Alexander Nevsky Cathedral

Stand at the iron gates on rue Daru and look up. Above the pale Paris stone, five gilded domes catch the light. They are shaped like onions, or like candle flames. In this quiet corner of the eighth arrondissement, among cream-coloured apartment blocks and wrought-iron balconies, the shapes feel almost unreal. On a still morning you may hear a bell, or the low murmur of a choir through the open doors. For a moment, Paris seems to step aside and let another country in.

This is the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, the oldest Russian Orthodox church in the city and one of the oldest in Western Europe. Construction began in the late 1850s. The church was consecrated in 1861, the same year Russia abolished serfdom. At that time Paris was being rebuilt under Napoleon the Third. Wide new boulevards were cutting through the old medieval streets. In the middle of all that reconstruction, a small Russian community asked for a proper church of its own.

Who were they? Mostly diplomats, merchants, aristocrats and artists. In the nineteenth century, Paris pulled in wealthy Russians the way a lamp pulls in moths. They came for the salons, the theatres and the fashion. Before this cathedral, they worshipped in modest chapels attached to the embassy. A larger church needed money and permission. Tsar Alexander the Second gave support. Donations from Russians in Paris, and from people back home, covered much of the rest.

The church takes its name from Alexander Nevsky, a thirteenth-century prince of Novgorod. He defended the Russian lands against Swedish forces and against the Teutonic Knights, a German crusading order. The Orthodox Church later declared him a saint. For Russians he stands for faith and for the defence of the homeland. It was also a fitting name for a reason closer to the builders. The reigning tsar was named Alexander too.

The design is by the architect Roman Kuzmin, working with Ivan Strohm. They chose what is often called the Russian-Byzantine style. That means a mix of two traditions. One is the old church architecture of Byzantium, the Greek-speaking eastern Roman Empire. The other is the onion domes and steep silhouettes of medieval Russia. The plan is a Greek cross, with four arms of equal length. The central tower rises highest, and four smaller towers stand around it.

Notice the walls before you go inside. The stone is pale, close in colour to the Haussmann buildings all around it. That is no accident. The cathedral was built with local materials and by local craftsmen. So it feels Russian in shape but Parisian in texture. Look for the arched windows, the carved bands of decoration, and the small crosses on top of every dome. Many of those crosses carry slanted crossbars, a feature typical of Russian Orthodox churches.

Now step through the doors. The first surprise is the lack of seats. In Orthodox tradition, the faithful stand through the service, sometimes for hours. A few benches line the walls for older people. The second surprise is the light. It is dim and golden, broken by the flicker of thin beeswax candles. The air smells of wax and incense. Every surface seems to carry an image — saints, angels, scenes from the Gospels.

In front of you stands the iconostasis. This is a screen of icons that separates the main space from the altar. In Orthodox belief, the altar area represents heaven, and the iconostasis is a kind of threshold. Its central doors are called the Royal Doors, and only clergy pass through them during the service. Take a moment to look at the faces in the icons. They are calm and formal, painted to be prayed to rather than simply admired.

Here is a story many visitors never hear. In 1918, this cathedral hosted the wedding of Pablo Picasso. His bride was Olga Khokhlova, a Russian ballerina with the Ballets Russes, the company of the impresario Sergei Diaghilev. Olga wanted an Orthodox ceremony. Among the guests were friends from the Parisian avant-garde, including the poet Jean Cocteau. Imagine the young Picasso standing here under these golden icons, holding a candle, as the priest sang in Church Slavonic.

The cathedral has also seen many farewells. In 1883, a funeral service was held here for the novelist Ivan Turgenev, who had spent much of his life in France. His body was then carried home to Russia for burial. More than a century later, in 1986, mourners gathered here for the film director Andrei Tarkovsky. He had died in exile in Paris. The building has served as a place of last goodbyes for Russians far from home.

The biggest change came after the Russian Revolution of 1917. Thousands of refugees arrived in Paris — former officers, nobles, priests, writers and ordinary families. Some princes ended up driving taxis. This cathedral became the centre of their world. The streets around rue Daru filled with Russian shops, bookshops and restaurants. Locals sometimes called the area Little Russia. As you leave, notice the Russian restaurant on the nearby corner, a small trace of that émigré neighbourhood.

The church's story in the twentieth century was not simple. The émigré community had a difficult relationship with the Soviet state, and with the church in Moscow. Over the decades, the cathedral's church loyalty changed more than once. Those changes reflected deep questions about identity, exile and faith. Today it is still an active parish. Services take place in the Orthodox tradition, and the building is protected as a French historic monument.

If you visit during a service, you will hear something remarkable. There are no organs or instruments in Orthodox worship. All the music comes from human voices. A small choir can fill this space with deep, layered harmonies. Visitors are welcome, but please stay quiet and respectful. Women often cover their heads, and men remove their hats. Move gently along the edges, and leave the centre for those who have come to pray.

Before you go, step back into the courtyard and look up once more. The golden domes rise against the Paris sky, framed by chimneys and grey zinc rooftops. Behind you, the city moves on with its traffic and its cafés. In front of you stands a piece of nineteenth-century Russia, built from Paris stone. As you walk toward Parc Monceau or the boulevards, listen for the bells. They are part of this neighbourhood too.