No Russian sees the towers of the holy city in the distance without reverently baring his head and crossing himself, and even the guards in the railway trains keep a sharp look-out lest they should fail to make the prescribed obeisance at the first coming into sight of the venerated towers and steeples. The Russian is sensitive, impressionable and romantic above any people with which I have come in contact. The religion, the poetry, the music and the traditions of his country are the very essence of his nature, fibres interwoven round one centre, which is to him as his own heart, and that centre is Moscow. There was one man living in Moscow whom I was most anxious to see: M. Gerebzoff, the author of “La Civilisation en Russie.” He was famous as a man of letters, known, moreover, as a typical gentleman of the old school, who had never bowed before the altars of St. Petersburg, but had remained absolutely faithful to the traditions of what he conceived to be the glorious past of his country. Prince Galitzin, who knew him, very good-naturedly asked him to tea one evening to meet me. He came with two or three others—men of the same kidney as himself—and we had a most interesting talk. He had the appearance of a very old man, though in truth he was hardly past middle-age; but his infirmities added long years to his reckoning, and he was nearly stone blind; physically he was weak, but mentally full of activity, enthusiasm and prejudices—just as I had imagined him. What added to the interest of his conversation was the fact that he had been writing a book on England, full of admiration for our institutions and methods. But Boris Galitzin knew that I should be eager to hear him talk about his own country, so he deftly turned the conversation to the question of the capital. “St. Petersburg!” exclaimed M. Gerebzoff, “a mere marsh, just fit to harbour frogs and wolves and Finns. You must not imagine”—turning to me—“that in St. Petersburg you can come to any true opinion about Russia,” and then he went off at score. Even Moscow he would not admit to be the true capital for his country. Kief would be the most advantageous metropolis. His argument was this. The theory of a capital is that every native of the country should look upon it as _his_. Moscow is to Vladimir and Kief what St. Petersburg is to Moscow—a modern imposition. Moscow might be the official capital, but the native of Little Russia would still look upon the ancient Kief as _his_ capital. But if Kief were the seat of government, Petersburger, Muscovite, Volhynian, Podolian, White Russian, and perhaps even at last Pole, would loyally rally round the old mother-city. The spirit of separation would be exorcized, and there would be one Russia with one language and one mind. This was no new idea of which M. Gerebzoff held the patent. Many Russians had professed the same faith, especially the violent nationalists.