Of course, it will seem strange that in the sixtieth year of my life I was making a journey that I had been raving about since the age of fifteen, and then repeatedly undertook to complete it; but service activities, political circumstances in Europe and domestic relationships interfered and always distracted me. It must also be said that just as happiness spoiled me when I entered the world, it soon left me; I began to encounter failures everywhere; the service was not flattering; with all my zeal in this forty-year career, truly without ever being guilty, I lagged behind in ranks, awards, honors from all my not only comrades, but even subordinates. Having thought carefully about this grief, without blaming anyone but myself, I decided to move away, stop fighting happiness, and, according to the proverb: “you can’t break a butt with a whip,” I decided to live at home, with my family and the small number of friends I had left; I buried myself in my rich library again, fell in love with literature again, and suddenly, as the dog hunters say, I fell for the old man. Again I remembered my old friends: Homer, Pindar, Herodotus, Thucydides and others. I haven't forgotten their language yet. All my favorite Greek heroes appeared before me; the famous places of Marathon, Plataea, Salamis and Thermopylae still attracted me; I shook myself: I still feel quite strong, I know that steam engines now bring mobility to smaller masses. So I’ll board the ship, and, like old Don Quixote, I’ll set off to look for adventure.
I confess, however, that the situation of the Turkish Empire, the changes introduced by the current Sultan, the separation of Egypt and Syria, greatly aroused my curiosity. I wanted to solve this riddle on the spot, and, not based on the stories of journalists and the judgments of the half-cabinets of Europe, I decided to find out for myself what to expect from this. Whatever you say, we are neighbors, and it would be a shame to learn from those far away what is under our noses. And so, having prayed at the Iveron Mother of God, saying goodbye to the old Kremlin and the Royal Towers, I went to pray to the Blachernae Mother of God, to the walls of Constantine and to the Feodosian Palace: they are in close connection with each other, one might say in kinship, and I brought bows and wishes for well-being and new happiness from the former to the latter. It’s spring time, the weather is lovely, the carriage is ready, the driver is on the box. “Go!”
I left Moscow through the Serpukhov outpost on April 17, 1836, at 9 o’clock in the morning. The time was warm, even hot, spring was already appearing in all its beauty: I couldn’t help but sigh! I remembered that exactly forty-three years ago I drove along this road with my friend, Count Valerian Zubov; Then Great Catherine sent us to the Moldavian army. I will never forget that moment when, giving us her hand, she, with that divine smile that always accompanied her gracious treatment, said to us: “Go; glory awaits you; I have no doubt that you will soon deserve the Crosses of St. George. I know both; remember that my wishes accompany you, my attention will follow you.” After such a vacation, one could probably guess that of two things, one would inevitably come true: either death, or the St. George’s Cross; fortunately, the latter came true, and we both received it on June 7, in Poland, near Zhilintsy: he of the third degree, and I of the fourth degree. We were both 21 years old. Driving away from the magnificent court of the Great One, imbued with Her glory, filled with devotion, the desire to become worthy of Her attention, how many dreams, how many castles in the air we built in our imagination! In Moscow, a respectable parent, saying goodbye to me with tears (I was his only son), said: “Don’t forget, my friend, that our ancestors, Prince Dmitry Alexandrovich Vsevolozh and his son Boyarin Ivan Dmitrievich, were the honor and support of their fatherland.” He blessed me and sent me away in peace. Now I was traveling alone, without a friend, without dreams, without hopes; bitter experience showed me the futility of everything that had previously so seduced me; I am almost the only contemporaries left who could still remember the magical times of Catherine; friends, comrades, everyone died. Where to? Why am I going? Should I really dream again? Building castles in the air again? But if so, then the right is not for yourself. I am going because fate has determined from time immemorial for me to be in Constantinople, in Rome, and I blindly obey her will; I don’t know why, but I’m going to Constantinople, I’m going to Rome...
Podolsk! What can you write about Podolsk? After a long separation, seeing an acquaintance, the most flattering greeting would be to tell him: you have not changed at all; I told Podolsk this.