CHAPTER XVIIIST. PETERSBURG

“Die Stadt die viele hundertKapellen und Kirchen hat.”

“Die Stadt die viele hundert

Kapellen und Kirchen hat.”

There is a church almost in every street, and the Kremlin is a citadel of cathedrals. During Holy Week, towards the end of which the evidences of the fasting season grow more and more obvious by the closing of restaurants and the impossibility of buying any wine and spirits, there were, of course, services every day. During the first three days of Holy Week there was a curious ceremony to be seen in the Kremlin, which was held every two years. This was the preparation of the chrism or holy oil. While it was slowly stirred and churned in great cauldrons, filling the room with hot fragrance, a deacon read the Gospel without ceasing (he was relieved at intervals by others), and this lasted day and night for three days. On Maundy Thursday the chrism was removed in silver vessels to the Cathedral. The supply had to last the whole of Russia for two years. I went to the morning service in the Cathedral of the Assumption on Maundy Thursday. The church was crowded to suffocation. Everybody stood up, as there was no room to kneel. The church was lit with countless small wax tapers. The priests were clothed in white and silver. The singing of the noble plain chant without any accompaniment ebbed and flowed in perfect discipline; the bass voices were unequalled in the world. Every class of the population was represented in the church. There were no seats, no pews, no precedence nor privilege. There was a smell of incense anda still stronger smell of poor people, without which, someone said, a church is not a church. On Good Friday there was the service of the Holy Shroud, and besides this a later service in which the Gospel was read out in fourteen different languages, and finally a service beginning at one o’clock in the morning and ending at four, to commemorate the Burial of Our Lord. How the priests endured the strain of these many and exceedingly long services was a thing to be wondered at; for the fast, which was kept strictly during all this period, precluded butter, eggs, and milk, in addition to all the more solid forms of nourishment, and the services were about six times as long as those of the Catholic or other churches.

The most solemn service of the year took place at midnight on Saturday in Easter week. From eight until ten o’clock the town, which during the day had been crowded with people buying provisions and presents and Easter eggs, seemed to be asleep and dead. At about ten people began to stream towards the Kremlin. At eleven o’clock there was already a dense crowd, many of the people holding lighted tapers, waiting outside in the square, between the Cathedral of the Assumption and that of Ivan Veliki. A little before twelve the cathedrals and palaces on the Kremlin were all lighted up with ribbons of various coloured lights. Twelve o’clock struck, and then the bell of Ivan Veliki began to boom: a beautiful, full-voiced, immense volume of sound—a sound which Clara Schumann said was the most beautiful she had ever heard. It was answered by other bells, and a little later all the bells of all the churches in Moscow were ringing together. Then from the Cathedral came the procession: first, the singers in crimson and gold; the bearers of the gilt banners; the Metropolitan, also in stiff vestments of crimson and gold; and after him the officials in their uniforms. They walked round the Cathedral to look for the Body of Our Lord, and returned to the Cathedral to tell the news that He was risen. The guns went off, rockets were fired, and illuminations were seen across the river, lighting up the distant cupola of the great Church of the Saviour with a cloud of fire.

The crowd began to disperse and to pour into the various churches. I went to the Manège—an enormous riding school, in which the Ekaterinoslav Regiment had its church. Half the building looked like a fair. Long tables, twinkling with hundredsof wax tapers, were loaded with the three articles of food which were eaten at Easter—a huge cake calledkulich; a kind of sweet cream made of curds and eggs, cream and sugar, calledPaskha(Easter); and Easter eggs, dipped and dyed in many colours. They were waiting to be blessed. The church itself was a tiny little recess on one side of the building. There the priests were officiating, and down below in the centre of the building the whole regiment was drawn up. There were two services—a service which began at midnight and lasted about half an hour; and Mass, which followed immediately after it, lasting till about three in the morning. At the end of the first service, when the words, “Christ is risen,” were sung, the priest kissed the deacon three times, and then the members of the congregation kissed each other, one person saying, “Christ is risen,” and the other answering, “He is risen, indeed.” The colonel kissed the sergeant; the sergeant kissed all the men one after another. While this ceremony was proceeding, I left and went to the Church of the Saviour, where the first service was not yet over. Here the crowd was so dense that it was almost impossible to get into the church, although it was immense. The singing in this church was ineffable. I waited until the end of the first service, and then I was borne by the crowd to one of the narrow entrances and hurled through the doorway outside. The crowd was not rough; they were not jostling one another, but with cheerful carelessness people dived into it as you dive into a scrimmage at football, and propelled the unresisting herd towards the entrance, the result being, of course, that a mass of people got wedged into the doorway, and the process of getting out took longer than it need have done; and had there been a panic, nothing could have prevented people being crushed to death. After this I went to a friend’s house to break the fast and eatkulich,Paskha, and Easter eggs, and finally returned home when the dawn was faintly shining on the dark waters of the Moscow River, whence the ice had only lately disappeared.

In the morning people came to bring me Easter greetings, and to give me Easter eggs, and to receive gifts. I was writing in my sitting-room and I heard a faint mutter in the next room, a small voice murmuring,Gospodi, Gospodi(“Lord, Lord”). I went to see who it was, and found it was the policeman, sighing for his tip, not wishing to disturb, but at the same time anxiousto indicate his presence. He brought me a crimson egg. Then came the doorkeeper and the cook. The policeman must, I think, have been pleased with his tip, because policemen kept on coming all the morning, and there were not more than two who belonged to my street.

In the afternoon I went to a hospital for wounded soldiers to see them keep Easter, which they did by playing blind man’s buff to the sound of a flute played by one poor man who was crippled for life. One of the soldiers gave me as an Easter gift a poem, a curious human document. It is in two parts called “Past and Present.” This one is “Present”:

“PRESENT”“I lived the quarter of a centuryWithout knowing happy days;My life went quickly as a cartDrawn by swift horses.I never knew the tenderness of parentsWhich God gives to all;For fifteen years I lived in a shopBusied in heaping up riches for a rich man.I was in my twentieth yearWhen I was taken as a recruit;I thought that the end had comeTo my sorrowful sufferings,But no! and here misfortune awaited me;I was destined to serve in that country,Where I had to fight like a lion with the foe,For the honour of Russia, for my dear country.I shall for a long time not forgetThat hour, and that date of the 17th,[12]In which by the river Liao-heI remained for ever without my legs.Now I live contented with all,Where good food and drink are given,But I would rather be a free birdAnd see the dear home where I was born.”

“PRESENT”

“I lived the quarter of a centuryWithout knowing happy days;My life went quickly as a cartDrawn by swift horses.I never knew the tenderness of parentsWhich God gives to all;For fifteen years I lived in a shopBusied in heaping up riches for a rich man.I was in my twentieth yearWhen I was taken as a recruit;I thought that the end had comeTo my sorrowful sufferings,But no! and here misfortune awaited me;I was destined to serve in that country,Where I had to fight like a lion with the foe,For the honour of Russia, for my dear country.I shall for a long time not forgetThat hour, and that date of the 17th,[12]In which by the river Liao-heI remained for ever without my legs.Now I live contented with all,Where good food and drink are given,But I would rather be a free birdAnd see the dear home where I was born.”

“I lived the quarter of a century

Without knowing happy days;

My life went quickly as a cart

Drawn by swift horses.

I never knew the tenderness of parents

Which God gives to all;

For fifteen years I lived in a shop

Busied in heaping up riches for a rich man.

I was in my twentieth year

When I was taken as a recruit;

I thought that the end had come

To my sorrowful sufferings,

But no! and here misfortune awaited me;

I was destined to serve in that country,

Where I had to fight like a lion with the foe,

For the honour of Russia, for my dear country.

I shall for a long time not forget

That hour, and that date of the 17th,[12]

In which by the river Liao-he

I remained for ever without my legs.

Now I live contented with all,

Where good food and drink are given,

But I would rather be a free bird

And see the dear home where I was born.”

This is the sequel:

“PAST”“I will tell you, brothers,How I spent my youth;I heaped up silver,I did not know the sight of copper;I was merry, young, and nice;I loved lovely maidens;I lived in clover, lived in freedomLike a young ‘barin.’I slept on straw,Just like a little pig.I had a very big houseWhere I could rest.It was a mouldy barn,There where the women beat the flax.Every day I bathedIn spring water;I used for a towelMy scanty leg-cloth.In the beer-shops, too,I used to like to go,To show how proudlyI knew how to drink ‘vodka.’Now at the age of twenty-sixThis liberty no longer is for me.I remember my mouldy roof,And I shed a bitter tear.When I lived at home I was contentedI experienced no bitterness in service.I have learnt to know something,Fate has brought me to Moscow;I live in a house in fright and grief,Every day and every hour;And when I think of liberty,I cannot see for tears.That is how I lived from my youth;That is what freedom means.I drank ‘vodka’ in freedom,Afterwards I have only to weep.Such am I, young Vaniousia,This fellow whom you now seeWas once a splendid merry-maker,Named Romodin.”

“PAST”

“I will tell you, brothers,How I spent my youth;I heaped up silver,I did not know the sight of copper;I was merry, young, and nice;I loved lovely maidens;I lived in clover, lived in freedomLike a young ‘barin.’I slept on straw,Just like a little pig.I had a very big houseWhere I could rest.It was a mouldy barn,There where the women beat the flax.Every day I bathedIn spring water;I used for a towelMy scanty leg-cloth.In the beer-shops, too,I used to like to go,To show how proudlyI knew how to drink ‘vodka.’Now at the age of twenty-sixThis liberty no longer is for me.I remember my mouldy roof,And I shed a bitter tear.When I lived at home I was contentedI experienced no bitterness in service.I have learnt to know something,Fate has brought me to Moscow;I live in a house in fright and grief,Every day and every hour;And when I think of liberty,I cannot see for tears.That is how I lived from my youth;That is what freedom means.I drank ‘vodka’ in freedom,Afterwards I have only to weep.Such am I, young Vaniousia,This fellow whom you now seeWas once a splendid merry-maker,Named Romodin.”

“I will tell you, brothers,

How I spent my youth;

I heaped up silver,

I did not know the sight of copper;

I was merry, young, and nice;

I loved lovely maidens;

I lived in clover, lived in freedom

Like a young ‘barin.’

I slept on straw,

Just like a little pig.

I had a very big house

Where I could rest.

It was a mouldy barn,

There where the women beat the flax.

Every day I bathed

In spring water;

I used for a towel

My scanty leg-cloth.

In the beer-shops, too,

I used to like to go,

To show how proudly

I knew how to drink ‘vodka.’

Now at the age of twenty-six

This liberty no longer is for me.

I remember my mouldy roof,

And I shed a bitter tear.

When I lived at home I was contented

I experienced no bitterness in service.

I have learnt to know something,

Fate has brought me to Moscow;

I live in a house in fright and grief,

Every day and every hour;

And when I think of liberty,

I cannot see for tears.

That is how I lived from my youth;

That is what freedom means.

I drank ‘vodka’ in freedom,

Afterwards I have only to weep.

Such am I, young Vaniousia,

This fellow whom you now see

Was once a splendid merry-maker,

Named Romodin.”

These two poems, seemingly so contradictory, were the sincere expression of the situation of the man, who was a cripple in the hospital. He gave both sides of each situation—that of freedom and that of living in a hospital.

On Saturday afternoon I went to one of the permanent fairs or markets in the town, where there were many booths. Everything was sold here, and here the people bought their clothes. They were then buying their summer yachting caps. One man offered me a stolen gold watch for a small sum.Another begged me to buy him a pair of cheap boots. I did so; upon which he said: “Now that you have made half a man of me, make a whole man of me by buying me a jacket.” I refused, however, to make a whole man of him.

On Easter Monday I went out to luncheon with some friends in theIntelligentsia. We were a large party, and one of the guests was an officer who had been to the war. Towards the end of luncheon, when everybody was convivial, healths were drunk, and one young man, who proclaimed loudly that he was a Social Revolutionary, drank to the health of the Republic. I made great friends with the Social Revolutionary during luncheon. When this health was drunk, I was alarmed as to what the officer might do. But the officer turned out to be this man’s brother. The officer himself made a speech which was, I think, the most brilliant example of compromise I have ever heard; for he expressed his full sympathy with the Liberal movement in Russia, including its representatives in the extreme parties, and at the same time his unalterable loyalty to his Sovereign.

After luncheon, the Social Revolutionary, who had sworn me eternal friendship, was told that I had relations in London who managed a bank. So he came up to me and said: “Ifyougive our Government one penny in the way of a loan I shall shoot you dead.”

After that we danced for the rest of the afternoon. The Social Revolutionary every now and then inveighed against loans and expressed his hope that the Government would be bankrupt.

In May I went to St. Petersburg for the opening of the Duma, and I stayed there till the Duma was dissolved in July.

The brief life of the first Duma was an extraordinarily interesting spectacle to watch. The Duma met in the beautiful Taurid palace that Catherine the Second built for Potemkin. In the lobby, which was a large Louis XV. ballroom, members and visitors used to flock in crowds, smoke cigarettes, and throw away the ashes and the ends on to the parquet floor. There were peasant members in their long black coats, some of them wearing crosses and medals; Popes, Tartars, Poles, men in every kind of dress except uniform.

There was an air of intimacy, ease, and familiarity about the whole proceedings. The speeches were eloquent, but nosigns of political experience or statesmanlike action were to be discerned.

I got to know a great many of the members: Aladin, who was looked upon as a violent firebrand, and the star of the Left; Milioukov, the leader of the Kadets, who was well known as a journalist and a professor; Kovolievsky, also a well-known writer and professor, a large, genial, comfortable man with an embracing manner and a great warmth of welcome, and a rich, flowing vocabulary.

The peasants liked him and he was the only politician whom they trusted. They sent him a deputation to inform him that whenever he stood up to vote they intended to stand up in a body, and whenever he remained seated they would remain seated too. I also knew many peasant members.

The proceedings of the Duma resulted in a deadlock between it and the Government from the very first moment it met. It soon became obvious that the Government must either dissolve the Duma or form a Ministry taken from the Duma, that is to say, from the opposition. The question was, if they did not wish to do that, would the country stand a dissolution or would there be a revolution? The crucial question of the hour was, should the Government appoint a Kadet Ministry, consisting of Liberals belonging to the Constitutional Democratic party who formed the great majority of the Duma, or should they dissolve the Duma? There was no third course possible. I thought at the time that events would move more quickly than they did. I thought if the Duma were dissolved, not only disorder but immediate, open, and universal revolution would follow.

The army was shaky. Non-commissioned officers of the Guards regiments were in touch with the Labour members of the Duma, and their conversations, at which I sometimes assisted, were not reassuring. My impression from these conversations and from all the talks I had with the peasants and Labour members was that revolution, if and when it did come, would be a terrible thing, and I thought it might quite likely come at once. Mutinies had occurred in more than sixty regiments; a regiment of Guards, the Emperor’s own regiment, had revolted in St. Petersburg. I thought the dissolution would be the signal for an immediate outbreak of some kind. I knew nothing decisive could happen till the army turned. Ithought the army might turn, or turn sufficiently to give the Liberal leaders the upper hand. I was mistaken.

At the end of July 1906 the Government was vacillating; they were on the verge of capitulation, and within an ace of forming a Kadet Ministry. I think they were only prevented from doing so by the appearance on the scene of P. A. Stolypin. As soon as Stolypin made his first speech in the Duma, two things were clear: he was not afraid of opposition; he was determined not to give in. He was going to fight the Duma; and if necessary he would not shrink from dissolving it, and risking the consequences. At the end of July, Stolypin strongly urged dissolution. He argued that if the Kadets came into power they would not remain in office a week, but would be at the mercy of the Extremists, and at once replaced by the Extreme Left, and swept away by an inrush of unripe and inexperienced Social Democrats who hated the Liberals more bitterly than they hated the Government. There would then, he thought, be no possibility of building a dam or barrier against the tide of revolution, and the country would be plunged in anarchy. Judging from what occurred in 1917, Stolypin’s forecast was correct. For this is precisely what happened then. The Liberals were at once turned out of office, and replaced first by Kerensky and then by Lenin. The pendulum swung as far to the left as it could go, and this is just what Stolypin anticipated and feared in 1906.

But many people in responsible positions (including General Trepov) were advocating the formation of a Kadet Ministry; and had the Kadets had any leaders of character, experience, and strength of purpose, the counsel would perhaps have been a sound one.

At the time I thought the only means of avoiding a civil war would be to create and support a strong Liberal Ministry. The objection to this was, there was no such thing available. What happened was that Stolypin’s advice was listened to. The Duma was dissolved and no revolution followed. The army did not turn; the moderate Liberals capitulated without a fight. They took the dissolution lying down; all they did was to go to Finland and sign a protest, which had no effect on the situation. It merely gave the Government a pretext for disenfranchising certain of their leading members.

It may seem strange that the Duma, which was composedof the flower of intellectual Russia, and certainly had a large section of public opinion behind it, as well as prestige at home and abroad, should have capitulated so tamely.

The truth was that neither in the ranks of the moderate Liberals, nor in those of the Extremists, although they were in some cases men of exceptional talents, was there one man sufficiently strong to be a leader. The man of strong character was on the other side. He was Stolypin; and no one on the side of the Liberals was a match for him. The Liberals were journalists, men of letters, professors, and able lawyers, but there was not one man of action in their ranks.

As soon as the Duma was dissolved and no open revolution came about, I did not think there would be another act in the revolutionary drama for another ten years. I put this on public record at the time, and as it turned out, I was only a year out, as the revolution took place eleven years after the dissolution of the first Duma.

All through those summer months I saw many interesting sights, and made many interesting acquaintances.

One Sunday I spent the afternoon at Peterhof, a suburb of St. Petersburg, where the Emperor used to live. There in the park, amidst the trees, the plashing waterfalls, and the tall fountains, “les grands jets d’eau sveltes parmi les marbres,” the lilac bushes, and the song of many nightingales, the middle classes were enjoying their Sunday afternoon and the music of a band. Suddenly, in this beautiful and not inappropriate setting, the Empress of Russia passed in an open carriage, without any escort, looking as beautiful as a flower. I could not help thinking of Marie Antoinette at the Trianon, and I wondered whether ten thousand swords would leap from their scabbards on her behalf.

The most interesting of my acquaintances in the Duma was Nazarenko, the peasant deputy for Karkoff. Professor Kovolievsky introduced me to him. Nazarenko was far the most remarkable of the peasant deputies. He was a tall, striking figure, with black hair, a pale face, with prominent clearly cut features, such as Velasquez would have taken to paint a militant apostle. He had been through a course of primary education, and by subsequently educating himself he had assimilated a certain amount of culture. Besides this, he was an eloquent speaker, and a most original character.

“I want to go to London,” he said, “so that the English may see a real peasant and not a sham one, and so that I can tell the English what we, the real people, think and feel about them.” I said I was glad he was going. “I shan’t go unless I am chosen by the others,” he answered. “I have written my name down and asked, but I shan’t ask twice. I never ask twice for anything. When I say my prayers I only ask God once for a thing; and if it is not granted, I never ask again. And so it’s not likely I would ask my fellow-men twice for anything. I am like that; I leave out that passage in the prayers about being a miserable slave. I am not a miserable slave, neither of man nor of Heaven.” “That is what the Church calls spiritual pride,” I answered. “I don’t believe in all that,” he answered. “My religion is the same as that of Tolstoy.” He then pointed to the ikon which is in the lobby of the Duma. “I pay no attention to that,” he said. “It is a board covered with gilt; but a lot of people think that the ikon is God.”

I asked him if he liked Tolstoy’s books. “Yes,” he answered. “His books are great, but his philosophy is weak. It may be all right for mankind thousands of years hence, but it is of no use now. I have no friends,” he continued. “Books are my friends. But lately my house was burnt, and all my books with it. I have read a lot, but I never had anybody to tell me what to read, so I read without any system. I did not go to school till I was thirteen.”

“Do you like Dostoievsky’s books?” “Yes; he knows all about the human soul. When I see a man going downhill, I know exactly how it will happen, and what he is going through, and I could stop him because I have read Dostoievsky.” “Have you read translations of any foreign books?” “Very few; some of Zola’s books, but I don’t like them, because he does not really know the life he is describing. Some of Guy de Maupassant’s stories I have read, but I do not like them either because I don’t want to know more about that kind of people than I know already.” “Have you read Shakespeare?” “Yes. There is nobody like him. When you read a conversation of Shakespeare’s, when one person is speaking you think he is right, and when the next person answers him you think he is right. He understands everybody. But I want to read Spencer—Herbert Spencer. I have never been able to get his works.” I promised to procure him Herbert Spencer’s works.

One evening I went to see Nazarenko in his house. He was not at home, but a friend of his was there. He told me to wait. He was a peasant; thirty-nine years old, rather bald, with a nice intelligent face. At first he took no notice of me, and read aloud to himself out of a book. Then he suddenly turned to me and asked me who I was. I said I was an English correspondent. He got up, shut the door, and begged me to stay. “Do the English know the condition of the Russian peasantry?” he asked. “They think we are wolves and bears. Do I look like a wolf? Please say I am not a wolf.” Then he ordered some tea, and got a bottle of beer. He asked me to tell him how labourers lived in England, what their houses were made of, what wages a labourer received, what was the price of meat, whether they ate meat? Then he suddenly, to my intense astonishment, put the following question to me: “In England do they think that Jesus Christ was a God or only a great man?” I asked him what he thought. He said he thought He was a great man. He said that the Russian people were religious and superstitious; they were deceived by the priests, who threatened them with damnation. He asked me if I could lend him an English Bible. He wanted to see if it was the same as a Russian Bible. I said it was exactly the same. He was immensely astonished. “Do you mean to say,” he asked, “that there are all those stories about Jonah and the whale, and Joshua and the moon?” I said “Yes.” “I thought,” he said, “those had been put in for us.” I tried to explain to him that Englishmen were taught almost exactly the same thing, and that the Anglican and the Orthodox Church used the same Bible. We then talked of ghosts. He asked me if I believed in ghosts. I said I did. He asked why. I gave various reasons. He said he could believe in a kind of telepathy, a kind of moral wireless telegraphy; but ghosts were the invention of old women. He suddenly asked me whether the earth was four thousand years old. “Of course it’s older,” he said. “But that’s what we are taught. We are taught nothing about geography and geology. It is, of course, a fact that there is no such thing as God,” he said; “because, if there is a God, He must be a just God; and as there is so much injustice in the world, it is plain that a just God does not exist. But you,” he went on, “an Englishman who has never been deceived by officials, do you believe that God exists?” (Hethought that all ideas of religion and God as taught to the Russian people were part of a great official lie.) “I do,” I said. “Why?” he asked. I asked him if he had read the Book of Job. He said he had. I said that when Job has everything taken away from him, although he has done no wrong, suddenly, in the last depth of his misery, he recognises the existence of God in the immensity of nature, and feels that his own soul is a part of a plan too vast for him to conceive or to comprehend. In feeling that he is part of the scheme, he acknowledges the existence of God, and that is enough; he is able to consent, and to console himself, although in dust and ashes. That was, I said, what I thought one could feel. He admitted the point of view, but he did not share it. After we had had tea we went for a walk in some gardens not far off, where there were various theatrical performances going on. The audience amused me, it applauded so rapturously and insisted on an encore, whatever was played, and however it was played, with such thunderous insistence. “Priests,” said my friend, “base everything on the devil. There is no devil. There was no fall of man. There are no ghosts, no spirits, but there are millions and millions of other inhabited worlds.”

I left him late, when the performance was over. This man, who was a member of the Duma for the government of Tula, was called Petrukin. I looked up his name in the list of members, and found he had been educated in the local church school of the village of Kologrivo; that he had spent the whole of his life in this village, and had been engaged in agriculture; that among the peasants he enjoyed great popularity as being a clever and hard-working man. He belonged to no party. He was not in the least like the men of peasant origin who had assimilated European culture. He was naturally sensible and alert of mind.

One Sunday I went by train to a place called Terrioki, in Finland, where a meeting was to be held by the Labour Party of the Duma. The train was crowded with people who looked more like holiday-makers than political supporters of the Extreme Left—so crowded that one had to stand up on the platform outside the carriage throughout the journey. After a journey of an hour and a quarter we arrived at Terrioki. The crowd leapt from the train and immediately unfurled red flags and sang the “Marseillaise.” The crowd occupied thesecond line, and a policeman observed that, as another train was coming in and would occupy that line, it would be advisable if they were to move on. “What?—police even here in free Finland?” somebody cried. “The police are elected here by the people,” was the pacifying reply; and the crowd moved on, formed into a procession six abreast, and started marching to the gardens where the meeting was to be held, singing the “Marseillaise” and other songs all the way. The dust was so thick that, after marching with the procession for some time, I took a cab and told the driver to take me to the meeting. We drove off at a brisk speed past innumerable wooden houses, villas, shops (where Finnish knives and English tobacco were sold), into a wood. After we had driven for twenty minutes I asked the driver if we still had far to go. He turned round and, smiling, said in pidgin-Russian (he was a Finn): “Me not know where you want to go.” Then we turned back, and, after a long search and much questioning of passers-by, found the garden, into which one was admitted by ticket. (Here, again, anyone could get in.) In a large grassy and green garden, shady with many trees, a kind of wooden semicircular proscenium had been erected, and in one part of it was a low platform not more spacious than a table. On the proscenium the red flags were hung. In front of the table there were a few benches, but the greater part of the public stood. The inhabitants of the villas were here in large numbers; there were not many workmen, but a number of students and various other members of theIntelligentsia—young men with undisciplined hair and young ladies in largeart nouveauhats andReformkleider. M. Zhilkin, the leader of the Labour Party in the Duma, took the chair.

The meeting was opened by a man who laid stress on the necessity of a Constituent Assembly. Speeches succeeded one another. Students climbed up into the pine trees and on the roof of the proscenium. Others lay on the grass behind the crowd. “Land and Liberty” was the burden of the speeches. There was nothing new or striking said. The hackneyed commonplaces were rolled out one after another. Indignation, threats, menaces, blood and thunder. And all the time the sun shone hotter and “all Nature looked smiling and gay.” The audience applauded, but no fierceness of invective, no torrent of rhetoric, managed to make the meetinga serious one. Nature is stronger than speeches, and sunshine more potent than rant. It is true the audience were enjoying themselves; but they were enjoying the outing, and the speeches were an agreeable incidental accompaniment. They enjoyed the attacks on the powers that be, as the Bank-holiday maker enjoys Aunt Sally at the seaside. Some Finns spoke in Russian and Finnish, and then Aladin made a speech. As he rose he met with an ovation. Aladin was of peasant extraction. He had been to the University in Russia, emigrated to London, had been a dock labourer, a printer’s devil, a journalist, an electrical engineer, a teacher of Russian; he spoke French and German perfectly, and English so well that he spoke Russian with a London accent. Aladin had a great contempt for the methods of the Russian revolutionaries. He said that only people without any stuff in them would demand a Constituent Assembly. “You don’t demand a Constituent Assembly; you constitute it,” he said. “The Russian people would never be free until they showed by their acts that they meant to be free.” Aladin spoke without any gesticulation. He was a dark, shortish man, with a small moustache and grey, serious eyes, short hair, and had a great command of mordant language. His oratory on this occasion was particularly nervous and pithy. But he did not succeed in turning that audience of holiday-makers into a revolutionary meeting. The inhabitants of the villas clapped. The young ladies in large hats chortled with delight. It was a glorious picnic—an ecstatic game of Aunt Sally. And when the interval came, the public rushed to the restaurants. There was one on the seashore, with a military band playing. There was a beach and a pier, and boats and bathers. Here was the true inwardness of the meeting. Many people remained on the beach for the rest of the afternoon.

As soon as the Duma was dissolved I went to Moscow and stayed a few days at Marie Karlovna’sdatchaat Tsaritsina, near Moscow.

Near the house where I was living there was a village; as this village was close to the town of Moscow, I thought that its inhabitants would be suburban. This was not so. The nearness to Moscow seemed to make no difference at all. I was walking through the village one morning, when a peasant who was sitting on his doorstep called me and asked me if I would like to eat an apple. I accepted his invitation. He said hepresumed I was living with Marie Karlovna, as other Englishmen had lived there before. Then he asked abruptly: “Is Marie Alexandrovna in your place?” I said my hostess’s name was Marie Karlovna. “Of course,” he said, “I don’t mean here, but in your place, in your country.” I didn’t understand. Then he said it again louder, and asked if I was deaf. I said I wasn’t deaf, and that I understood what he said, but I did not know whom he was alluding to. “Talking to you,” he said, “is like talking to a Tartar. You look at one and don’t understand what one says.” Then it suddenly flashed on me that he was alluding to the Duchess of Edinburgh.[13]“You mean the relation of our Queen Alexandra?” I said. “That’s what I mean,” he answered. “Your Queen is the sister of the Empress Marie Feodorovna.” It afterwards appeared that he thought that England had been semi-Russianised owing to this relationship.

Two more peasants joined us, and one of them brought a small bottle (the size of a sample) of vodka and a plate of cherries. “We will go and drink this in the orchard,” they said. So we went to the orchard. “You have come here to learn,” said the first peasant, a bearded man, whose name was Feodor. “Many Englishmen have been here to learn. I taught one all the words that we use.” I said I was a correspondent; that I had just arrived from St. Petersburg, where I had attended the sittings of the Duma. “What about the Duma?” asked the other peasant. “They’ve sent it away. Will there be another one?” I said a manifesto spoke of a new one. “Yes,”said Feodor, “there is a manifesto abolishing punishments.” I said I hadn’t observed that clause. “Will they give us back our land?” asked Feodor. “All the land here belongs to us really.” Then followed a long explanation as to why the land belonged to them. It was Crown property. I said I did not know. “If they don’t give it back to us we shall take it,” he said simply. Then one of the other peasants added: “Those manifestos are not written by the Emperor, but by the ‘authorities.’” (The same thing was said to me by a cabman at St. Petersburg, his reason being that the Emperor would say “I,” whereas the manifesto said “We.”) Then they asked me why theyhad not won the war, and whether it was true that the war had been badly managed. “We know nothing,” he said. “What newspaper tells the truth? Where can we find the real truth? Is it to be found in theRusskoe Slovo?” (a big Moscow newspaper). They asked me about the Baltic Fleet and why Admiral Nebogatov had made a signal which meant “Beat us.”

I went away, and as I was going Feodor asked me if I would like to go and see the haymaking the next day. If so, I had better be at his house at three o’clock in the afternoon. The next day, Sunday, I kept my appointment, but found nobody at home in the house of Feodor except a small child. “Is Feodor at home?” I asked. A man appeared from a neighbouring cottage and said: “Feodor is in the inn, drunk.” “Is he going to the haymaking?” I asked. “Of course, he’s going.” “Is he very drunk?” I asked. “No, not very; I will tell him you are here.” And the man went to fetch him. Then a third person arrived—a young peasant in his Sunday clothes—and asked me where I was going. I said I was going to make hay. “Do you know how to?” he asked. I said I didn’t. “I see,” he said, “you are just going to amuse yourself. I advise you not to go. They will be drunk, and there might be unpleasantness.”

Presently Feodor arrived, apparently perfectly sober except that he was rather red in the face. He harnessed his horse to a cart. “Would I mind not wearing my hat, but one of his?” he asked. I said I didn’t mind, and he lent me a dark blue yachting cap, which is what the peasants wear all over Russia. My shirt was all right. I had got on a loose Russian shirt without a collar. He explained that it would look odd to be seen with someone wearing such a hat as I had. It was a felt hat. The little boy who was running about the house was Feodor’s son. He was barefooted, and one of his feet was bound up. I asked what was the matter with it. The bandage was at once taken off, and I was shown the remains of a large blister and gathering. “It’s been cured now,” Feodor said. “It was a huge blister. It was cured by witchcraft. I took him to the Wise Woman, and she put something on it and said a few words, and the pain stopped, and it got quite well. Doctors are no good; they only cut one about. I was kicked by a horse and the pain was terrible.I drank a lot of vodka, and it did no good; then I went to the Wise Woman and she put ointment on the place and she spoke away the pain. We think it’s best to be cured like this—village fashion.” I knew this practice existed, but it was curious to find it so near Moscow. It was like finding witchcraft at Surbiton.

We started for the hay meadows, which were about ten miles distant. On the road we met other peasants in carts bound for the same destination. They all gravely took off their hats to each other. After an hour and a half’s drive we arrived at the Moscow River, on the bank of which there is a tea-shop. Tea-shops exist all over Russia. The feature of them is, that you cannot buy spirits there. We stopped and had tea. Everybody was brought a small teapot for tea and a huge teapot of boiling water, and some small cups, and everybody drank about four or five cups out of the saucer. They eat the sugar separately, and do not put it into the cup.

We crossed the river on a floating bridge, and, driving past a large white Byzantine monastery, arrived at the green hay meadows on the farther river-bank towards sunset. The haymaking began. The first step which was taken was for vodka bottles to be produced and for everybody to drink vodka out of a cup. There was a great deal of shouting and an immense amount of abuse. “It doesn’t mean anything,” Feodor said. “We curse each other and make it up afterwards.” They then drew lots for the particular strip they should mow, each man carrying his scythe high over his shoulder. (“Don’t come too near,” said Feodor; “when men have ‘drink taken’ they are careless with scythes.”)

When the lots were drawn they began mowing. It was a beautiful sight to see the mowing in the sunset by the river; the meadows were of an intense soft green; the sky fleecy and golden to the west, and black with a great thundercloud over the woods to the east, lit up with intermittent summer lightning. The mowers were dressed in different coloured shirts—scarlet, blue, white, and green. They mowed till the twilight fell and the thundercloud drew near to us. Then Feodor came and made our cart into a tent by tying up the shafts, putting a piece of matting across them, and covering it with hay, and under this he made beds of hay. We had supper, Feodor said his prayers, and prepared to go to sleep, butchanged his mind, got up, and joined some friends in a neighbouring cart.

Three children and a deaf-and-dumb peasant remained with me. The peasants who were in the neighbouring tent were drunk. They began by quarrelling; then they sang for about four hours without stopping; then they talked. Feodor came back about half an hour before it was light, and slept for that brief space. I did not sleep at all. I wasn’t tired, and the singing was delightful to hear: so extremely characteristic of Russia and so utterly unlike the music of any other country, except Mongolia. The children chattered for some time about mushroom gathering, and the deaf-and-dumb man told me a lot by signs, and then everybody went to sleep.

As soon as it was light the mowers all got up and began mowing. I do not know which was the more beautiful effect—that of the dusk or of the dawn. The dawn was grey with pearly clouds and suffused with the faintest pink tinge, and in the east the sun rose like a red ball, with no clouds near it. At ten o’clock we drove to an inn and had tea; we then drove back, and the hay, although it was quite wet, for it had rained in the night, was carried there and then. “The women dry it at home,” Feodor explained; “it’s too far for us to come here twice.” The carts were laden with hay, and I drove one of them home, lying on the top of the hay, in my sleep. I had always envied the drivers of carts whom one meets lying on a high load of hay, fast asleep, and now I know from experience that there is no such delicious slumber, with the kind sun warming one through and through after a cold night, and the slow jolting of the wagon rocking one, and the smell of the hay acting like a soporific. Every now and then I awoke to see the world through a golden haze, and then one fell back and drowsed with pleasure in a deep slumber of an inexpressibly delicious quality.

When we recrossed the river we again stopped for tea. As we were standing outside an old woman passed us, and just as she passed, one of the peasants said to me: “Sit down,Barin.”Barinmeans amonsieur, in contradistinction to the lower class. “Very like aBarin,” said the woman, with a sarcastic snort, upon which the peasant told her in the plainest and most uncomplimentary speech I have ever heard exactly what he thought of her personal appearance, her antecedents, and what she wasfit for. She passed on with dignity and in silence. After a time, I climbed up on the wagon again, and sank back into my green paradise of dreams, and remembered nothing more till we arrived home at five o’clock in the evening.

A few days later I travelled from Moscow to St. Petersburg by a slow train in a third-class carriage. In the carriage there was a mixed and representative assembly of people: a priest, a merchant from Kursk, a photographer from Tchelabinsk, a young volunteer—that is to say, a young man doing his year’s military service previous to becoming an officer—two minor public servants, an ex-soldier who had been through the Turkish campaign, a soldier who had lately returned from Manchuria, three peasants, two Tartars, a tradesman, a carpenter, and some others. Besides these, a band of gipsies (with their children) encamped themselves on the platform outside the carriage, and penetrated every now and then into the carriage until they were driven out by threats and curses.

The first thing everybody did was to make themselves thoroughly comfortable—to arrange mattresses and pillows for the night; then they began to make each other’s acquaintance. We had not travelled far before the gipsies began to sing on the platform, and this created some interest. They suggested fortune-telling, but the ex-soldier shouted at them in a gruff voice to begone. One of the officials had his fortune told. The gipsy said she could do it much better for five roubles (ten shillings) than for a few kopecks which he had given. I had my fortune told, which consisted in a hurried rigmarole to the effect that I was often blamed, but never blamed others; that I could only work if I was my own master, and that I would shortly experience a great change of fortune. The gipsy added that if I could give her five roubles she would tie a piece of bark in my handkerchief which, with the addition of a little bread and salt, would render me immune from danger. The gipsies soon got out. The journey went on uneventfully.

“Le moine disait son bréviaire,… Une femme chantait,”

“Le moine disait son bréviaire,

… Une femme chantait,”

as in La Fontaine’s fable. We had supper and tea, and the ex-soldier related the experiences of his life, saying he had travelled much and seen the world (he was a Cossack by birth) and was not merely aMuzhik. This offended one of thepeasants, a bearded man, who walked up from his place and grunted in protest, and then walked back again.

They began to talk politics. The Cossack was asked his opinion on the attitude of the Cossacks. He said their attitude had changed, and that they objected to police service. The photographer from Tchelabinsk corroborated this statement, saying he had been present at a Cossack meeting in Siberia. Then we had a short concert. The photographer produced a mandoline and played tunes. All the inmates of the carriage gathered round him. One of the peasants said: “Although I am an ignorant man” (it was the peasant who had grunted) “I could see at once that he wasn’t simply playing with his fingers, but with something else” (the tortoiseshell that twangs the mandoline). He asked the photographer how much a mandoline cost. On being told thirty roubles he said he would give thirty roubles to be able to play as well as that. Somebody, by way of appreciation, put a cigarette into the mouth of the photographer as he was playing.

I went to bed in the next compartment, but not to sleep, because a carpenter, who had the bed opposite mine, told me the whole melancholy story of his life. The volunteer appeared later; he had been educated in the Cadet Corps, and I asked him if he would soon be an officer, “I will never be an officer,” he answered; “I don’t want to be onenow.” I asked him if a statement I had read in the newspapers was true, to the effect that several officers had telegraphed to the Government that unless they were relieved of police duty they would resign. He said it was quite true; that discontent prevailed among officers; that the life was becoming unbearable; that they were looked down upon by the rest of the people; and besides this, they were ordered about from one place to another. He liked the officers whom he was with, but they were sick of the whole thing. Then, towards one in the morning, I got a little sleep. As soon as it was daylight, everybody was up making tea and busily discussing politics. The priest and the tradesman were having a discussion about the Duma, and everyone else, including the guard, was joining in.

“Do you understand what the Duma was?” said the tradesman; “the Duma was simply the people. Do you know what all that talk of a movement of liberation means? Itmeans simply this: that we want control, responsibility. That if you are to get or to pay five roubles or fifty roubles, you will get or pay five roubles or fifty roubles, not more and not less, and that nobody will have the right to interfere; and that if someone interferes he will be responsible. The first thing the Duma asked for was a responsible Ministry, and the reason why it was dissolved is that the Government would not give that.”

The priest said that he approved of a Duma, but unless men changed themselves, no change of government was of any use. “Man must change inwardly,” he said.

“I believe in God,” answered the tradesman, “but it is written in the Scripture that God said: ‘Take the earth and cultivate it,’ and that is what we have got to do—to make the best of this earth. When we die we shall go to Heaven, and then”—he spoke in a practical tone of voice which settled the matter—“then we shall have to do with God.” The priest took out his Bible and found a passage in the Gospel. “This revolutionary movement will go on,” he said, “nothing can stop it now; but mark my words, we shall see oceans of blood shed first, and this prophecy will come true,” and he read the text about one stone not being left on another.

They then discussed the priesthood and the part played by priests. “The priests play an abominable part,” said the tradesman; “they are worse than murderers. A murderer is a man who goes and kills someone. He is not so bad as the man who stays at home and tells others to kill. That is what the priests do.” He mentioned a monk who had preached against the Jews in the south of Russia. “I call that man the greatest criminal, because he stirred up the peasants’ blood, and they went to kill the Jews. Lots of peasants cease to go to church and say their prayers at home because of this. When the Cossacks come to beat them, the priests tell them that they are sent by God. Do you believe they are sent by God?” he asked, turning to the bearded peasant.

“No,” answered the peasant; “I think they are sent by the devil.” The priest said that the universal dominion of the Jews was at hand. The tradesman contested this, and said that in Russia the Jews were assimilated more quickly than in other countries. “The Jews are cunning,” said the priest; “the Russians are in a ditch, and they go to the Jews andsay: ‘Pull us out.’” “If that is true,” said the tradesman, “we ought to put up a gold statue to the Jews for pulling us out of the ditch. Look at the time of thepogroms; the rich Russians ran away, but the richest Jews stayed behind.” “They are clever; they knew their business. If they stayed you may be sure they gained something by it,” said the merchant from Kursk. “But we ought to be clever, too,” said the tradesman, “and try and imitate their self-sacrifice. Look at the Duma. There were twenty Jews in the Duma, but they did not bring forward the question of equal rights for the Jews before anything else, as they might have done. It is criminal for the priests to attack the Jews, and if they go on like this, the people will leave them.”

“Whereas,” said the merchant from Kursk thoughtfully, “if they helped the people, the people would never desert them.” “The priests,” said one of the other nondescript people, “say that Catherine the Second is a goddess; and for that reason her descendants have a hundred thousand acres. General Trepov will be canonised when he dies, and his bones will work miracles.”

The guard joined in here, and told his grievances at great length.

At one of the stations there was a fresh influx of people; among others, an old peasant and a young man in a blouse. The old peasant complained of the times. “Formerly we all had enough to eat; now there is not enough,” he said. “People are clever now. When I was a lad, if I did not obey my grandfather immediately, he used to box my ears; now my son is surprised because I don’t obey him. People have all become clever, and the result is we have got nothing to eat.” The young man said the Government was to blame for most things. “That’s a difficult question to be clear about. How can we be clear about it? We know nothing,” said the old peasant. “You ought to try and know, or else things will never get better,” said the young man. “I don’t want to listen to aBarinlike you,” said the old peasant. “I’m not aBarin, I am a peasant, even as thou art,” said the young man. “Nonsense,” said the old peasant. “Thou liest.”

The discussion was then cut short by our arrival at St. Petersburg.

In October 1906 I took up my duties as correspondent to theMorning Postat St. Petersburg. I took an apartment on the ground floor of a little street running out of the Bolshaya Konioushnaya.

The situation which was created by the dissolution of the Duma was aptly summed up by a Japanese, who said that in Russia an incompetent Government was being opposed by an ineffectual revolution. Although no active revolution followed the dissolution of the Duma, a sporadic civil war spread all over the country, accompanied by anarchy, and an epidemic of political and social crime. Governors of provinces were blown up; Stolypin’s house was blown up, his daughter injured, and he himself only narrowly escaped; banks were robbed; policemen were shot; and the political crimes of the Intellectuals were imitated on a wider scale by the discontented proletariat and the criminal class.

The professional criminals reasoned thus: “If University students can rob a bank in a deserving public cause, why should not we tramps rob and kill a banker in a deserving private cause?” “Expropriation” became a fashionable sport among the criminals, and the prevalence of anarchy, licence, and robbery under arms had the effect of disgusting the man in the street with all things revolutionary; for all the disorder was rightly or wrongly put down to the revolutionaries. Had it not been for this reaction, this turn of the tide in public opinion, Stolypin would have found it impossible to carry out his drastic measures. On the other hand, the Government met the situation with martial law and drumhead court-martials; revolutionary and other crimes were answered by reprisals and summary executions; and daily the record of crime and punishment increased, and Russiaseemed to be caught in a vicious circle of repression and anarchy.

The watchword of Stolypin’s policy was Order first, Reform afterwards.

He defended the nature of the steps taken to restore order by saying that when a house is on fire, in order to save what can be saved, you are obliged to hack down what cannot be saved, ruthlessly. He certainly did restore order, and he also initiated certain large measures which made for reform—his Land Bill and his Education Bill; but all the reforms that were started during his administration were curtailed by his successors; and the idea which ran through the policy of all Russian Governments like a baleful thread from 1906 to 1907, was to take back with one hand what had been given with the other.

Consequently the fire of discontent, instead of being extinguished, was maintained in a smouldering condition.

The Manifesto of 30th October 1904 promised, firstly, the creation of a deliberative and legislative Assembly, without whose consent no new laws should be passed; and secondly, the full rights of citizenship—the inviolability of the person, freedom of conscience, freedom of the Press, the right of organising public meetings, and founding associations.

Practically speaking, in the years which followed the granting of this Charter until the revolution of 1917, these promises were either not carried out at all, or were only allowed to operate in virtue of temporary regulations which were (a) liable to constant amendment; (b) could be interpreted by local officials.

Stolypin’s policy of “Order first, Reform afterwards,” had two results: firstly, as soon as order was restored by Stolypin, all ideas of reform were shelved by his successors. Stolypin himself was assassinated. Secondly, in the eyes of the Administration criticism became the greatest crime, because criticism was held to be subversive to the prestige of the Government. The officials, and especially the secret police, throve and battened on this situation. Accordingly, as order was restored material prosperity increased; but this was a palliative and not a remedy to the fundamental discontent. It only led to moral stagnation.

In the autumn of 1906, while this cycle of anarchy on the one hand and repression on the other was setting in, electionswere held for another Duma. I had a long talk one day with Stolypin himself. He struck me as a man of character, absolute integrity,rigidæ innocentiæ, and great personal courage. But he had come too late on the scene of Russian politics. He would have been an admirable minister in the reign of Alexander the Second, or Alexander the Third. As it was, he was engaged not in diverting a torrent into a useful and profitable channel, but in damming it. He succeeded in damming it temporarily; but the dam was bound to be swept away, and he paid for the work with his own life.

During the winter I saw a great many Russians; members of the Duma used to come and dine with me, and I was in close touch with the political life. But the most interesting experience I had that winter was a journey I made to the north. I will describe it in detail.

I meant to go to Archangel, and I started for Vologda at night. The battle for a place in the third-class carriage was fought and won for me by a porter. When I stepped into the third-class carriage it was like entering pandemonium. It was almost dark, save for a feeble candle that guttered peevishly over the door, and all the inmates were yelling and throwing their boxes and baskets and bundles about. This was only the process of installation; it all quieted down presently, and everyone seated himself with his bed unfolded, if he had one, his luggage stowed away, his provisions spread out, as if he had been living there for years, and meant to remain there for many years to come.

This particular carriage was full. The people in it were workmen going home for the winter, peasants, merchants, and mechanics. Opposite to my seat were two workmen (painters), and next to them a peasant with a big grey beard. Sitting by the farther window was a well-dressed mechanic. The painter lighted a candle and stuck it on a small movable table that projected from my window; he produced a small bottle of vodka from his pocket, a kettle for tea, and some cold sausage, and general conversation began. The guard came to tell the people who had come to see their friends off—there were numbers of them in the carriage, and they were most of them drunk—to go. The guard looked at my ticket for Vologda and asked me where I was ultimately going to. I said: “Viatka,” upon which the mechanic said: “So am I; we will go together andget our tickets together at Vologda.” The painter and the mechanic engaged in conversation, and it appeared that they both came from Kronstadt. The painter had worked there for twenty years, and he cross-questioned the mechanic with evident pleasure, winking at me every now and then. The mechanic went into the next compartment for a moment, and the painter then said to me with glee: “He is lying; he says he has worked in Kronstadt, and he doesn’t know where such and such things are.” The mechanic came back. “Who is the Commandant at Kronstadt?” asked the painter. The mechanic evidently did not know, and gave a name at random. The painter laughed triumphantly and said that the Commandant was someone else. Then the mechanic volunteered further information to show his knowledge of Kronstadt; he talked of another man who worked there—a tall man; the painter said that the man was short. The mechanic said that he was employed in the manufacture of shells. They talked of disorders at Kronstadt that had happened a year before. The painter said that he and his son lay among cabbages while the fighting was going on. He added that the matter had nearly ended in the total destruction of Kronstadt. “God forbid!” said the peasant sitting next to me. No sympathy was expressed with the mutineers. The painter at last told the mechanic that he had lived for twenty years at Kronstadt, and that he, the mechanic, was a liar. The mechanic protested feebly. He was an obvious liar, but why he told these lies I have no idea. Perhaps he was not a mechanic at all. Possibly he was a spy. He professed to be a native of a village near Viatka, and declared that he had been absent for six years (the next evening he said twelve years).

From this question of disorders at Kronstadt the talk veered, I forget how, to the topic of the Duma. “Which Duma?” someone asked; “the town Duma?” “No, the State Duma,” said the mechanic; “it seems they are going to have a new one.” “Nothing will come of it,” said the painter; “people will not go.” (He meant the voters.) “No, they won’t go,” said the peasant, cutting the air with his hand (a gesture common to nearly all Russians of that class), “because they know now that it means being put in prison.” “Yes,” said the painter, “they are hanging everybody.” And there was a knowing chorus of: “They won’t go and vote; they knowbetter.” Then the mechanic left his seat and sat down next to the painter and said in a whisper: “The Government⸺” At that moment the guard came in; the mechanic stopped abruptly, and when the guard went out, the topic of conversation had been already changed. I heard no further mention of the Duma during the whole of the rest of the journey to Vologda. The people then began to prepare to go to sleep, except the peasant, who told me that he often went three days together without sleep, but when he did sleep it was a business to wake him. He asked me if his bundle of clothes was in my way. “We are a rough people,” he said, “but we know how not to get in the way. I am not going far.” I was just going to sleep when I was wakened by a terrific noise in the next compartment. Someone opened the door, and the following scraps of shouted dialogue were audible. A voice: “Did you say I was drunk or did you not?” Second voice (obviously the guard): “I asked for your ticket.” First voice: “You said I was drunk. You are a liar.” Second voice: “You have no right to say I am a liar. I asked for your ticket.” First voice: “You are a liar. You said I was drunk. I will have you discharged.” This voice then recited a long story to the public in general. The next day I learnt that the offended man was a lawyer, one of the bourgeoisie (a workman explained to me), and that the guard had, in the dark, asked him for his ticket, and then, as he made no sign of life, had pinched his foot; this having proved ineffectual, he said that the man was drunk; whereupon the man started to his feet and became wide awake in a moment. Eventually a gendarme was brought in, a “protocol” was drawn up, in which both sides of the story were written down, and there, I expect, the matter will remain until the Day of Judgment.

I afterwards made the acquaintance of two men in the next compartment; they were dock labourers, and their business was to load ships in Kronstadt. They were exactly like the people whom Gorki describes. One of them gave me a description of his mode of life in summer and winter. In summer he loaded ships; in winter he went to a place near Archangel and loaded carts with wood; when the spring came, he went back, by water, to St. Petersburg. He asked me what I was. I said that I was an English correspondent. He asked then what I travelled in. I said I was not that kind of correspondent,but a newspaper correspondent. Here he called a third friend, who was sitting near us, and said; “Come and look; there is a correspondent here. He is an English correspondent.” The friend came—a man with a red beard and a loose shirt with a pattern of flowers on it. “I don’t know you,” said the new man. “No; but let us make each other’s acquaintance,” I said. “You can talk to him,” explained the dock labourer; “we have been talking for hours; although he is plainly a man who has received higher education.” “As to whether he has received higher or lower education we don’t know,” said the friend, “because we haven’t yet asked him.” Then he paused, reflected, shook hands, and exclaimed: “Now we know each other.” “But,” said the dock labourer, “how do you print your articles? Do you take a printing press with you when you go, for instance, to the north, like you are doing now?” I said they were printed in London, and that I did not have to print them myself. “Please send me one,” he said; “I will give you my address.” “But it’s written in English,” I answered. “You can send me a translation in Russian,” he retorted.

“English ships come to Kronstadt, and we load them. The men on board do not speak Russian, but we understand each other. For instance, we load, and their inspector comes. We call him ‘inspector’ (I forget the Russian word he used, but it was something likeskipador); they call him the ‘Come on.’ The ‘Come on’ comes, and he says, ‘That’s no good’ (‘Niet dobrò’[14]); he means not right (nié horosho), and then we make it right. And when their sailors come, we ask them for matches. When we have food, what we callcoshevar, they call it ‘all right.’ And when we finish work, what we callshabash(it means ‘all over’), they call ‘seven o’clock.’ They bring us matches that light on anything,” and here he produced a box of English matches and lit a dozen of them just to show. “When we are raggèd, they say, ‘No clothes, plenty vodka,’ and when we are well dressed, they say, ‘No plenty-vodka, plenty-clothes.’ Their vodka,” he added, “is very good.” Then followed an elaborate comparison of the wages and conditions of life of Russian and English workmen. Another man joined in, and being told about the correspondent, said: “I would like to read your writings, because we are a rough peopleand we read only thePieterbourski Listok, which is, so to speak, a ‘black-gang’ (reactionary) newspaper. Heaven knows what is happening in Russia! They are hanging, shooting, and bayoneting everyone.” Then he went away. The dock labourer went on for hours talking about the “Come on,” the “All right,” and the “Seven o’clock.”

I went back to my berth and slept, till the dock labourer came and fetched me, and said that I had to see the soldiers. I went into the next compartment, and there were two soldiers; one was dressed up, that is to say he had put on spectacles and a pocket-handkerchief over his head, and was giving an exhibition of mimicry, of recruits crying as they left home, of mothers-in-law, and other stock jokes. It was funny, and it ended in general singing. A sailor came to look on. He was a non-commissioned officer, and he told me in great detail how a meeting at Sveaborg had been put down. He said that the loyal sailors had been given 150 roubles (£15) apiece to fight. I think he must have been exaggerating. At the same time he expressed no sympathy with the mutineers. He said that rights were all very well for countries such as Finland. But in Russia they only meant disorder, and as long as the disorder lasted, Russia would be a feeble country. He had much wanted to go to the war, but he had not been able to. In fact, he was thoroughly loyal andbien pensant.

We arrived at Vologda Station some time in the evening. The station was crowded with peasants. While I was watching the crowd, a drunken peasant entered and asked everybody to give him ten kopecks. Then he caught sight of me, and said that he was quite certain I would give him ten kopecks. I did, and he danced a kind of wild dance and finally collapsed on the floor. A man was watching these proceedings, a fairly respectably dressed man in a pea-jacket. He began to talk to me, and said that he had just come back from Manchuria, where he had been employed at Mukden Station. “In spite of which,” he added, “I have not yet received a medal.” I said that I had been in Manchuria. He said he lived twenty versts up the line, and came to the station to look at the people—it was so amusing. “Have you any acquaintances here?” he asked. I said, “No.” “Then let us go and have tea.” I was willing, and we went to the tea-shop, which was exactly opposite the station. “Here,” said the man, “we will talk of what was,of what is, and of what is to be.” As we were walking in, a policeman who was standing by the door whispered in my ear: “I shouldn’t go in there with thatgentleman.” “Why?” I asked. “Well, he’s not quite reliable,” he answered in the softest of whispers. “How?” I asked. “Well, he killed a man yesterday and then robbed him,” said the policeman. I hurriedly expressed my regret to my new acquaintance, and said that I must at all costs return to the station. “The policeman has been lying to you,” said the man. “It’s a lie; it’s only because I haven’t got a passport.” (This was not exactly a recommendation in itself.) I went into the first-class waiting-room. The man came and sat down next to me, and now that I examined his face I saw that he had the expression and the stamp of countenance of a born thief. One of the waiters came and told him to go, and he flatly refused, and the waiter made a low bow to him. Then, gently but firmly, I advised him to go away, as it might lead to trouble. He finally said: “All right, but we shall meet in the train, in liberty.” He went away, but he sent an accomplice, who stood behind my chair. He, too, had the expression of a thief.

After waiting for several hours I approached the train for Yaroslav. Just as I was getting in, a small boy came up to me and said in a whisper: “The policeman sent me to tell you that the man is a well-known thief, that he robs people every day, and that he gets into the train, even into the first-class carriages, and robs people, and he is after you now.” I entered a first-class carriage and told the guard there was a thief about. I had not been there long before the accomplice arrived and began walking up and down the corridor. But the guard, I am happy to say, turned him out instantly, and I saw nothing more of the thief or of his accomplice.

A railway company director, or rather a man who was arranging the purchase of a line, got into the carriage and began at once to harangue me about the Government and say that the way in which it had changed the election law was a piece of insolence and would only make everybody more radical. Then he told me that life in Yaroslav was simply intolerable, because all newspapers and all free discussion had been stopped. We arrived at Yaroslav on the next morning. I went on to Moscow in a third-class carriage. The train stopped at every small station, and there was a constant flow of people coming andgoing. An old gentleman of the middle class sat opposite to me for a time, and read a newspaper in an audible whisper. Whenever he came to some doings of the Government he said: “Disgraceful, disgraceful!”

Later on in the day a boy of seventeen got into the train. He carried a large box. I was reading a book by Gogol, and had put it down for a moment on the seat. He took it up and said: “I am very fond of reading books.” I asked him how he had learnt. He said he had been at school for one year, and had then learnt at home. He could not stay at school as he was the only son, his father was dead, and he had to look after his small sisters; he was a stone quarrier, and life was very hard. He loved reading. In winter themouzhikscame to him and he read aloud to them. His favourite book was calledIvan Mazeppa. What that work may be, I did not know. I gave him my Gogol. I have never seen anyone so pleased. He began to read it—at the end—then and there, and said it would last for several evenings. When he got out he said: “I will never forget you,” and he took out of his pocket a lot of sunflower seeds and gave them to me. As we neared Moscow the carriage was fuller and fuller. Two peasants had no railway tickets. One of them asked me if I would lend my ticket to him to show the guard. I said: “With pleasure; only, my ticket is for Moscow and yours is for the next station.” When the guard came, one of the peasants gave him 30 kopecks. “That is very little for two of you,” the guard said. They had been travelling nearly all the way from Yaroslav; but finally he let them be. We arrived at Moscow in the evening.

I travelled back to St. Petersburg in a third-class carriage, which was full of recruits. “They sang all the way” (as Jowett said about the poetical but undisciplined undergraduate[15]whom he drove home from a dinner-party) “bad songs—very bad songs.” Not quite all the way, however. They were like schoolboys going to a private school, putting on extra assurance. In the railway carriage there was a Zemstvo “Feldsher,” a hospital orderly, who had been through the war. We talked of the war. While we were discussing it, a young peasant who was in the carriage joined in, and startled us by his sensible and acute observations on the war. “There’s a man,” said the Feldsher to me, “who has a good head. It is sheer natural cleverness.That’s what a lot of the young peasants are like. And what will become of him? If only these people could be developed!” A little later I began to read a small book. “Are you reading Lermontov?” asked the Feldsher, “No,” I answered, “I am reading Shakespeare’s Sonnets.” “Ah,” he said, with a sigh, “you are evidently not a married man, but perhaps you are engaged to be married?”

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