't immediately get even a rural place. Those who wish are ordained to the priesthood, but they live with the bishop for three years, participating in divine services, in preaching, and performing certain pastoral duties. The bishop gets to know the young priests intimately and, on the basis of his personal acquaintance, determines who he considers more suitable. Parish paters receive a state salary, although not particularly large. Single people, of course, need incomparably less than married people. The village priest serves a short mass every day without a sermon. The mass lasts half an hour. About fifty people attend this Mass every day. On holidays, mass with a sermon. Yes, my friend, the lonely priest somehow lives more with the spiritual interests of his parish, because he himself has few personal worldly interests. I have always thought that the class and obligatory family life of our clergy greatly interferes with church life and activity. Catholic celibacy is, of course, an extreme. The church canons allow freedom for a priest in marriage and celibacy. In my opinion, the obligatory family for a priest is also an extreme, and an extreme that is hardly useful. The family is the better the more selfish it is, and pastoral care is essentially self-denial. It is incomparably easier to renounce oneself alone than one's family. However, in these considerations I can hardly find sympathy with You, my Friend!

In Cologne my journey along the Rhine ended. From afar, the Cologne Cathedral riveted my eyes. I have already written to You about it, my dear Friend. From the Cologne impressions, I recall the evening solemn service in the Jacobskirche, especially the sermon at the end of the service. On the pulpit, a kind of artist towered over the crowd of worshippers. In terms of content, the sermon was nothing remarkable, but it was eloquently expounded and delivered artistically. How the preacher controlled his voice, how confident he felt in the pulpit, what expressive facial expressions and gestures! He spoke of the Savior's love for the world. When, at the end, the preacher began to depict the ingratitude of the world, which is crucifying Christ with its sins for the second time, tears welled up in the listeners. But the very end of the sermon stunned me. The preacher began to make rather stupid witticisms, tell jokes. Instead of crying, bursts of laughter were heard throughout the temple. Having cheered up the worshippers, the preacher left the pulpit. What I saw seemed incredible to me. What is it? Why this fun addition? In order not to let the listeners go home in a sad mood? This is what they do in theaters, after a heavy drama, playing a frivolous vaudeville. But it seemed very, very strange to me to observe the same thing in the church.

In the morning the train took me from Cologne and from the Rhine.

But I, my friend, was also in the upper part of the Rhine especially to see the famous Rhine Falls. On the way from Zurich to Schaffhausen, a little before reaching the latter, I saw from the window of the carriage a roaring and foaming mass of falling water. As soon as the train stopped in Neuhausen, I headed for the waterfall. A majestic and formidable picture of nature! A fairly wide river rushes down with noise and rumble, at the left bank it even falls almost steeply. The whole river becomes white. For a long time after the waterfall, the river is bubbling and restless. I wanted to see a wild picture of the waterfall in a wild frame. I imagined a time when everything around was deserted and lifeless: there were no roads, no well-maintained cities. Probably, the waterfall was somewhat different then, but undoubtedly it was even more majestic and formidable. I spent several hours by the raging waterfall. On the way, I learned that I had arrived successfully: on one of those days when late in the evening there is a special illumination of the waterfall. It was already getting dark. The picture of the waterfall became more and more creepy. All the details of the waterfall disappeared - only as if wild hungry angry animals roared in the dark! Such pictures of nature somehow suppress the consciousness, as if you are completely immersed in a sea of noise and rush along this sea in the complete power of its mighty waves.

At about ten o'clock in the evening, a rocket flew from the Laufen Castle, located on a high, forested cliff on the left bank, cutting through the darkness of the night. Immediately, from the opposite bank, an invisible hand pointed a strong electric searchlight at the entire depths of the waterfall. Imagine, my Friend, the black masses of the high mountainous shores; only the waterfall itself is flooded with bright light; he is all white in the rays of light; Small splashes play and shimmer. Suddenly, the waterfall plunges into darkness again - only one castle is lit by a searchlight directed at it. Again, the rays of light go to the waterfall. Suddenly the waterfall begins to turn blue, and soon all its mass is blue. Then one half of it becomes red, the other remains blue. Soon the whole waterfall is red. A few more minutes - and fireworks rockets rained down on the waterfall. A rain of rockets is pouring down from the castle. Fiery streaks stretch from the sky to the water itself and scatter multi-colored balls over the water. Rockets take off even from that small rock that has stood in the middle of the waterfall for centuries. A spectacular spectacle captures all the attention. It does not last long, maybe only 15-20 minutes, but for these minutes the whole world ceases to exist for you; The whole soul is filled with an unparalleled spectacle, in which one surprise replaces another. I sat for these twenty minutes on the bank of the river opposite the waterfall, as if in some fantastic dream. Such sights are not forgotten!

Finally, everything went out. Immediately, somehow everything around me became uninteresting. It was as if he had been transported from the mysterious world of dreams and dreams to the boring everyday life, and it seemed cold and uncomfortable on a dark night on the river bank. Immediately, the entire crowd of spectators walked from the waterfall. The prudent Germans brought in a whole electric train and took us to Schaffhausen for the night.

At first, it seemed surprising how it was possible to arrange such a spectacle for free, but soon you guess that even with a free spectacle, the inhabitants do not lose out. You never know how many travelers will travel an extra hundred miles for the sake of a truly outstanding spectacle of the Rhine Falls. The night lighting of the waterfall will make all of them spend the night somewhere nearby, live almost a whole day, spend a lot of money, which will go from the pocket of the tourist to the inhabitants of the city, where hardly anyone would look if it were not for the Rhine Falls near it. Rhine Falls in Switzerland. In Switzerland, at every step, you notice how the whole country seems to trade in the beauty of its beautiful mountains, wondrous lakes, amazing waterfalls. The traveler will be taken comfortably everywhere, everywhere he will be fed, watered and calmed, lifted to the region of eternal snows, to the cloudy heights. And on the top of the Jungfrau, where the road was recently laid with great difficulty, the tourist will find trade. The whole country turns into a hotel, as it were, where everything is arranged to the taste of rich guests. The richest tourists are the British, and hotels with English order, with English servants, stand somewhere on the shore of Lake Vierwaldstetter! It seems that it is not in nature for a Russian person to sell the beauty of nature. We also have the beauty of nature. And try to get to them, for example, in the Caucasus! Much determination is needed, and one must prepare oneself in advance for many deprivations and dangers. Europeans use all, even the smallest, features of the place to put this feature into circulation and make money. You yourself will gladly pay and even be grateful to the merchant for helping you on your journey, furnishing you with comforts and serving you.

The next day, in pouring rain, wind and bad weather, I sailed along the upper Rhine to Lake Constance on a very bad little steamer. It seemed that everything yesterday was only in a dream, because today everything is so uninteresting and unfriendly.

Letter Eight. Raphael's Sistine Madonna

I see, I see, my dear friend, that you are already laughing when you read only the title of my letter! Do you laugh at my very intention to write about the greatest work of art? This, of course, is because you are well aware of my lack of talent in all branches of art. Namely, mediocrity. There is no gift. God did not give... In the art of painting, I am a complete zero. I myself was convinced of this sad truth in my childhood, when I tried to draw houses, horses, dogs, and the like. But, my friend, I have never been insensible to beauty. Only I have always been incomparably more attracted to the beauty of God's world. I am almost indifferent to the beauty of paintings, but some paintings still broke through the wall of my indifference, the ice of my artistic insensitivity melted before them - and I experienced such strong impressions that I cannot forget them for many years. The Sistine Madonna has shocked me, and I want to talk to You, my Friend, about this outstanding experience of mine in the West. As I sat before the Madonna, I involuntarily remembered You, and then I mentally shared my experience with You. I remember well how, on my return home, at my first meeting with you, I began to talk about the Madonna. You, my Friend, then took my speeches not only lightly, but even with laughter. Several years have passed since then, and I now address you with a letter about the Madonna. After that, I tried to comprehend my immediate experience. I want to share with you my thoughts about Madonna. Many people have written about Her, different people have written about Her. And why not try to say something about Her to a person who has anything to do with theology? After all, this picture depicts the Mother of God, the object of our religious worship and theological reasoning. But I will talk about my impressions in advance...

It was on a summer day in Kazan, on a bright and cheerful summer day, when I went to the Dresden Gallery. Visiting art galleries is a kind of duty for all travelers. This debt has always seemed difficult to me. It's her fault, my artistic mediocrity. What, for example, did it cost me to walk around the endless halls of the Louvre in Paris with their thousands of paintings! But someone would walk all day long and be delighted all the time. I approached the Dresden Gallery with the thought of the Madonna, and with a sceptical thought at that. "The greatest work of art"... See! Maybe all the loud fame of the Madonna is based on a kind of autosuggestion of the audience!

As soon as I entered the gallery, the usual whole rows of halls went. For some reason, I thought that I would see the Madonna immediately and first of all. One hall, another, a third... There is no Madonna, and other paintings somehow do not attract attention. I lose patience and turn to one of the gallery employees with the question of how to find the Sistine Madonna. He directed me down a long corridor. I enter a small room. I see a whole crowd of people, but I don't see the picture, because it turns its back to the entrance. I make my way through the crowd of spectators and turn to the painting. She is alone in the whole room. Everyone here looks only at her. At first, something like disappointment. Madonna did not impress immediately. I look more closely - and in my soul there is already some kind of anxiety, which always happens when you see something special, difficult, not immediately understandable. A few more minutes... And - the picture seems to have disappeared. In front of me is the Madonna herself. V.A. Zhukovsky said beautifully: "This is not a picture, but a vision." Yes, and I felt that I was not looking at a picture, but seeing a wonderful heavenly vision. As soon as there was room on the sofa near the wall opposite the entrance, I sat down on the sofa and stayed in a kind of semi-oblivion for at least an hour. In front of me, on the clouds, a wonderful vision seemed to move smoothly and majestically and at the same time stood motionless. Slightly fluttering blue clothes, as if a veil inflated and knocked aside by the wind, create the impression of movement, but the Mother of God Herself is motionless and as if immersed in deep and concentrated thought. And Her face, Her eyes... How can you tell us about them? And what can be written about them in ink? Serious and gentle eyes look into the very soul, and the whole beautiful spiritual image attracts and detaches from the earth. The face of Raphael's Madonna is the face of dreams and dreams of unearthly, Heavenly, pure, passionless. It is not in vain that the papal tiara stands somewhere in the corner, as if it was abandoned. This tiara represents the land with which the papacy is so closely connected. The Heavenly Mother does not look at anything, does not notice anything. And when the wondrous eyes of the wondrous face looked at me, I did not want to see anything but this face alone. I cannot understand why some people in the picture like the figure of Sixtus even more than the face of the Mother of God (for example, V.V. Rozanov. "Italian Impressions"), why others speak with enthusiasm about the Angels. For me, only the Madonna herself existed. I even wished that there was nothing else in the picture except for Her face. The figure of Sixtus positively disturbed me, perhaps because it reminded me of the papacy, this historical monster in the bosom of Christianity, which is contrary to me. The papacy is a symbol of the materialization of Christianity; In the papacy everything is coarse, proud, carnal. And the Madonna is all Heaven, all spiritual, all meek, noble and heavenly affectionate. Sixtus is depicted in Raphael in a kind of blissful tenderness. And that's why I can't believe it's my dad. I cannot imagine any of the historically famous Roman popes in blissful tenderness. I can imagine them in the consciousness and ecstasy of power and might, but tenderness is the virtue and bliss of our ecclesiastical East. And I did not experience tenderness before the Madonna, but some kind of quiet introspection or admiration.