"From Spasskoe I drove across to the little village of Dolguinko, where I found a part of the population living in holes dug in the earth. Towards the end of last autumn, one half of the village was burned to the ground. The work of rebuilding had scarcely commenced when winter set in, and those peasants who were not able to lay beams and branches over their partially-built huts and thus make a roof, dug holes in the ground in which they are now living with their families.
"To reach these burrows it was necessary to follow a long passage cut in the snow, at the end of which was a hole through which the visitor was supposed to let himself, legs first, and then steady his descent by catching at the snow till he felt the ground beneath his feet. I did all this, and am not certain whether I was not more astonished at my safe arrival than the occupants of the hole were to see me.
"Beyond the difficulties of entrance and exit the hole is no darker than an ordinary hut. But a more horribly insanitary place of abode for humanbeings it would be hard to find. As could only be expected, it was very damp, and the occupants were condemned to stand and sit in several inches of mud, and to support the drippings of the snow melted by the heat of their fire. However they manage to live with insufficient nutriment amid such surroundings I cannot imagine. The man in one of these burrows that I visited was making wooden boots, for which he could earn a penny a pair. If he worked very hard he could make two pairs a day.
"On returning to Novo Alexandrofka, I looked over the books of the district of which these villages form part. It comprises twenty-five villages, with a total of 60,000 inhabitants. How many of these are relieved by the authorities cannot be said, but M. Novikoff's Committee has supplemented the efforts of the Government by feeding 10,436 persons during the month of January. Each one of these 10,436 persons was the recipient of twenty-five pounds of flour.
"According to the inventories made of the possessions of every inhabitant of the district, the number of destitute, unprovided for by Government relief, will increase by more than 1000 a month, and will reach 18,000 by June. The committee has already distributed 650,000 pounds of flour since its institution. As many Britons have aided this work by funds sent to Madame Olga Novikoff, it will interest them to know what is doing.
"In the village of Novo Alexandrofka no one is in receipt of relief. Thanks to M. Novikoff, who has endowed it with elementary, secondary, and adultschools, it is a particularly happy village, and counts 800 teetotalers in a population of 900 persons.
"Before leaving the Tambov Government, I may say that although in certain villages the want is appalling, and is rendered more palpable by the condition in which the inhabitants live, I do not anticipate an overwhelming disaster in this province. It is well served by railway lines, though the companies have little rolling stock, and grain can be easily conveyed to these central Governments if it is in the country, and has been brought to some available spot before the thaw."
On a second occasion, when the present War Charities began to press for support, the same kind friends in the City and elsewhere, who had helped during the Russian famine, again came forward and collected for me a handsome sum. Part of this money I had the satisfaction of distributing to Russian, British and Serbian Red Cross funds. A part also (2000 roubles) was sent as a Christmas present to the wounded soldiers in H.I.M.'s Hospital at Petrograd, in gracious acknowledgment of which I received the following telegram from the Empress Marie:
"Am greatly touched by your letter and your generous gift, for which I wish you to express to all those who have contributed my warmest thanks. MARIE."
From the Princess Helène (daughter of the King of Serbia), to whom I had also sent a small sum, came the following telegram:
"Best thanks for your generous gift—profoundly touched—affectionate greeting."
And from Monseigneur Cyril, Bishop of Tamboff, came his acknowledgment of my remittance:
"Generous gift received—great joy—many thanks and blessings."
The Grand Duchess Elizabeth, who is at the head of so many charitable institutions in Moscow, and takes such an active interest in good work there, also very kindly acknowledged the small sum sent to her. All these remittances were kindly telegraphed for me by Monsieur de Helpert, the obliging Director of the Russian Bank for Foreign Trade.
Amongst other remittances to Petrograd was one of £50 to Lady Sybil Grey, who was at the head of a Red Cross branch there, and respecting the safe transmission of which I had consulted her father, Earl Grey, who replied to me with the necessary advice, and concluded his letter with very warm acknowledgments of the kind and hearty reception his daughter had met with in Petrograd.
Later on I had the additional satisfaction of raising a further sum for War Charities by the raffle of a Diamond Ornament, for which purpose my friend, Lady Primrose, lent me her house as well as her valuable personal aid.
The above are a few illustrations, among others that might be added, of the British warm-heartedness and generosity that never fails in time of need.
My Mother—Her Musical Friends—I Study with Masset—His Generous Offer—Litolff's Visit—My Mother's Musicales Develop into a Conservatoire—Rubinstein's Anger—His Refusal to Play for the Grand Duchess Helen—The Idols of the Musical World—A Friendly Jealousy—My Stratagem with Liszt—Glazounoff's Kindness—The Musicless
Our great poets Pouschkin and Lermontoff admired my mother's beauty; Yazikoff also wrote a lovely poem in which he says that
The ancient Greeks would have delightedTo kneel and worship at your feet,To build you shrines of snowy marble,Where clouds of fragrant incense sweet,From golden altars night and morning,Would rise your image fair to greet.
But my mother was not merely beautiful, she was also exceedingly kind and very artistic. The great musician and pianist Thalberg dedicated to her one of his lovely nocturnes, and I afterwards inherited Liszt's kindness for her memory. In the year 1860 my mother used to invite to our house every Thursday first-rate musicians like Nicolas Rubinstein (as fine a pianist as his brother Anton), eminent violinists like Laub and Wieniawski, the 'cellist Cossman, and other celebrated instrumentalists,from whom we heard, with greatest enjoyment, examples of the finest classical music, which lasted from eight to ten. At ten the young people were allowed to dance, and I am ashamed to say that my young friends much preferred the second part of the evening to the first!
NICOLAS RUBINSTEIN, ANTON RUBINSTEINNICOLAS RUBINSTEIN, ANTON RUBINSTEIN
A year or two after my marriage, having (as mentioned in a previous chapter) been ordered by my parents-in-law to accompany them to Paris, I duly obeyed, and I think I may say that my life there was unique. From ten in the morning till ten in the evening, I almost invariably stayed with the old people, sitting with them in the Bois, or laying a "Patience" (the only one I know) at home. I gained, however, one great benefit. I managed to take daily singing lessons at the Conservatoire at half-past eight in the morning, from the celebrated Masset, who took great interest in my progress.
But at last my time was over, for I had to rejoin my husband and my boy in Petrograd. When I told Professor Masset that I was taking my last lesson, he seemed greatly surprised.
"Oh!" he said, "I guess why you are stopping your lessons. But you are wrong. I will give you lessons gratis for two years, on condition that you make your debut in Grand Opera. One reason why I ask high fees is in order not to be besieged by too many pupils."
"Well," said I, "of course twenty-five francs per lesson is a large sum for daily lessons, but that is not my reason. I am unfortunately obliged to interrupt my studies for another reason, my husband wants me to return home."
The Professor looked perfectly horrified. "Your husband! Are you then married?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, I am," I answered, "and I have a son."
"Voilà une surprise!" he cried. "And does your husband sing well?"
"Oh no, he does not sing at all."
"Then what does he do?"
I had to explain as well as I could my husband's position, to which Masset impatiently retorted, "Well, I only wish I had not taken such pains with your lessons!" which I thought more frank than polite, but the poor Professor was disappointed to find that he had been wasting his time on a mere amateur.
In order to practise singing without disturbing my old people, I took a little mansarde in the same house, and, when hidden there, the concierge had my order to say I was out. One afternoon, I went to my piano and was studying hard Gluck's "Orpheus," when suddenly, there was a violent knock at my door.
"Won't you let me in?" cried a voice. "Your stupid concierge insisted that you were out, but I heard your voice, which I recognised. Let me come in, I am Henri Litolff."
I opened the door, but I said, "You see that I have only a piano and one chair. I cannot receive visitors."
"I will take the chair, and will accompany you," was the answer. And then we had a charming improvised concert.
My mother's musical parties led to an important result. Struck by their success, Nicolas Rubinsteinand his friend the millionaire Tretiakoff, conceived the idea of founding a Conservatorium in Moscow. My dear native town is very enthusiastic and generous when she realises the importance of a great idea. A foundation for a Moscow Conservatorium was immediately arranged, whilst Nicolas Rubinstein's elder brother, Anton, submitted the same idea to the Grand Duchess Helen, who at once identified herself with a similar project for Petrograd. Thus we came to possess two Conservatoriums, with the two brothers Rubinstein as their Principals, Anton in Petrograd, Nicolas in Moscow, to the great adornment of both capitals.
In that enterprise the Grand Duchess Helen showed her true grandeur. And here again, as in the question of the emancipation of the serfs, she found a great supporter in her nephew the Grand Duke Constantine Nicolaievitch. I should like any English travellers who visit Moscow and Petrograd to make a point of seeing these two Conservatoriums, of which we certainly may be proud.
I continued to be on good terms with both the Rubinsteins, and the Grand Duchess Helen often invited Anton to her parties. But one evening something happened which was far from pleasant. Whilst Rubinstein was playing one of his lovely compositions, a young fellow very "well born," but very badly brought up, began turning on his heels muttering in an audible tone something about "Rubin, Rubin, Rubin" (inflamed, I was told, by jealousy in connection with a young girl who was extremely enthusiastic about the artist). Rubinstein stopped playing and left the palace. The nextday he called on Baroness Rhaden, lady-in-waiting to the Grand Duchess, and said, "The Grand Duchess is kind enough to offer me 2000 roubles for my performances; I must decline that payment, as also the honour of playing again at the palace. I am quite ready to play to the Grand Duchess when she is alone, but not otherwise."
A few days later the Grand Duchess sent for me. "Is it true," she said, "that the bear is playing at your house every Thursday?"
"The bear! Madame, do you by chance mean Rubinstein? If so, yes, he plays for me every Thursday."
"Well but, how do you manage to tame him? Do you know that he actually refuses to play at my palace on any terms?"
"The only thing I can suppose, Madame, is that, although I have no grandees to lend attraction to my receptions, my artist friends, like Rubinstein, Wieniawski, Litolff, etc., always meet with an attentive hearing—they are always accorded complete silence."
"Yes, but Rubinstein should understand that what occurred at the palace the other night was quite an unfortunate and exceptional mischance."
The Grand Duchess, as she looked at me, was evidently very angry, nor did she hasten to invite Rubinstein again. But very much later the storm subsided, and peace was restored.
The brothers Rubinstein were, naturally, the idols of the Russian musical world. In Petrograd it was Anton whose reputation was highest. In Moscow Nicolas was considered the superior. Afriendly jealousy on behalf of the two great musicians existed between the two cities. Anton in his later years had a charming villa at Peterhof where I have met also his wife and family. I remember that, at the conclusion of a discussion on Wagner's magnificent, but lengthy, Music Dramas, Rubinstein said he doubted whether anyone could listen to music with real attention and enjoyment for more than two hours at a time. A frank admission! But was he not right? He also endorsed Paganini's dictum about the necessity of daily study. "If I do not practise one day I notice it. If I do not practise two days, the public notice it." One of his friends and collaborateurs was Leopold Auer, who was for so long principal Violin Professor at the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, and to whose eminent talent the world owes so much.
Amongst other well-known musicians whom I have known in my earlier years, were Litolff (already mentioned, who, like Thalberg, dedicated a composition to my mother), Ferdinand Hiller, Halevy, Stockhausen, Ole Bull, Madame Pauline Viardot, Liszt, Tchaikovsky and others.
I knew Liszt well in Weimar, where I spent a few weeks. Once when he called on me at the Hotel de Russie, I happened to be changing my dress after a long walk. As I began to hurry my toilette, I heard enchanting sounds from my piano below. Judge of my delight to be listening to Liszt's improvisations. Instead, therefore, of hurrying, I prolonged my change of dress to what I considered would be the extremity of my visitor's patience. But I found him friendly and smiling, not in the least annoyed, whenI at last entered the room. Indeed, he evidently guessed why I had delayed so long, and was even amused at my little stratagem.
Here is a letter from him:
MADAME,
Le charme et l'émotion de votre chant m'a fait complètement oublier hier que je n'étais pas libre de mes heures aujourd'hui. Veuillez bien m'accorder indulgence et me permettre de venir un autre jour pour vous renouveler mes très respectueux hommages?
FR. LISZT.
It was Liszt also who introduced to me Lassen, who came every morning to teach me his lovely songs. In Weimar, Lassen was quite an artistic personage.
But I might ramble on for ever with such reminiscences. A few words only about later acquaintances in London. Amongst these I think I ought specially to mention my distinguished compatriots, Glazounoff and Safonoff.
Tchaikovsky was also here and had fully intended to return to London, where his glorious music had become so popular, and had indeed accepted the invitation of an English friend to be his guest during the forthcoming visit. His death in Petrograd occurred shortly afterwards, to our great loss.
On one of Glazounoff's visits I had a small musical gathering, at which the young Russian 'cellist, Varia Irmanoff, was to play her composition "Volga" (Air Russe pour Violoncelle), which she had dedicated to me. Unfortunately her accompanist never turnedup. Glazounoff, seeing the poor girl's embarrassment, then went very quietly to the piano and said, "I will accompany you." Very Russian in kindness and simplicity! I was proud of him.
A few minutes later, when my other pianist, the talented Miss Vera Margolies, came, Glazounoff seemed delighted to meet his favourite Russian artist-friend, just returned from new successes in Paris, and about to achieve another success at the Queen's Hall under the direction of our great Safonoff.
I must add a few words on Mrs. Rosa Newmarch. She has rendered great service to the artistic world in publishing her two big volumes on our great Tchaikovsky, and her works onThe Russian OperaandThe Russian Arts, and we Russians must always think of Mrs. Rosa Newmarch's efforts to bring about an artistic entente between Russia and England.
Safonoff, that grand artist so well known to London orchestras and audiences, used, in his lighter moments, to amuse us with his inimitable six-line caricatures on the back of menu cards, or on any handy scraps of paper.
In these later years I used frequently to meet that grand violinist August Wilhelmj, and shall never forget the rather rare examples he gave us of his extraordinary gift of tone, in that respect reminding me somewhat of Laub.
I used also to meet Auer on his occasional visits here, during which he introduced to me his celebrated pupils, Kathleen Parlow and Mischa Elman, who have since won world-wide fame.
Ernest De Munck, the eminent Belgianvioloncellist, formerly married to Carlotta Patti, I knew very well during his last residence in Londen, and often heard him perform on his beautiful "Strad." He had made his reputation throughout the world, and after the death in Paris of his celebrated wife, he spent his last years in London. We had many mutual friends in the musical world of former days.
The above are some of thedii majoriof the musical profession past and present. But there is also much excellent amateur talent in English Society, to which I have often listened with real enjoyment. On the other hand, I must confess that some of my best friends have shown a conspicuous absence of "music in the soul," though far from being on that account "fit for treason's stratagems and spoils!" I need hardly repeat my well-known story of dear Kinglake, who used to be unutterably bored by music, and frankly admitted that, of all instruments, he preferred the drum! His attitude was, I suppose, somewhat like that of your celebrated Dr. Johnson, whose attention was called at a musical party (at which no doubt he unwillingly found himself) to atour de forceof an eminent performer on the violin. "Is it not wonderful?" said an ardent listener. "I wish, sir, it were impossible," replied the grim Doctor.
A Fatal Treaty—Gladstone's Opinion—The Concert of Europe—The Unspeakable Turk and His Methods—England's Responsibility—Mr. Gladstone's Energetic Action—Lord Rosebery Resigns—Gladstone's Astounding Letter—"I Shall Keep Myself to Myself"—"Abdul the Damned"—"A Man whose every Impulse is Good"—The Convention of Cyprus—Russia and England
There is an old and cynical saying that no lawyer draws up an agreement or contract without an eye to the future. If ever a document left trouble for the future it was the Berlin Treaty. The clause referring to Armenia was tantamount to handing over the wretched Armenians to the Turks; for the Concert of Europe, that misbegotten child of the Treaty of Paris, has failed consistently in its futile endeavours.
The contention of Russia has never been better expressed than by Gladstone in a letter to me dated January 2, 1877, in which he wrote: "A guarantee dependent on the Turk for its execution becomes thereby no guarantee at all." Again, on February 6, he wrote: "The real issue, so far as I can see, will arise when the question shall assume this form: Is Russia to be left alone to execute the will and work of Europe?" This is exactly what Russia did in 1876, unless it be contended that the "will of Europe" sanctioned the wholesale massacre ofharmless citizens by the very power ordained to protect them—the Ruling Power.
The Sublime Porte has been as consistent as the Concert of Europe in evading its responsibilities, and it is needless to say that it as carefully refrained from carrying out its undertaking with regard to Armenia as the Powers on their part did from insisting on the reforms. Possibly the argument of the Concert was that, as there were no "ameliorations and reforms" on the part of the Sublime Porte, there was no opportunity for them to "superintend their application."
None of us who knew the Turk had any doubts as to the truth of the atrocities at Sassoun. These things were too common. The scale differed, the crime was always the same. And what was it?
The crime was the establishment—or the re-establishment—of Turkish Mussulman authority over a Christian race. If that were the crime, who were the criminals? On that point I should like to be allowed to say some plain truths, hoping that my English friends will tolerate the candour in others which they never hesitate to practise themselves. The real criminals who were responsible for the atrocities which horrified the civilised world were not the Kurds—who at first got all the blame. The criminals who perpetrated the massacre were Turkish regular troops, commanded by Turkish officers acting in direct obedience to explicit orders from the Turkish Government.
But although the direct complicity of the "Sublime" Porte in these hideous crimes was not disputed even by the Pashas of Stamboul, it wasnot with them that the responsibility of these horrors originally lay.
The crime at Sassoun lay primarily at the door of Disraeli. It was one of the many disastrous results of that "peace with honour" which Mr. Gladstone had the courage to describe as a peace that was no peace, with the honour that prevailed among thieves.
That may seem to be a hard saying to those who do not know the facts. To those who do it will be a mere truism.
Why was it that the Armenians at Sassoun were left as sheep before the butcher? Why was it that the Sultan and his Pashas felt themselves perfectly free to issue what order they pleased for the massacre of the poor Armenians? The answer is, unfortunately, only too simple. It was because England at the Berlin Congress, andEngland alone—for none of the other Powers took any interest in the matter—destroyed the security which Russia had extorted from the Turkish Government at San Stéfano, and substituted for the sterling guarantee of Russia the worthless paper-money of Ottoman promises. Was it not, then, England's doing that these poor wretches were outraged and murdered by the rulers, to whose tender mercies England insisted upon consigning them?
Let me prove my case: In the treaty of San Stéfano, the Turkish Government entered into a direct and explicit obligation to Russia to guarantee the security of the Armenians.
Article 16 of the Treaty of San Stéfano runs thus:
"As the evacuation by the Russian troops of the territory which they occupy in Armenia, and which is to be restored to Turkey, might give rise to conflicts and complications detrimental to the maintenance of good relations between the two countries, the Sublime Porte engages to carry into effect without further delay the improvements and reforms demanded by local requirements in the provinces inhabited by Armenians, and to guarantee their security from Kurds and Circassians."
Now, it is obvious that this clause imposed clear and precise obligations not only upon Turkey, but also upon Russia. If the reforms were not carried out, if the security of the Armenians were not guaranteed, Russia would have been bound to interfere, andwould have interfered, to compel the Turks to carry out their treaty obligations.
This article seemed to the British plenipotentiaries to give Russia a virtual protectorate over Armenia, and therefore they insisted upon striking it out. The poor Armenians were forbidden to look for their protection to the strong arm of the Tsar. The Turks were delivered from their express obligation to guarantee the security of their Armenian subjects, and it was calmly decreed that the Armenians should be content with Article 61 of the Berlin Treaty. That clause ran as follows:
"The Sublime Porte engages to realise without delay those ameliorations and reforms which local needs require in the provinces inhabited by the Armenians, and to guarantee their security against the Circassians and the Kurds. It undertakes to make known, from time to time, the measures takenwith this object to the Powers, who will watch over their application."
Mark the difference. In place of a positive obligation entered into with the only Power near enough and strong enough to enforce the fulfilment of treaty engagements, there was substituted this engagement, over the execution of which the Powers, in their beneficence, promised to watch: as the execution has never begun, the Powers were not overburdened with much "watching." "Waiting" rather expresses what they did—waiting for the Turks to begin the fulfilment of the promises which they made to collective Europe years and years ago. They are waiting still. Meanwhile the Armenians were massacred, as, for example, at Sassoun, and not there only. But even this did not exhaust the criminal responsibility of Lord Beaconsfield. He had taken Cyprus as a material pledge for the execution of reforms in Asiatic Turkey. But there were no reforms in Asiatic Turkey. The only effect of the Anglo-Turkish Convention was to increase the confidence of the Sultan that he could do as he pleased in Armenia, Article 61 of the Berlin Treaty notwithstanding.
England, therefore, was responsible in three ways. She destroyed the Russian guarantee exacted by the Treaty of San Stéfano. She framed the worthless "watching" clause of the Berlin Treaty, and then, to preclude all possibility of effective pressure upon the Turk, she concluded the Cyprus Convention, which established an illegal British protectorate over the Asiatic dominions of the Sultan.
At Sassoun was seen the result of that policy. No amount of dispatch-writing, friendly advice, or admonition would improve the condition of the Armenians. Remonstrances were idle. What was wanted was action. But who could act? No Power could occupy and administer Armenia but Russia. Unfortunately, she had no wish and no obligation now to undertake so arduous and so thankless a task. But who else was to do it?
No one did it; for Russia had once played St. George and Europe had thrown back the maiden to the dragon.
When I heard of the Armenian massacres in 1894, I was more horrified than surprised. When the full confirmation of the horrible news arrived, it made my heart sick. What was even worse, if that were possible, was the fact that the relations between England and Russia were strained. All Mr. Gladstone's energies were concentrated upon urging on Lord Salisbury's Ministry the coercion of the Sultan, single-handed if need be. The result was Lord Rosebery's resignation as Leader of the Liberal Party in the Lords, as a protest against a policy that in his opinion could not fail to plunge Europe into war.
Prince Lobanoff, who was responsible for Russia's policy of opposition to armed intervention against Turkey, aroused Mr. Gladstone's indignation, and I came in for a share of his wrath by virtue of my defence of Prince Lobanoff. At that time Mr. Gladstone wrote to me:
HAWARDEN CASTLE,October18th, 1895.
It is most kind of you to waste powder on an outcast like me; an outcast first from active life; secondly I feel—from your scheme of opinion I cannot read your articles—not because I deal so little with newspaper print, but because I am afraid of disagreeing with you, and in this case I prefer ignorance to strife. I am, you see, possessed with an idea as to the truer mode of dealing with the Sultan and his accursed system, founded upon my experience in the year 1880—when we received most valuable and effective aid from your good and great Emperor Alexander II.
Now I have no power and little knowledge—and my imagined knowledge may be all wrong. It is to this effect:
(1) That Lord Salisbury is not up to the mark in all points, but that he is the best of those who have the matter in their hands. The best there is at the moment to do the work.
(2) That he is held back by others—not to act, say, according to rumour, most by Russia.
If this is so it is most painful, for this Armenian case is the very worst of all that has yet happened, and if the Powers are beaten by the Sultan, whom every one of them can crush with the little finger, they will be deservedly covered with indelible disgrace.
There is plain speaking for you.
It was; but I replied soothingly, trying to put to him Russia's case. His reply electrified Europe. It ran:
October22nd, 1895.
MY DEAR MADAME NOVIKOFF,
In these sad circumstances I am so far comforted as to believe that there is no occasion for controversy between you and me. We have in some critical circumstances heartily co-operated, and I think we have the same sentiments as to Armenia.
I shall carefully and for many reasons keep myself to myself.
I see inThe Timesthat the wretched Sultan, whom God has given as a curse to mankind, waving his flag of triumph, and the adversaries at his feet are Russia, France and England.
As to the division of the shame amongst them, I care little. Except that I hope that my own country, and for its good, be made conscious and be exhibited to the world for its own full share—whatever that may be.
May God in His mercy send a speedy end to the grinning Turk and all his doings. So I said when I could say, and could even sometimes do, so I say in my political decrepitude and even death.
Always yours sincerely,W. E. GLADSTONE.
This letter was the sensation of the hour. Here are some of the English press comments upon it: "An extraordinary letter," "the sensation of the hour," "startling vehemence," "now famous letter,""essentially Gladstonian," "silly and wicked balderdash," "ring of life and strength," "shameful letter," "Tory papers are terribly shocked," "has startled the civilised world."
When I returned from Russia to England in 1896, one of the first things I saw on reaching London was "Plain words to the Assassin," in large letters on the newspaper posters, staring down upon me from the hoardings, and I found people still telling each other what a dreadful fellow the Turk really was!
Plain words, strong words, fierce words was the diet presented to the Sultan in varied diplomatic sauces; but the dish was always the same, and his response was quite as monotonous. To empty words, plain or flavoured, he replied by massacres, and this seemed likely to go on for ever. For us thispasse-tempswas monotony. To the poor Armenian, alas, it is death!
I rejoiced to see that the English nation was weary of the vaticinations of diplomatists, and was urgently demanding not words, but deeds. It reminded me of 1876, that great year when so many brave attempts were made to change its traditional policy—attempts which, unfortunately, met with but partial success. And above all I rejoiced to hear once more sounding deep and loud, like the great bell of our grand Kremlin, above the general hubbub, the commanding note of Mr. Gladstone's voice—that voice through which the heart and conscience of nations has so often found utterance.
But although in some respects like 1876, there was this difference, which, as a Russian, I felt more keenly than any one. In 1876 Russia led, andthough no other Power followed, we fought, we suffered, we triumphed! In the Armenian question the initiative of chivalrous action was no longer ours, and bitterly I regretted it. It did not seem, however, to have passed into any other hands. But that made things worse. Why was it that Russia was not as in 1876? The answer was easy. Because of the Treaty of 1878.
Mr. Gladstone lamented and condemned the policy of Prince Lobanoff. With the lament I concurred. From the condemnation I dissented. Prince Lobanoff's policy in Turkey was inevitable. The responsibility for that departure from our traditional policy rested with England, and it was for England to say how long it should continue.
The vividness with which England's Armenian agitation brought 1876 back to my mind also recalled not less vividly, the hideous disillusionment of 1878; and I had reason. For through these years of trial and of triumph I did my utmost to persuade my countrymen that England was Mr. Gladstone and not Lord Beaconsfield. The generous enthusiasm of St. James's Hall made me wrongly suppose that it was equivalent to a resolute reversal of England's traditional policy. But when we had made our sacrifices and settling day came, we found, alas! to our cost, that England was Lord Beaconsfield after all, and not Mr. Gladstone. Imagine the reproaches that were addressed to me! No one can ever realise the reproaches I addressed to myself.
We were not likely to make that mistake again. We were no more to be deluded with words than theSultan was to be coerced with adjectives. We looked at facts—hard, disagreeable, ugly though they were—and adjusted our policy accordingly.
The first fact was the Sultan. In 1896 England called him "the Assassin" and the "accursed." Mr. William Watson even went to the length of referring to him as "Abdul the Damned." But England, alas! saved him in 1878, and she gloried in the deed. When Lord Salisbury reported from Berlin the net result of English diplomacy at the Congress, he boasted that it had "restored, with due security for good government (!), a very large territory to the Government of the Sultan," and that the alterations made in our Treaty of San Stéfano tended "powerfully to secure from external assault the stability and independence of his Empire."
It is difficult to repress a bitter smile when recalling the positive assurances which were given to Europe by Lord Beaconsfield as to the "angelic" character of Abdul Hamid, who was then England'sprotégé, England's ally, England's favourite.
Russia maintained that no Sultan could be trusted to protect Christian subjects, and Mr. Gladstone concurred. Everywhere there must be a guarantee. Either the populations must be freed entirely from his rule or an outside Power must superintend and enforce the execution of reforms. England met this with a flat refusal. She made it the first object of her policy to restore the direct uncontrolled authority of the Sultan over as wide a territory as possible, and Lord Beaconsfield exulted in the fatal success of that policy for many reasons, but especially for one, which most of my Englishfriends seem to have forgotten, but which Russians, being the sufferers, do not forget so easily.
Lord Beaconsfield was sure he had done right because the Sultan was such "a good man." On his return from Berlin, in his speech at the Mansion House (July 27, 1898) he gave the following testimonial to Abdul Hamid—the hero of to-day:
"I look to the individual character of that human being as of vast importance. He is a man whose every impulse is good. However great may be the difficulties he has to encounter, however various may be the influences that may ultimately control him, his impulses are always good. He is not a tyrant, he is not dissolute. He is not a bigot. He is not corrupt."
The comments of the Young Turks on this pronouncement would be interesting.
England had her way. Abdul Hamid, "whose every impulse was good," reigned by virtue of his action in 1878 over regions from which Russia had driven him out. But that was not all. England deliberately spoiled, as may be seen by reference to the protocols of the Congress, every stipulation made to compel the Sultan to keep his word. His "impulses were so good" it would be cruel to make provision for the proper execution of his treaty obligations! He must be left unhampered and uncontrolled. England rejected Russian proposals to impose upon all contracting parties the mutual duty of controlling the stipulations of the treaty because the Porte objected to allow within its own limits the control of other States. That was not to be thought of. The Sultan must be left free anduncontrolled to obey those "good impulses" of which Lord Beaconsfield was so well assured. Thus it is that Europe was paralysed over the Armenian massacres.
In face of such a situation which had thus been created, and in the midst of an impotence which was prepared in advance at the Berlin Congress, Russia was overwhelmed with denunciations because she did not remain true to the crusading policy of 1876. This hardly seemed to me to be what in England you call "fair play."
But that was not all. If we had merely to do with the Berlin Treaty, we might have endeavoured to make the best use of the worthless weapons which it contains. Unfortunately, the responsibility of England for the inaction of Russia was far more direct, far more deadly, than this.
For Lord Beaconsfield, and the English people applauded him, with the evil prescience of hatred, foresaw the Armenian massacres, and provided in advance for the paralysing of Russia's generous initiative. He even fixed a date when events would compel Russia to face the necessity of resorting to force to coerce the Sultan, and, as he publicly explained in the heart of the City of London, he regarded it as the crowning achievement of his policy to prevent such action on our part by the solemn public pledge of immediate war by England in that case.
Lord Beaconsfield said:
"Suppose the settlement of Europe had been limited to the mere Treaty of Berlin. What are the probable consequences which would then haveoccurred? In ten, fifteen, it might be twenty years [it has been exactly eighteen!] the power of Russia being revived, her resources having again resumed their general strength, some quarrel would again have occurred, Bulgarian or otherwise [Armenian this time], between Turkey and Russia, and in all probability the armies of Russia would have assaulted the Ottoman dominions both in Europe and Asia, enveloping with her armies the city of Constantinople and the powerful position which it occupies. Well, what would have been the probable conduct under these circumstances of the Government of this country?"
This was the vital question for Prince Lobanoff, and the answer to it has shaped the whole policy of Russia.
Lord Beaconsfield continued:
"Whoever might have been the Minister and whatever the party in power, the position of the Government would have been this. There must have been hesitation for a time, there must have been a want of decision and firmness, but no one could doubt that ultimately England would have said: 'This will never do; we must prevent the conquest of Asia Minor and must interfere in this matter to assist because of Russia.' No one, I am sure, in this country who merely considers this question can for a moment doubt that that must have been the ultimate policy of this country."
Therefore, he went on to explain (I summarise the points of a long speech), in order to remove any possible doubt on the subject, the voice of England should be clearly, firmly, and decidedly expressedin advance, and this he claimed he had effected by the conclusion of the Cyprus Convention. There has to be no more hesitating, doubting and considering "contingencies." England was, once for all, definitely committed to defend the Asiatic frontier of the Ottoman Empire against any advances of the Russian army in any quarrel, "Bulgarian or otherwise."
This, he declared, was "the ultimate policy" of England, and he embodied it for all men to see in the Cyprus Convention. Lord Salisbury had previously described that convention as an undertaking given "fully and unreservedly" to prevent any further encroachments by Russia upon Turkish territory in Asia.
That was plain speaking. The Convention of Cyprus, therefore, was a document prepared to prevent our taking any action for the protection of the Armenians. It meant war—war by England, by sea and land all round the world, against Russia if she advanced a single company of armed police into the valleys of Armenia. With this Convention still in force, who could blame Russia for not joining in operations against Abdul?
Of course I was told—even by Mr. Gladstone himself—that the Cyprus Treaty contained no obligation to protect the Assassin in Armenia except on condition of reforms, and that the Sultan had been informed long ago that the covenant fell to the ground by his breach of faith in not giving the reforms.
This, I confess, was news to me, and in Russia we knew nothing of any such abandonment of the Convention by the English Government.
In those years the Russian people did not move, although they undoubtedly followed with intense interest all the eloquent speeches delivered in England on behalf of the unhappy Armenians, for Russia certainly can never be indifferent to the Christian cause in Turkey. All her policy in the East had that permanent basis. But this time the lead was taken by Great Britain, who was credited with some definite plan of her own. Russia's help was never asked in theonlyway which could be fruitful, and her Minister of Foreign Affairs, Prince Lobanoff, unhesitatingly expressed his dissent from the half-measures which were proposed, and which would only irritate the Sultan and further injure the cause of the unhappy Armenians—bad enough already.
Thank God, their losses did not amount to the 250,000 lives stated in the English Press; but even the tenth part is a terrible, terrible slaughter. The poor Armenians would never have risen in rebellion had they not expected from Great Britain the help that the Slavs received from Russia. I suppose our crime is that we did not do Great Britain's work. But really this cannot constitute Russia's duty!
It was at the beginning of 1878, when the long agony of the War of Emancipation in the Balkans and in Armenia was drawing to a close, that I publishedIs Russia Wrong?It was a protest and an appeal against the fatal superstition that our two countries were natural enemies. The appeal was for the re-establishment of the Russo-English alliance, which seemed to me essential for the best interests of both countries. It was venturesome,perhaps even audacious, to issue such an appeal when all your arsenals were ringing with preparations for war with Russia, and when Lord Beaconsfield was even completing his arrangements for forcing your fleet up to the gates of Constantinople.
In those days there were few who listened to Russian protests; among these few, however, were the flower of English intellect. My great friend, Mr. J. A. Froude, in an eloquent preface, commended my appeal to the attention of his countrymen. Mr. Carlyle honoured it with his emphatic assurances of support. In fact, it was he who was the first in urging me to republish in book form all my letters on the Anglo-Russian relations. Four years later, when I re-issued the appeal with other matter in myRussia and England, M. Emile de Laveleye reviewed it in theFortnightly, but so great was the popular prejudice against Russians, that Mr. Morley would not allow him even to name the author of the book whose proposals were under review. I shall never forget De Laveleye's indignation at having been so roughly treated by the editor. "It is pure despotism," exclaimed he. "People talk of freedom of opinion, and they will not allow you, at the same time, to express that which you most strongly hold! It is despotism and deceit combined. Of all kinds of despotism—the worst," concluded he. I did not contradict my friend, as he was expressing exactly my own views.
Fortunately for me, Mr. Gladstone was not handcuffed in the same way by the editor of theNineteenth Century. He reviewed the book not only at length, but warmly supported my humble plea fora cordial and good understanding between the two great Empires which dominate Asia. "Every Englishman," said he, with his wonderful outspokenness, "must read this book." His advice may have been followed by some of his party, but I certainly ignominiously failed to convince the Jingoes.
But all this is very long ago and a new era has since opened for Russia and England. I have written this chapter to show what apparently insurmountable obstacles have been overcome to allow Russia and England to join forces in 1914 with the common object of freeing Europe from an intolerable tyranny. In the meantime, poor Armenia suffers as even she has not suffered before, and once more Russia is carrying hope to the hearts of unfortunate Christians ground beneath the Turkish heel.
Russian Dreamers—Fighting a Curse—First Steps—An Interesting Encounter—A Great Reform—Its Acceptance by the Peasants—The Cabman's interrogative—He Begs me to Intercede with the Tsar—The Temptation of Drink—My Peasant Teas—The Drink Habit—Our Courageous Emperor
There are some people who accuse me of being a dreamer, and I confess they are not altogether wrong. For many years I "dreamed" of an Anglo-Russian understanding; it was the great dream of my life. I could have wished that it had been realised without the shedding of rivers of blood and the wasting of tens of thousands of lives; still, I have been spared to see my dream come true, and I can only hope that out of this terrible sacrifice good may come.
Some of my friends were as inveterate dreamers as I, notably Mr. M. Gringmuth, the editor ofThe Moscow Gazette, who, in 1908, announced his determination of struggling energetically against drunkenness in our beloved Russia. "We must convince our Government," he said, "of the absolute necessity of stopping this evil and of finding better sources of revenue—sources more worthy of a great country."
I remember with what thankfulness I read these patriotic words. In alcohol I saw a greater enemyto Russia than Nihilism and all its kindred influences. It was the secret enemy eating into our country's very vitals. Then came the day when, with a stroke of the pen, our Tsar did the greatest thing that any monarch has ever done for his subjects—he killed the foe that had been for generations menacing millions of homes.
There have been many dreamers in Russia who, like Mr. Gringmuth, have fought the common enemy. I remember in the year 1899 I was travelling in Finland. It was a bitterly cold September day, and I was glad when we reached Terioki (a station an hour's distance from Petrograd) to get some refreshment. Sitting in a corner of the room I was enjoying my cup of tea, when suddenly I heard a rough and imperious voice.
"A glass of gin (vodka). Be quick!"
"But we have no gin," replied the waiter. "We sell no alcohol here."
"What is the meaning of this? Well, then, give me some wine."
Again the waiter answered quietly, "We sell no wine at this station."
"Dear me! How absurd!" exclaimed the rough voice. "Well, then, give me some beer at once."
"Very well, sir, I can offer you beer, but only if you also take some solid food. Here are beef-steak, chops, patties—choose what you like."
"All right, all right; give me beer and anything you like besides," shouted the thirsty traveller. Grumbling and vexed, he swallowed his steak and drank his beer, looking with disappointed eyes at the half-bottle that had been placed before him.
I followed the scene from my corner, and was greatly amused. During that time a gentleman who was studying my face seemed to read the meaning of my satisfied and joyful look.
"Madam," he said politely, taking off his hat, "pardon the liberty I take in addressing you, but I see you are pleased with this little scene."
"Pleased," I repeated; "no, I am not pleased, I am delighted."
"Well," continued he, "let me tell you that our struggle against drunkenness has not been in vain. And I am happy to meet people who seem to sympathise with the results of our work."
"Tell me more about it," I said. "I must know how you manage to paralyse drunkenness, even at railway stations, where there are so many sorts of people."
"Ah, it has gone further than those," proudly replied the unknown. "It seems that only a strong step in the right direction was needed to set the whole enterprise at work. The simple but important programme we have adopted is to induce our people to feel that a drunken country—like a drunkard—may easily degenerate and go to ruin. We are determined not to fall in that abyss."
"But what are the practical measures you recommend and which you apply?"
"Since this important duty became clear to us," he said, "we started to work with great energy. We established in every town and every village temperance meetings, conferences, discussions. We distributed useful leaflets, simply but clearly expounding our views on the necessity of our struggle,and I am happy to say we have been all this time extremely successful. Our schemes have been eagerly accepted, and our society has immensely increased. In fact, our success has far exceeded our warmest expectations, both in diminishing the hours for the sale of alcohol and in reducing the number of public-houses. In many places—in Viborg, for instance—even beer is not sold. Those who want to buy alcohol must go elsewhere—that is to say, where our propaganda has not yet been so well established. No doubt it is only a question of time; far wider results are certain.
"Our propaganda," he continued, "at first seemed strange. Now all our societies compete with each other in zeal and energy. During our last elections, all our candidates secured the support of the tee-totallers, and when in Parliament, strengthened by the agitation, they carried most drastic measures."
"And yourself," I asked, "what political party do you belong to?"
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed he, as if I had put the most grotesque question. "I am a business man. All my time is absorbed by my business, and I have never had time for politics. Those who sympathise with our propaganda are my friends, that's all."
"What keeps your societies together? What pledges? For how long is the pledge binding? With us, in Russia proper," continued I, "each new member takes an oath in church, and likes to feel that there is a religious element connected with his pledge."
"We require nothing of the kind," answered he;"the moment a man recognises the harm of alcohol he clearly sees where his duty lies, that's all. The conditions concerning the furtherance of our propaganda differ. In some places there are no alcohol shops at all. In others there are only a limited number of public-houses. As a rule, where they reduce that number they also limit the hours of sale."
"But I understand, according to the charming scene we have just witnessed," said I, "restrictions are also put on beer, whilst Count Witte actually recommended to teetotallers beer as a deviation from alcohol."
"Can it be possible?" exclaimed the gentleman. "What was his object in doing so? Every man knows perfectly well that it is only a question of degree. The substance remains the same. When you start with beer, you gradually go to the gin. This is known everywhere and, I repeat, by everybody. Among certain precautions, which are very useful, though they may seem at first glance trivial, is this. Where the sale of alcohol is not absolutely abolished, only diminished, gin is never sold in small bottles, which could be carried in the pocket. Alcohol is sold only in large bottles, which are too costly for the poor man and too cumbrous. The latter have to go to some other place or town—which is neither a cheap nor easy way of getting what one wants. As to private sale, it is out of the question, as it would be denounced immediately by some teetotal neighbour, and punished by law."
"What is the part of the Government in all these reforms?" I asked.
"None," replied he, "none whatever, except that they ought to look for their revenue elsewhere, and not be afraid of displeasing the publicans."
Here I remembered that I had to continue my journey to Petrograd, and, thanking my obliging informant, hurriedly rushed to my train.
The terrible evil wrought in Russia by drunkenness has been generally admitted and discussed ever since I can remember. As is very well known, half of our convicts committed their crimes under the influence of this horrible scourge, a fact which is probably equally applicable to other countries, including England.
Some of our officials, my son amongst them, I am happy to say, availed themselves of every opportunity to explain the danger of the drink evil to the peasantry.
When the great reform of the Zemski Natchalnik (a local administrator resembling the English J.P.) was introduced, Alexander Novikoff delivered an address to the peasants on our estate in the following words:
"I came among you to make your acquaintance and to explain to you what was meant by the new reform inaugurated by His Majesty, and the changes which that reform introduces into your life. Let me read you the Imperial manifesto addressed to the Senate."
(Here followed the reading aloud of the ukase, amidst profound and attentive silence.)
"You thus see for yourselves that the object of this reform is the Emperor's desire to abolish certain previous conditions of your life, in order to promoteyour well-being. The harvest of last year was of medium average. This year is worse; our fields are almost naked; and people are already threatened with famine. Is it possible that during several years of good harvest you could not have provided for one bad year? This and other such negligences on your part have shown His Majesty 'the necessity of coming to your aid in establishing'—as it is said in the ukase—'a help which stands more within your reach.' That help, which is possessed of considerable power, stands nearer to you in two ways: nearer, locally speaking, and also nearer by the confidence which a Zemski Natchalnik hopes to arouse in you. Formerly, every complaint against the rural administration had to be forwarded to the tribunal in the district town; that tribunal could thus form its judgment of a case only on the foundation of written documents, and consequently just rights were sometimes inadequately protected. Other cases necessitated appeals to still more distant authority. Henceforth, in all your business affairs, which your village judges are not allowed to settle, you have simply to appeal to your Zemski Natchalnik who lives close to you. But besides the local proximity there is the proximity of confidence, which I hope to deserve from you. Remember that I am always ready to hear you whenever you are in need, at any time of the day, either at my own house or in your village. I beg you to come to me, not only with your complaints, but also when you require advice or guidance. I shall always be happy to help you to the best of my power.
"Let me now tell you what I expect fromyourselves. I begin with your meetings. You must admit that great disorders have taken place at these gatherings. Were they not often accompanied with drinking? What a quantity of land and property has been exchanged for brandy! I have now given strict orders—which I repeat to you now—that the smallest piece of land is not to be disposed of without the consent of your village judges and unless sanctioned by me. You must keep well in mind that a village meeting is not a convivial gathering of friends, but is an administrative assembly, where you have to perform a serious duty conferred upon you. Had you always looked upon that duty in its proper light there would be no question of drunkenness at your meetings, nor could your village judges ever complain of not having the number of householders necessary for a legal meeting.
"I must now point out what is expected from you in your private life. First comes your duty to God. It is not for me to investigate what happens with your soul. That is the duty of your spiritual fathers—your confessors. But remember that I shall severely punish any disorderly behaviour in church or during any service. How often have I seen drunkenness at your marriage festivities—people going to church under the influence of drink. The same happens at Easter and other holidays. I appeal to your spiritual fathers to help me in re-educating you; and I shall also be very happy, so far as the law allows me to do so, to help them, whenever my authority may be needed for their support.
"I now mention your duties to your Sovereign.You beg him to help you in your harvest difficulty. What can you do in return? How can you repay him? Only in helping us, in the execution of his orders, in faithfully obeying the laws and their administrators. Until now you have considered your village chiefs almost as your servants; while their sacred duty is not to flatter your weaknesses, but to lead you in the path of right.
"Now let us refer to your family obligations. It has lately become the custom for the youngsters to attend the village meetings, with loud and idle talk; while the heads of the family, who are best entitled to express their opinions, as they used to do in olden times, shrink from attending. Addressing ourselves to a village meeting, we say 'elders,' but there are only youngsters to be seen. You must admit that, though the old people are less educated than you in reading and writing, they have nevertheless much more experience and are more attentive to their duties.
"As far as your private life is concerned, I must draw your particular attention to two of your shortcomings, which have not been hitherto sufficiently pointed out to you.
"The first is your want of respect to your parents, which I will not tolerate, because how can any man expect respect from others when he is himself disrespectful to his own parents?
"The second fault is drunkenness. How many families are driven to misery; how many crimes are committed only through alcohol? Neither I nor your village judges have the right to break into your homes and prevent you by law from spending yourtime in drinking. We can only urge and beg you to give up that habit. But remember well: to come to a village meeting or to a tribunal in a state of intoxication is prohibited by law, and for this you may be severely punished. A new election of village judges has now to take place, and this new administration is subject to the control of your Zemski Natchalnik. I have often heard people say: 'He is a happy fellow now. He may drink as much as he likes, now that he is a judge.' For myself, I confidently expect that with the new administration there will be neither drunkenness nor bribery. Your new judges have to give an oath on the gospel. It is your duty to elect men who realise the importance of such an oath. The title of a village judge should command a respect of which every man ought to be proud. I hope that we shall live together in harmony, and that you will help me in my difficult task. Now let us thank God for granting us an Emperor so anxious to help us and to promote our well-being. Let us also pray the Almighty to enlighten us, and to guide us in our choice in the important duties we are now about to undertake."
A Te Deum followed Mr. Novikoff's speech, then the election of the village judges, and the assemblage of peasants, thus rendered serious and thoughtful, presented an impressive scene.
It was satisfactory to see with what intense interest the peasants followed these words of sober advice.
Some years ago, I cannot exactly say when and where, I ventured to describe some of my own personal experiences connected with the same vitalquestion. I remember so well the details of the facts of which I then spoke, that I would like to repeat them even now.
I was driving one evening from the Zarskoe Selo Station in Petrograd to my hotel, some distance away. Although it was the summer season the weather reminded one rather of October or November. It was cold, rainy and windy; under such circumstances one naturally begins dreaming of personal comfort, a warm room and a cup of hot tea. One becomes prosaic. It seemed to me as if my drive would never come to an end.
Suddenly I heard a voice: "Madame," asked my young driver, "are you a Russian?"
"Yes," answered I, "thank God, I am a Russian!"
A few minutes later I heard the same voice say: "Madame, are you a Greek Orthodox?"
I naturally repeated again: "Yes, thank God, I am a Greek Orthodox!"
But my driver seemed to be inquisitive.
"And do you often see the Tsar?" asked the boy.
"No, unfortunately very seldom," answered I.
But I was puzzled to know the cause of all these questions, I even forgot for a few minutes to dream about my cup of hot tea, and took up the dialogue myself.
"But tell me, why do you want to know all these things?"
"Well, I thought that perhaps I could beg you to intercede on our behalf, when you see His Majesty. The fact is, I have been brought up at Mr. SergeRatchinsky's school as a teetotaller. May God bless him for the good he has done to us children."
The lad went on to explain that on growing up he had to help his parents, who owing to a bad harvest suffered great privations. He left his village and came to Petrograd to work and earn some money. Of course he had to buy a nice horse, a good cab and an overcoat—the authorities are very particular now as to the drivers' appearance in towns. He had to face all these expenses, and to work very hard, as may be imagined. In fact he was at it all day.
"When the evening comes," he continued, "one can really die of starvation: nowhere is a crust of bread obtainable. All the bakeries, all the tea-rooms, sausage-shops and canteens of every sort are closed punctually at 8 p.m. Only the public bars are open all night, but even there no food can be procured. You must admit that no man can live entirely without food," wisely concluded my driver.
Having expressed my acquiescence I became silent, and soon afterwards reached my hotel.
But ever since that day my young cabman's unpretentious conversation has been retained in my memory. Besides, a strange circumstance resulted from it. Mr. Serge Ratchinsky was one of my best friends. I had now met one of his pupils, who are all devoted to him and to his teaching, and are moreover all teetotallers.
THE CLERGY AND CHOIR OF NOVO-ALEXANDROFKA, 1900, ON THE DAY OF THE CONSECRATION OF THE CHURCHTHE CLERGY AND CHOIR OF NOVO-ALEXANDROFKA, 1900, ON THE DAY OF THE CONSECRATION OF THE CHURCH
It is pleasant to see sometimes good work actually bearing good fruit, and to realise that all our efforts are not in vain. Of course we must never hesitateto do our duty because sometimes it results only in disappointment. I also had worked to the best of my ability in the same direction as Ratchinsky, but more and more did I realise my impotence in fighting an evil of such magnitude. It became evident to me that certain measures, in order to be accepted by the whole of Russia, could only be carried out when proclaimed by the highest Power in the land. If only the Tsar would come to our rescue! was my constant thought. Had not the emancipation of forty-eight millions of Serfs been a good enough example to justify this hope? But still in my humble way I continued to do whatever I could, at all events for conscience' sake.
So when I used to go to our village Novo Alexandrovka, I sometimes invited peasants to take tea with me. I confess they always accepted my invitations with pleasure, though they knew that I was an inveterate teetotaller, and that I hated their favourite vodka. So they took one mug after another of my tea, and bit their sugar with evident satisfaction. I took advantage of these informal meetings to explain to them the horror of taking intoxicating liquors. Once I asked one of my guests:
"How many roubles a year do you spend on drink? Tell me frankly." They all seemed very embarrassed at my question, but one of them dolefully replied:
"Well, I believe, not less than fifty roubles a year."
"Is it not a sin," exclaimed I, "a great sin? We in the Government of Tambov, as you all know, can buy a good cow for that money, and with thatthere would be ready food for all the chicks and brats, and no need for them to go about begging for food."
"That may be so," agreed my visitor; and then he became silent and continued to drink his mug of tea.
Watching my poor folk, I would sometimes ask them if they cared for tea, and always received the same reply:
"Why of course we all like tea, but it is too dear for us. Naturally our masters may indulge in it, but we are poor people with empty pockets, while vodka is quite within our reach, and is cheap and plentiful everywhere."
"Yes," I said to myself, "Count Witte has not shrunk from tempting the poor people everywhere in every way. He introduced the diabolical habit amongst them of buying their alcohol in small bottles at a conveniently low price. Thus any beggar can buy one of these bottles and put it in his pocket." This drink question made me feel sometimes exceedingly wretched. Surely, I said to myself, something might be done? The evil done by Witte's demoralising measure is well understood by the Germans. As soon as they occupied the Polish provinces in Russia, one of their first steps was not only to re-open all the alcohol shops, but to add greatly to their number. Let us hope that this evil, like the occupation itself, is only temporary.
If some benevolent person would make alcohol very expensive and tea very cheap and therefore accessible, another of my dreams would be realised. But fairies are scarce. Yet perhaps there exists a means by which this end may be attainable.