The Antidote That Didn’t Work – Weekend
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This is the story of how Catherine II tried to argue with a French academician who traveled around Russia and wrote a book about his trip. “The Antidote,” a critical analysis of this rather caustic travelogue, written by her personally but published anonymously, was supposed to show enlightened Europe how beautiful her empire was, but it became only a monument to the not entirely adequate literary ambitions of the Russian empress.
In 1770, a new product appeared in European bookstores, which immediately attracted the attention of the intellectuals of that time. “Antidote, or Analysis of a bad, superbly printed book entitled “A Journey to Siberia by Order of the King in 1761.”
The work was published somewhere unknown – either in Amsterdam or in St. Petersburg. The author – anonymous – hinted that he was an ordinary educated Russian, whose soul ached for the glory of the fatherland. However, the book was noticed and read by everyone who was interested in books in principle – both German professors and French academics. And there were reasons for that.
From the title it is clear that this is an accepted challenge, a raised gauntlet, the beginning of a controversy. So it is: in 1761, the French astronomer Abbot Jean Chappe d’Auteroche visited Russia. The scientific world of Europe was then waiting for a rare phenomenon – the passage of Venus across the disk of the Sun. They calculated that the best point for observation was Tobolsk, located somewhere in the unimaginable Siberian wilderness. The French king reached an agreement with Empress Elizabeth, and Academician d’Auteroche, armed with telescopes and other astrolabes, set off into our snows.
The abbot traveled across all of Russia, and what he saw shocked him so much that he decided to write not only a report for fellow astronomers, but also travel notes for everyone who is occupied by wild countries. The book came out angry and witty in the French way, although not particularly deep. From d’Auteroche, however, no one expected any special depths – he was an outstanding astronomer, but he was not considered a thinker. Diderot simply spoke of his colleague at the academy: “He’s such a fool.”
The Frenchman didn’t like anything about Russia at all. Even for the fir trees growing along the road, he found offensive words. He traveled thousands of miles, but could only see darkness, poverty and savagery. Villages drowning in mud, in which naked children play. Towns, not much different from villages. Drunk priests who can’t put two words together. Superstition instead of faith (our author hardly knew Russian proverbs, but he saw with his own eyes a peasant who broke his forehead in the process of fervent prayer).
He found kind words for the people – talented, intelligent, capable of enlightenment. But Russians are slaves. All of them. The peasants belong to the nobles, but the nobles cannot be called free: the kings have complete power over them. “Love for glory and for the fatherland is unknown in Russia. Despotism destroys minds and talents here, suppresses spiritual impulses. In Russia, no one dares to think – it gets to the point that humiliated people, plunged into a bestial state, lose all ability to do so. Fear is perhaps the only driving force that supports life in this people.” What kind of education is there among slaves? In addition, Russians travel little and cannot learn from the experience of other, more developed nations.
But the bathhouse especially shocked the traveler. He heard something about the Russian bathhouse back in Paris and, of course, decided to find out what it was: a scientist is a scientist. It turned out to be the threshold of hell on earth, hot barns where you can’t breathe, where local savages go every week (!), but not to wash, but to sweat. Where they flog each other with rods, and then drink a cloudy liquid made from moldy bread crusts, which is called kvass.
The abbot’s book was a success. The king, who did not like Russia, liked her. And of course, in Russia she found at least one very attentive reader. Or rather, the reader. D’Auteroche came to the empire of Elizabeth, left the empire of Peter III, and published his “Journey” already under Catherine II. At first, the Empress did not feel very confident on the throne and closely followed what Europe was saying about her state. The Empress was offended.
After all, she was an ideal monarch, the embodiment of the Enlightenment on the throne! The best minds of the West corresponded with her. She’s used to being admired! They admired her, not always disinterestedly. And it’s not just about money: the enlighteners hoped to test their ideas in practice, to implement a grand experiment in a grandiose empire, and this required that the young empress think that these were her ideas, not theirs.
In general, everyone who followed intellectual and political life understood that the abbot’s writing would not go unanswered. “Antidote” became such an answer. At first it was assumed that the real author of the work was Princess Dashkova, but then, including from hints in the empress’s letters to foreign correspondents, they realized that no, not Dashkova. Catherine herself rushed into battle, defending the honor of her own kingdom.
She habitually expected delight. But there was no enthusiasm. The antidote turned out to be weak, and everyone understood this. Scientific solidarity turned out to be stronger than any pragmatic considerations: no one dared to praise the unsuccessful work. “Antidote” was supposed to become a monument to the greatness of Catherine, but turned out to be evidence of a regrettable overestimation of one’s own capabilities. The empress’s talents were not enough to fight the academician on equal terms.
But she tried. She demolished d’Auteroche’s “Journey” almost line by line. Our Christmas trees are cheerful. Children don’t play in the dirt. In cities there are not only wooden houses, there are also stone ones. The court is righteous, soldiers in Prussia are drilled more harshly than in Russia, and, of course, no Russians are slaves. They simply sincerely love their rulers. And they have no problems with travel: they travel around the world, making numerous conquests.
And, of course, Russians do not bathe weekly. Some have never been to a bathhouse in their lives. And no one whips anyone there, although sometimes they wave fresh herbs or wet sheets in the air to create a pleasant coolness. However, the quarrelsome abbot could have been flogged. As a joke. Because Russians generally love funny jokes.
It is probably understandable why the strained jokes of “Antidote” did not appeal to European intellectuals, who turned wit into a cult. The Empress herself understood everything. I have come to terms with it. On the last page of The Antidote, readers were informed that a sequel was being prepared, which would finally explain to everyone how great Russia is and how insignificant the Abbé d’Auteroche is. The Empress was asked when to expect a continuation. And she, sighing, replied that the author died a hero in the war with the Turks and there would be no continuation. She had already found out that successful wars and “numerous conquests” were a much more reliable way to gain political authority than writing pamphlets and corresponding with cunning wise men. In her case, it worked, although it doesn’t always work.
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