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Russia

by Donald Mackenzie Wallace · English · Gutenberg #1349 · 1,721,271 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Russia

Author: Donald Mackenzie Wallace


        
Release date: May 3, 2006 [eBook #1349]
                Most recently updated: October 29, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1349

Credits: Donald Lainson and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUSSIA ***

RUSSIA

by Donald Mackenzie Wallace



Copyright 1905


Contents


Preface

CHAPTER I

TRAVELLING IN RUSSIA

Railways--State Interference--River Communications--Russian "Grand
Tour"--The Volga--Kazan--Zhigulinskiya Gori--Finns and Tartars--The
Don--Difficulties of Navigation--Discomforts--Rats--Hotels and
Their Peculiar Customs--Roads--Hibernian Phraseology
Explained--Bridges--Posting--A Tarantass--Requisites for
Travelling--Travelling in Winter--Frostbitten--Disagreeable
Episodes--Scene at a Post-Station.

CHAPTER II

IN THE NORTHERN FORESTS

Bird's-eye View of Russia--The Northern Forests--Purpose of
my Journey--Negotiations--The Road--A Village--A Peasant's
House--Vapour-Baths--Curious Custom--Arrival.

CHAPTER III

VOLUNTARY EXILE

Ivanofka--History of the Place--The Steward of the Estate--Slav and
Teutonic Natures--A German's View of the Emancipation--Justices of the
Peace--New School of Morals--The Russian Language--Linguistic Talent of
the Russians--My Teacher--A Big Dose of Current History.

CHAPTER IV

THE VILLAGE PRIEST

Priests' Names--Clerical Marriages--The White and the Black Clergy--Why
the People do not Respect the Parish Priests--History of the White
Clergy--The Parish Priest and the Protestant Pastor--In What Sense
the Russian People are Religious--Icons--The Clergy and Popular
Education--Ecclesiastical Reform--Premonitory Symptoms of Change--Two
Typical Specimens of the Parochial Clergy of the Present Day.

CHAPTER V

A MEDICAL CONSULTATION

Unexpected Illness--A Village Doctor--Siberian Plague--My
Studies--Russian Historians--A Russian Imitator of Dickens--A ci-devant
Domestic Serf--Medicine and Witchcraft--A Remnant of Paganism--Credulity
of the Peasantry--Absurd Rumours--A Mysterious Visit from St.
Barbara--Cholera on Board a Steamer--Hospitals--Lunatic Asylums--Amongst
Maniacs.

CHAPTER VI

A PEASANT FAMILY OF THE OLD TYPE

Ivan Petroff--His Past Life--Co-operative Associations--Constitution of
a Peasant's Household--Predominance of Economic Conceptions over those
of Blood-relationship--Peasant Marriages--Advantages of Living in Large
Families--Its Defects--Family Disruptions and their Consequences.

CHAPTER VII

THE PEASANTRY OF THE NORTH

Communal Land--System of Agriculture--Parish Fetes--Fasting--Winter
Occupations--Yearly Migrations--Domestic Industries--Influence
of Capital and Wholesale Enterprise--The State
Peasants--Serf-dues--Buckle's "History of Civilisation"--A precocious
Yamstchik--"People Who Play Pranks"--A Midnight Alarm--The Far North.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MIR, OR VILLAGE COMMUNITY

Social and Political Importance of the Mir--The Mir and the Family
Compared--Theory of the Communal System--Practical Deviations from the
Theory--The Mir a Good Specimen of Constitutional Government of the
Extreme Democratic Type--The Village Assembly--Female Members--The
Elections--Distribution of the Communal Land.

CHAPTER IX

HOW THE COMMUNE HAS BEEN PRESERVED, AND WHAT IT IS TO EFFECT IN THE
FUTURE

Sweeping Reforms after the Crimean War--Protest Against the Laissez
Faire Principle--Fear of the Proletariat--English and Russian Methods of
Legislation Contrasted--Sanguine Expectations--Evil Consequences of
the Communal System--The Commune of the Future--Proletariat of the
Towns--The Present State of Things Merely Temporary.

CHAPTER X

FINNISH AND TARTAR VILLAGES

A Finnish Tribe--Finnish Villages--Various Stages of
Russification--Finnish Women--Finnish Religions--Method of "Laying"
Ghosts--Curious Mixture of Christianity and Paganism--Conversion of
the Finns--A Tartar Village--A Russian Peasant's Conception of
Mahometanism--A Mahometan's View of Christianity--Propaganda--The
Russian Colonist--Migrations of Peoples During the Dark Ages.

CHAPTER XI

LORD NOVGOROD THE GREAT

Departure from Ivanofka and Arrival at Novgorod--The Eastern Half of
the Town--The Kremlin--An Old Legend--The Armed Men of Rus--The
Northmen--Popular Liberty in Novgorod--The Prince and the Popular
Assembly--Civil Dissensions and Faction-fights--The Commercial Republic
Conquered by the Muscovite Tsars--Ivan the Terrible--Present Condition
of the Town--Provincial Society--Card-playing--Periodicals--"Eternal
Stillness."

CHAPTER XII

THE TOWNS AND THE MERCANTILE CLASSES

General Character of Russian Towns--Scarcity of Towns in Russia--Why
the Urban Element in the Population is so Small--History of
Russian Municipal Institutions--Unsuccessful Efforts to Create a
Tiers-etat--Merchants, Burghers, and Artisans--Town Council--A Rich
Merchant--His House--His Love of Ostentation--His Conception of
Aristocracy--Official Decorations--Ignorance and Dishonesty of the
Commercial Classes--Symptoms of Change.

CHAPTER XIII

THE PASTORAL TRIBES OF THE STEPPE

A Journey to the Steppe Region of the Southeast--The Volga--Town
and Province of Samara--Farther Eastward--Appearance of the
Villages--Characteristic Incident--Peasant Mendacity--Explanation of the
Phenomenon--I Awake in Asia--A Bashkir Aoul--Diner la Tartare--Kumyss--A
Bashkir Troubadour--Honest Mehemet Zian--Actual Economic Condition of
the Bashkirs Throws Light on a Well-known Philosophical Theory--Why
a Pastoral Race Adopts Agriculture--The Genuine Steppe--The
Kirghiz--Letter from Genghis Khan--The Kalmyks--Nogai Tartars--Struggle
between Nomadic Hordes and Agricultural Colonists.

CHAPTER XIV

THE MONGOL DOMINATION

The Conquest--Genghis Khan and his People--Creation and Rapid
Disintegration of the Mongol Empire--The Golden Horde--The Real
Character of the Mongol Domination--Religious Toleration--Mongol System
of Government--Grand Princes--The Princes of Moscow--Influence of the
Mongol Domination--Practical Importance of the Subject.

CHAPTER XV

THE COSSACKS

Lawlessness on the Steppe--Slave-markets of the Crimea--The Military
Cordon and the Free Cossacks--The Zaporovian Commonwealth Compared with
Sparta and with the Mediaeval Military Orders--The Cossacks of the Don,
of the Volga, and of the Ural--Border Warfare--The Modern Cossacks--Land
Tenure among the Cossacks of the Don--The Transition from Pastoral to
Agriculture Life--"Universal Law" of Social Development--Communal versus
Private Property--Flogging as a Means of Land-registration.

CHAPTER XVI

FOREIGN COLONISTS ON THE STEPPE

The Steppe--Variety of Races, Languages, and Religions--The German
Colonists--In What Sense the Russians are an Imitative
People--The Mennonites--Climate and Arboriculture--Bulgarian
Colonists--Tartar-Speaking Greeks--Jewish
Agriculturists--Russification--A Circassian Scotchman--Numerical
Strength of the Foreign Element.

CHAPTER XVII

AMONG THE HERETICS

The Molokanye--My Method of Investigation--Alexandrof-Hai--An Unexpected
Theological Discussion--Doctrines and Ecclesiastical Organisation of
the Molokanye--Moral Supervision and Mutual Assistance--History of the
Sect--A False Prophet--Utilitarian Christianity--Classification of
the Fantastic Sects--The "Khlysti"--Policy of the Government towards
Sectarianism--Two Kinds of Heresy--Probable Future of the Heretical
Sects--Political Disaffection.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE DISSENTERS

Dissenters not to be Confounded with Heretics--Extreme Importance
Attached to Ritual Observances--The Raskol, or Great Schism in the
Seventeenth Century--Antichrist Appears!--Policy of Peter the Great
and Catherine II.--Present Ingenious Method of Securing Religious
Toleration--Internal Development of the Raskol--Schism among the
Schismatics--The Old Ritualists--The Priestless People--Cooling of the
Fanatical Enthusiasm and Formation of New Sects--Recent Policy of
the Government towards the Sectarians--Numerical Force and Political
Significance of Sectarianism.

CHAPTER XIX

CHURCH AND STATE

The Russian Orthodox Church--Russia Outside of the Mediaeval Papal
Commonwealth--Influence of the Greek Church--Ecclesiastical History of
Russia--Relations between Church and State--Eastern Orthodoxy and the
Russian National Church--The Synod--Ecclesiastical Grumbling--Local
Ecclesiastical Administration--The Black Clergy and the Monasteries--The
Character of the Eastern Church Reflected in the History of Religious
Art--Practical Consequences--The Union Scheme.

CHAPTER XX

THE NOBLESSE

The Nobles In Early Times--The Mongol Domination--The Tsardom of
Muscovy--Family Dignity--Reforms of Peter the Great--The Nobles Adopt
West-European Conceptions--Abolition of Obligatory Service--Influence of
Catherine II.--The Russian Dvoryanstvo Compared with the French Noblesse
and the English Aristocracy--Russian Titles--Probable Future of the
Russian Noblesse.

CHAPTER XXI

LANDED PROPRIETORS OF THE OLD SCHOOL

Russian Hospitality--A Country-House--Its Owner Described--His Life,
Past and Present--Winter Evenings--Books---Connection with the Outer
World--The Crimean War and the Emancipation--A Drunken, Dissolute
Proprietor--An Old General and his Wife--"Name Days"--A Legendary
Monster--A Retired Judge--A Clever Scribe--Social Leniency--Cause of
Demoralisation.

CHAPTER XXII

PROPRIETORS OF THE MODERN SCHOOL

A Russian Petit Maitre--His House and Surroundings--Abortive Attempts
to Improve Agriculture and the Condition of the Serfs--A Comparison--A
"Liberal" Tchinovnik--His Idea of Progress--A Justice of the Peace--His
Opinion of Russian Literature, Tchinovniks, and Petits Maitres--His
Supposed and Real Character--An Extreme Radical--Disorders in
the Universities--Administrative Procedure--Russia's Capacity for
Accomplishing Political and Social Evolutions--A Court Dignitary in his
Country House.

CHAPTER XXIII

SOCIAL CLASSES

Do Social Classes or Castes Exist in Russia?--Well-marked Social
Types--Classes Recognised by the Legislation and the Official
Statistics--Origin and Gradual Formation of these Classes--Peculiarity
in the Historical Development of Russia--Political Life and Political
Parties.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE IMPERIAL ADMINISTRATION AND THE OFFICIALS

The Officials in Norgorod Assist Me in My Studies--The Modern Imperial
Administration Created by Peter the Great, and Developed by his
Successors--A Slavophil's View of the Administration--The Administration
Briefly Described--The Tchinovniks, or Officials--Official Titles, and
Their Real Significance--What the Administration Has Done for Russia in
the Past--Its Character Determined by the Peculiar Relation between
the Government and the People--Its Radical Vices--Bureaucratic
Remedies--Complicated Formal Procedure--The Gendarmerie: My Personal
Relations with this Branch of the Administration; Arrest and Release--A
Strong, Healthy Public Opinion the Only Effectual Remedy for Bad
Administration.

CHAPTER XXV

MOSCOW AND THE SLAVOPHILS

Two Ancient Cities--Kief Not a Good Point for Studying Old Russian
National Life--Great Russians and Little Russians--Moscow--Easter Eve
in the Kremlin--Curious Custom--Anecdote of the Emperor
Nicholas--Domiciliary Visits of the Iberian Madonna--The Streets of
Moscow--Recent Changes in the Character of the City--Vulgar Conception
of the Slavophils--Opinion Founded on Personal Acquaintance--Slavophil
Sentiment a Century Ago--Origin and Development of the Slavophil
Doctrine--Slavophilism Essentially Muscovite--The Panslavist
Element--The Slavophils and the Emancipation.

CHAPTER XXVI

ST. PETERSBURG AND EUROPEAN INFLUENCE

St. Petersburg and Berlin--Big Houses--The "Lions"--Peter the Great--His
Aims and Policy--The German Regime--Nationalist Reaction--French
Influence--Consequent Intellectual Sterility--Influence of the
Sentimental School--Hostility to Foreign Influences--A New Period of
Literary Importation--Secret Societies--The Catastrophe--The Age of
Nicholas--A Terrible War on Parnassus--Decline of Romanticism and
Transcendentalism--Gogol--The Revolutionary Agitation of 1848--New
Reaction--Conclusion.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE CRIMEAN WAR AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

The Emperor Nicholas and his System--The Men with Aspirations and the
Apathetically Contented--National Humiliation--Popular Discontent
and the Manuscript Literature--Death of Nicholas--Alexander II.--New
Spirit--Reform Enthusiasm--Change in the Periodical Literature--The
Kolokol--The Conservatives--The Tchinovniks--First Specific
Proposals--Joint-Stock Companies--The Serf Question Comes to the Front.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SERFS

The Rural Population in Ancient Times--The Peasantry in the Eighteenth
Century--How Was This Change Effected?--The Common Explanation
Inaccurate--Serfage the Result of Permanent Economic and Political
Causes--Origin of the Adscriptio Glebae--Its Consequences--Serf
Insurrection--Turning-point in the History of Serfage--Serfage in
Russia and in Western Europe--State Peasants--Numbers and Geographical
Distribution of the Serf Population--Serf Dues--Legal and Actual Power
of the Proprietors--The Serfs' Means of Defence--Fugitives--Domestic
Serfs--Strange Advertisements in the Moscow Gazette--Moral Influence of
Serfage.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SERFS

The Question Raised--Chief Committee--The Nobles of the Lithuanian
Provinces--The Tsar's Broad Hint to the Noblesse--Enthusiasm in the
Press--The Proprietors--Political Aspirations--No Opposition--The
Government--Public Opinion--Fear of the Proletariat--The Provincial
Committees--The Elaboration Commission--The Question Ripens--Provincial
Deputies--Discontent and Demonstrations--The Manifesto--Fundamental
Principles of the Law--Illusions and Disappointment of the
Serfs--Arbiters of the Peace--A Characteristic Incident--Redemption--Who
Effected the Emancipation?

CHAPTER XXX

THE LANDED PROPRIETORS SINCE THE EMANCIPATION

Two Opposite Opinions--Difficulties of Investigation--The Problem
Simplified--Direct and Indirect Compensation--The Direct Compensation
Inadequate--What the Proprietors Have Done with the Remainder of
Their Estates--Immediate Moral Effect of the Abolition of Serfage--The
Economic Problem--The Ideal Solution and the Difficulty of Realising
It--More Primitive Arrangements--The Northern Agricultural Zone--The
Black-earth Zone--The Labour Difficulty--The Impoverishment of
the Noblesse Not a New Phenomenon--Mortgaging of Estates--Gradual
Expropriation of the Noblesse-Rapid Increase in the Production and
Export of Grain--How Far this Has Benefited the Landed Proprietors.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE EMANCIPATED PEASANTRY

The Effects of Liberty--Difficulty of Obtaining Accurate
Information--Pessimist Testimony of the Proprietors--Vague Replies of
the Peasants--My Conclusions in 1877--Necessity of Revising Them--My
Investigations Renewed in 1903--Recent Researches by Native Political
Economists--Peasant Impoverishment Universally Recognised--Various
Explanations Suggested--Demoralisation of the Common People--Peasant
Self-government--Communal System of Land Tenure--Heavy
Taxation--Disruption of Peasant Families--Natural Increase of
Population--Remedies Proposed--Migration--Reclamation of Waste
Land--Land-purchase by Peasantry--Manufacturing Industry--Improvement of
Agricultural Methods--Indications of Progress.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE ZEMSTVO AND THE LOCAL SELF-GOVERNMENT

Necessity of Reorganising the Provincial Administration--Zemstvo Created
in 1864--My First Acquaintance with the Institution--District and
Provincial Assemblies--The Leading Members--Great Expectations Created
by the Institution--These Expectations Not Realised--Suspicions and
Hostility of the Bureaucracy--Zemstvo Brought More Under Control of the
Centralised Administration--What It Has Really Done--Why It Has Not
Done More---Rapid Increase of the Rates--How Far the Expenditure
Is Judicious--Why the Impoverishment of the Peasantry Was
Neglected--Unpractical, Pedantic Spirit--Evil Consequences--Chinese and
Russian Formalism--Local Self-Government of Russia Contrasted with That
of England--Zemstvo Better than Its Predecessors--Its Future.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE NEW LAW COURTS

Judicial Procedure in the Olden Times--Defects and Abuses--Radical
Reform--The New System--Justices of the Peace and Monthly Sessions--The
Regular Tribunals--Court of Revision--Modification of the Original
Plan--How Does the System Work?--Rapid Acclimatisation--The Bench--The
Jury--Acquittal of Criminals Who Confess Their Crimes--Peasants,
Merchants, and Nobles as Jurymen--Independence and Political
Significance of the New Courts.

CHAPTER XXXIV

REVOLUTIONARY NIHILISM AND THE REACTION

The Reform-enthusiasm Becomes Unpractical and Culminates in
Nihilism--Nihilism, the Distorted Reflection of Academic Western
Socialism--Russia Well Prepared for Reception of Ultra-Socialist
Virus--Social Reorganisation According to Latest Results of
Science--Positivist Theory--Leniency of Press-censure--Chief
Representatives of New Movement--Government Becomes Alarmed--Repressive
Measures--Reaction in the Public--The Term Nihilist Invented--The
Nihilist and His Theory--Further Repressive Measures--Attitude of Landed
Proprietors--Foundation of a Liberal Party--Liberalism Checked by Polish
Insurrection--Practical Reform Continued--An Attempt at Regicide Forms
a Turning-point of Government's Policy--Change in Educational
System--Decline of Nihilism.

CHAPTER XXXV

SOCIALIST PROPAGANDA, REVOLUTIONARY AGITATION, AND TERRORISM

Closer Relations with Western Socialism--Attempts to Influence
the Masses--Bakunin and Lavroff--"Going in among the People"--The
Missionaries of Revolutionary Socialism--Distinction between Propaganda
and Agitation--Revolutionary Pamphlets for the Common People--Aims
and Motives of the Propagandists--Failure of Propaganda--Energetic
Repression--Fruitless Attempts at Agitation--Proposal to Combine
with Liberals--Genesis of Terrorism--My Personal Relations with the
Revolutionists--Shadowers and Shadowed--A Series of Terrorist Crimes--A
Revolutionist Congress--Unsuccessful Attempts to Assassinate
the Tsar--Ineffectual Attempt at Conciliation by Loris
Melikof--Assassination of Alexander II.--The Executive Committee
Shows Itself Unpractical--Widespread Indignation and Severe
Repression--Temporary Collapse of the Revolutionary Movement--A New
Revolutionary Movement in Sight.

CHAPTER XXXVI

INDUSTRIAL PROGRESS AND THE PROLETARIAT

Russia till Lately a Peasant Empire--Early Efforts to Introduce Arts and
Crafts--Peter the Great and His Successors--Manufacturing Industry
Long Remains an Exotic--The Cotton Industry--The Reforms of Alexander
II.--Protectionists and Free Trade--Progress under High Tariffs--M.
Witte's Policy--How Capital Was Obtained--Increase of Exports--Foreign
Firms Cross the Customs Frontier--Rapid Development of Iron Industry--A
Commercial Crisis--M. Witte's Position Undermined by Agrarians and
Doctrinaires--M. Plehve a Formidable Opponent--His Apprehensions of
Revolution--Fall of M. Witte--The Industrial Proletariat

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENT IN ITS LATEST PHASE

Influence of Capitalism and Proletariat on the Revolutionary
Movement--What is to be Done?--Reply of Plekhanof--A New Departure--Karl
Marx's Theories Applied to Russia--Beginnings of a Social Democratic
Movement--The Labour Troubles of 1894-96 in St. Petersburg--The Social
Democrats' Plan of Campaign--Schism in the Party--Trade-unionism and
Political Agitation--The Labour Troubles of 1902--How the Revolutionary
Groups are Differentiated from Each Other--Social Democracy and
Constitutionalism--Terrorism--The Socialist Revolutionaries--The
Militant Organisation--Attitude of the Government--Factory
Legislation--Government's Scheme for Undermining Social
Democracy--Father Gapon and His Labour Association--The Great Strike in
St. Petersburg--Father Gapon goes over to the Revolutionaries.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

TERRITORIAL EXPANSION AND FOREIGN POLICY

Rapid Growth of Russia--Expansive Tendency of Agricultural Peoples--The
Russo-Slavonians--The Northern Forest and the Steppe--Colonisation--The
Part of the Government in the Process of Expansion--Expansion towards
the West--Growth of the Empire Represented in a Tabular Form--Commercial
Motive for Expansion--The Expansive Force in the Future--Possibilities
of Expansion in Europe--Persia, Afghanistan, and India--Trans-Siberian
Railway and Weltpolitik--A Grandiose Scheme--Determined Opposition of
Japan--Negotiations and War--Russia's Imprudence Explained--Conclusion.

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE PRESENT SITUATION


Reform or Revolution?--Reigns of Alexander II. and Nicholas II.
Compared and Contrasted--The Present Opposition--Various Groups--The
Constitutionalists--Zemski Sobors--The Young Tsar Dispels
Illusions--Liberal Frondeurs--Plehve's Repressive Policy--Discontent
Increased by the War--Relaxation and Wavering under Prince
Mirski--Reform Enthusiasm--The Constitutionalists Formulate their
Demands--The Social Democrats--Father Gapon's Demonstration--The
Socialist-Revolutionaries--The Agrarian Agitators--The
Subject-Nationalities--Numerical Strength of the Various Groups--All
United on One Point--Their Different Aims--Possible Solutions of the
Crisis--Difficulties of Introducing Constitutional Regime--A Strong Man
Wanted--Uncertainty of the Future.




PREFACE


The first edition of this work, published early in January, 1877,
contained the concentrated results of my studies during an uninterrupted
residence of six years in Russia--from the beginning of 1870 to the end
of 1875. Since that time I have spent in the European and Central Asian
provinces, at different periods, nearly two years more; and in the
intervals I have endeavoured to keep in touch with the progress of
events. My observations thus extend over a period of thirty-five years.

When I began, a few months ago, to prepare for publication the results
of my more recent observations and researches, my intention was to
write an entirely new work under the title of "Russia in the Twentieth
Century," but I soon perceived that it would be impossible to explain
clearly the present state of things without referring constantly to
events of the past, and that I should be obliged to embody in the new
work a large portion of the old one. The portion to be embodied grew
rapidly to such proportions that, in the course of a few weeks, I
began to ask myself whether it would not be better simply to recast
and complete my old material. With a view to deciding the question I
prepared a list of the principal changes which had taken place during
the last quarter of a century, and when I had marshalled them in logical
order, I recognised that they were neither so numerous nor so important
as I had supposed. Certainly there had been much progress, but it had
been nearly all on the old lines. Everywhere I perceived continuity and
evolution; nowhere could I discover radical changes and new departures.
In the central and local administration the reactionary policy of the
latter half of Alexander II.'s reign had been steadily maintained;
the revolutionary movement had waxed and waned, but its aims were
essentially the same as of old; the Church had remained in its usual
somnolent condition; a grave agricultural crisis affecting landed
proprietors and peasants had begun, but it was merely a development of
a state of things which I had previously described; the manufacturing
industry had made gigantic strides, but they were all in the direction
which the most competent observers had predicted; in foreign policy the
old principles of guiding the natural expansive forces along the lines
of least resistance, seeking to reach warm-water ports, and pegging out
territorial claims for the future were persistently followed. No doubt
there were pretty clear indications of more radical changes to come, but
these changes must belong to the future, and it is merely with the past
and the present that a writer who has no pretensions to being a prophet
has to deal.

Under these circumstances it seemed to me advisable to adopt a middle
course. Instead of writing an entirely new work I determined to prepare
a much extended and amplified edition of the old one, retaining such
information about the past as seemed to me of permanent value, and at
the same time meeting as far as possible the requirements of those who
wish to know the present condition of the country.

In accordance with this view I have revised, rearranged, and
supplemented the old material in the light of subsequent events, and
I have added five entirely new chapters--three on the revolutionary
movement, which has come into prominence since 1877; one on the
industrial progress, with which the latest phase of the movement is
closely connected; and one on the main lines of the present situation as
it appears to me at the moment of going to press.

During the many years which I have devoted to the study of Russia, I
have received unstinted assistance from many different quarters. Of the
friends who originally facilitated my task, and to whom I expressed my
gratitude in the preface and notes of the early editions, only three
survive--Mme. de Novikoff, M. E. I. Yakushkin, and Dr. Asher. To the
numerous friends who have kindly assisted me in the present edition I
must express my thanks collectively, but there are two who stand out
from the group so prominently that I may be allowed to mention them
personally: these are Prince Alexander Grigorievitch Stcherbatof, who
supplied me with voluminous materials regarding the agrarian question
generally and the present condition of the peasantry in particular,
and M. Albert Brockhaus, who placed at my disposal the gigantic Russian
Encyclopaedia recently published by his firm (Entsiklopeditcheski
Slovar, Leipzig and St. Petersburg, 1890-1904). This monumental work,
in forty-one volumes, is an inexhaustible storehouse of accurate and
well-digested information on all subjects connected with the Russian
Empire, and it has often been of great use to me in matters of detail.

With regard to the last chapter of this edition I must claim the
reader's indulgence, because the meaning of the title, "the present
situation," changes from day to day, and I cannot foresee what further
changes may occur before the work reaches the hands of the public.

LONDON, 22nd May, 1905.



RUSSIA


CHAPTER I

TRAVELLING IN RUSSIA


Railways--State Interference--River Communications--Russian "Grand
Tour"--The Volga--Kazan--Zhigulinskiya Gori--Finns and Tartars--The
Don--Difficulties of Navigation--Discomforts--Rats--Hotels and
Their Peculiar Customs--Roads--Hibernian Phraseology
Explained--Bridges--Posting--A Tarantass--Requisites for
Travelling--Travelling in Winter--Frostbitten--Disagreeable
Episodes--Scene at a Post-Station.


Of course travelling in Russia is no longer what it was. During the last
half century a vast network of railways has been constructed, and one
can now travel in a comfortable first-class carriage from Berlin to St.
Petersburg or Moscow, and thence to Odessa, Sebastopol, the Lower Volga,
the Caucasus, Central Asia, or Eastern Siberia. Until the outbreak of
the war there was a train twice a week, with through carriages, from
Moscow to Port Arthur. And it must be admitted that on the main lines
the passengers have not much to complain of. The carriages are decidedly
better than in England, and in winter they are kept warm by small iron
stoves, assisted by double windows and double doors--a very necessary
precaution in a land where the thermometer often descends to 30
degrees below zero. The train never attains, it is true, a high rate
of speed--so at least English and Americans think--but then we must
remember that Russians are rarely in a hurry, and like to have frequent
opportunities of eating and drinking. In Russia time is not money; if
it were, nearly all the subjects of the Tsar would always have a large
stock of ready money on hand, and would often have great difficulty in
spending it. In reality, be it parenthetically remarked, a Russian with
a superabundance of ready money is a phenomenon rarely met with in real
life.

In conveying passengers at the rate of from fifteen to thirty miles an
hour, the railway companies do at least all that they promise; but in
one very important respect they do not always strictly fulfil their
engagements. The traveller takes a ticket for a certain town, and on
arriving at what he imagines to be his destination, he may find merely a
railway-station surrounded by fields. On making inquiries, he discovers,
to his disappointment, that the station is by no means identical with
the town bearing the same name, and that the railway has fallen several
miles short of fulfilling the bargain, as he understood the terms of
the contract. Indeed, it might almost be said that as a general rule
railways in Russia, like camel-drivers in certain Eastern countries,
studiously avoid the towns. This seems at first a strange fact. It is
possible to conceive that the Bedouin is so enamoured of tent life and
nomadic habits that he shuns a town as he would a man-trap; but surely
civil engineers and railway contractors have no such dread of brick and
mortar. The true reason, I suspect, is that land within or immediately
beyond the municipal barrier is relatively dear, and that the
railways, being completely beyond the invigorating influence of healthy
competition, can afford to look upon the comfort and convenience of
passengers as a secondary consideration. Gradually, it is true, this
state of things is being improved by private initiative. As the railways
refuse to come to the towns, the towns are extending towards the
railways, and already some prophets are found bold enough to predict
that in the course of time those long, new, straggling streets, without
an inhabited hinterland, which at present try so severely the springs of
the ricketty droshkis, will be properly paved and kept in decent repair.
For my own part, I confess I am a little sceptical with regard to this
prediction, and I can only use a favourite expression of the Russian
peasants--daï Bog! God grant it may be so!

It is but fair to state that in one celebrated instance neither
engineers nor railway contractors were directly to blame. From St.
Petersburg to Moscow the locomotive runs for a distance of 400 miles
almost as "the crow" is supposed to fly, turning neither to the right
hand nor to the left. For twelve weary hours the passenger in the
express train looks out on forest and morass, and rarely catches sight
of human habitation. Only once he perceives in the distance what may be
called a town; it is Tver which has been thus favoured, not because it
is a place of importance, but simply because it happened to be near
the bee-line. And why was the railway constructed in this extraordinary
fashion? For the best of all reasons--because the Tsar so ordered it.
When the preliminary survey was being made, Nicholas I. learned that the
officers entrusted with the task--and the Minister of Ways and Roads
in the number--were being influenced more by personal than technical
considerations, and he determined to cut the Gordian knot in true
Imperial style. When the Minister laid before him the map with the
intention of explaining the proposed route, he took a ruler, drew a
straight line from the one terminus to the other, and remarked in a tone
that precluded all discussion, "You will construct the line so!" And
the line was so constructed--remaining to all future ages, like St.
Petersburg and the Pyramids, a magnificent monument of autocratic power.

Formerly this well-known incident was often cited in whispered
philippics to illustrate the evils of the autocratic form of government.
Imperial whims, it was said, over-ride grave economic considerations.
In recent years, however, a change seems to have taken place in public
opinion, and some people now assert that this so-called Imperial whim
was an act of far-seeing policy. As by far the greater part of the goods
and passengers are carried the whole length of the line, it is well that
the line should be as short as possible, and that branch lines should be
constructed to the towns lying to the right and left. Evidently there is
a good deal to be said in favour of this view.

In the development of the railway system there has been another
disturbing cause, which is not likely to occur to the English mind. In
England, individuals and companies habitually act according to their
private interests, and the State interferes as little as possible;
private initiative does as it pleases, unless the authorities can prove
that important bad consequences will necessarily result. In Russia, the
onus probandi lies on the other side; private initiative is allowed
to do nothing until it gives guarantees against all possible bad
consequences. When any great enterprise is projected, the first question
is--"How will this new scheme affect the interests of the State?" Thus,
when the course of a new railway has to be determined, the military
authorities are among the first to be consulted, and their opinion has
a great influence on the ultimate decision. The natural consequence is
that the railway-map of Russia presents to the eye of the strategist
much that is quite unintelligible to the ordinary observer--a fact that
will become apparent even to the uninitiated as soon as a war breaks out
in Eastern Europe. Russia is no longer what she was in the days of the
Crimean War, when troops and stores had to be conveyed hundreds of miles
by the most primitive means of transport. At that time she had only
750 miles of railway; now she has over 36,000 miles, and every year new
lines are constructed.

The water-communication has likewise in recent years been greatly
improved. On the principal rivers there are now good steamers.
Unfortunately, the climate puts serious obstructions in the way of
navigation. For nearly half of the year the rivers are covered with ice,
and during a great part of the open season navigation is difficult. When
the ice and snow melt the rivers overflow their banks and lay a great
part of the low-lying country under water, so that many villages can
only be approached in boats; but very soon the flood subsides, and the
water falls so rapidly that by midsummer the larger steamers have
great difficulty in picking their way among the sandbanks. The Neva
alone--that queen of northern rivers--has at all times a plentiful
supply of water.

Besides the Neva, the rivers commonly visited by the tourist are the
Volga and the Don, which form part of what may be called the Russian
grand tour. Englishmen who wish to see something more than St.
Petersburg and Moscow generally go by rail to Nizhni-Novgorod, where
they visit the great fair, and then get on board one of the Volga
steamers. For those who have mastered the important fact that Russia
is not a country of fine scenery, the voyage down the river is pleasant
enough. The left bank is as flat as the banks of the Rhine below
Cologne, but the right bank is high, occasionally well wooded, and not
devoid of a certain tame picturesqueness. Early on the second day
the steamer reaches Kazan, once the capital of an independent Tartar
khanate, and still containing a considerable Tartar population. Several
metchets (as the Mahometan houses of prayer are here termed), with their
diminutive minarets in the lower part of the town, show that Islamism
still survives, though the khanate was annexed to Muscovy more than
three centuries ago; but the town, as a whole, has a European rather
than an Asiatic character. If any one visits it in the hope of getting
"a glimpse of the East," he will be grievously disappointed, unless,
indeed, he happens to be one of those imaginative tourists who always
discover what they wish to see. And yet it must be admitted that, of
all the towns on the route, Kazan is the most interesting. Though
not Oriental, it has a peculiar character of its own, whilst all the
others--Simbirsk, Samara, Saratof--are as uninteresting as Russian
provincial towns commonly are. The full force and solemnity of that
expression will be explained in the sequel.

Probably about sunrise on the third day something like a range of
mountains will appear on the horizon. It may be well to say at once, to
prevent disappointment, that in reality nothing worthy of the name
of mountain is to be found in that part of the country. The nearest
mountain-range in that direction is the Caucasus, which is hundreds of
miles distant, and consequently cannot by any possibility be seen from
the deck of a steamer. The elevations in question are simply a low range
of hills, called the Zhigulinskiya Gori. In Western Europe they would
not attract much attention, but "in the kingdom of the blind," as the
French proverb has it, "the one-eyed man is king"; and in a flat region
like Eastern Russia these hills form a prominent feature. Though they
have nothing of Alpine grandeur, yet their well-wooded slopes, coming
down to the water's edge--especially when covered with the delicate
tints of early spring, or the rich yellow and red of autumnal
foliage--leave an impression on the memory not easily effaced.

On the whole--with all due deference to the opinions of my patriotic
Russian friends--I must say that Volga scenery hardly repays the time,
trouble and expense which a voyage from Nizhni to Tsaritsin demands.
There are some pretty bits here and there, but they are "few and far
between." A glass of the most exquisite wine diluted with a gallon
of water makes a very insipid beverage. The deck of the steamer is
generally much more interesting than the banks of the river. There one
meets with curious travelling companions. The majority of the passengers
are probably Russian peasants, who are always ready to chat freely
without demanding a formal introduction, and to relate--with certain
restrictions--to a new acquaintance the simple story of their lives.
Often I have thus whiled away the weary hours both pleasantly and
profitably, and have always been impressed with the peasant's homely
common sense, good-natured kindliness, half-fatalistic resignation,
and strong desire to learn something about foreign countries. This
last peculiarity makes him question as well as communicate, and his
questions, though sometimes apparently childish, are generally to the
point.

Among the passengers are probably also some representatives of the
various Finnish tribes inhabiting this part of the country; they may be
interesting to the ethnologist who loves to study physiognomy, but they
are far less sociable than the Russians. Nature seems to have made them
silent and morose, whilst their conditions of life have made them shy
and distrustful. The Tartar, on the other hand, is almost sure to be
a lively and amusing companion. Most probably he is a peddler or small
trader of some kind. The bundle on which he reclines contains his
stock-in-trade, composed, perhaps, of cotton printed goods and
especially bright-coloured cotton handkerchiefs. He himself is enveloped
in a capacious greasy khalát, or dressing-gown, and wears a fur cap,
though the thermometer may be at 90 degrees in the shade. The roguish
twinkle in his small piercing eyes contrasts strongly with the sombre,
stolid expression of the Finnish peasants sitting near him. He has much
to relate about St. Petersburg, Moscow, and perhaps Astrakhan; but, like
a genuine trader, he is very reticent regarding the mysteries of his own
craft. Towards sunset he retires with his companions to some quiet spot
on the deck to recite evening prayers. Here all the good Mahometans on
board assemble and stroke their beards, kneel on their little strips
of carpet and prostrate themselves, all keeping time as if they
were performing some new kind of drill under the eve of a severe
drill-sergeant.

If the voyage is made about the end of September, when the traders are
returning home from the fair at Nizhni-Novgorod, the ethnologist will
have a still better opportunity of study. He will then find not only
representatives of the Finnish and Tartar races, but also Armenians,
Circassians, Persians, Bokhariots, and other Orientals--a motley and
picturesque but decidedly unsavoury cargo.

However great the ethnographical variety on board may be, the traveller
will probably find that four days on the Volga are quite enough for all
practical and aesthetic purposes, and instead of going on to Astrakhan
he will quit the steamer at Tsaritsin. Here he will find a railway of
about fifty miles in length, connecting the Volga and the Don. I say
advisedly a railway, and not a train, because trains on this line are
not very frequent. When I first visited the locality, thirty years ago,
there were only two a week, so that if you inadvertently missed one
train you had to wait about three days for the next. Prudent, nervous
people preferred travelling by the road, for on the railway the strange
jolts and mysterious creakings were very alarming. On the other hand the
pace was so slow that running off the rails would have been merely an
amusing episode, and even a collision could scarcely have been attended
with serious consequences. Happily things are improving, even in this
outlying part of the country. Now there is one train daily, and it goes
at a less funereal pace.

From Kalatch, at the Don end of the line, a steamer starts for Rostoff,
which is situated near the mouth of the river. The navigation of the Don
is much more difficult than that of the Volga. The river is extremely
shallow, and the sand-banks are continually shifting, so that many times
in the course of the day the steamer runs aground. Sometimes she is got
off by simply reversing the engines, but not unfrequently she sticks so
fast that the engines have to be assisted. This is effected in a curious
way. The captain always gives a number of stalwart Cossacks a free
passage on condition that they will give him the assistance he requires;
and as soon as the ship sticks fast he orders them to jump overboard
with a stout hawser and haul her off! The task is not a pleasant one,
especially as the poor fellows cannot afterwards change their clothes;
but the order is always obeyed with alacrity and without grumbling.
Cossacks, it would seem, have no personal acquaintance with colds and
rheumatism.

In the most approved manuals of geography the Don figures as one of the
principal European rivers, and its length and breadth give it a right to
be considered as such; but its depth in many parts is ludicrously out
of proportion to its length and breadth. I remember one day seeing
the captain of a large, flat-bottomed steamer slacken speed, to avoid
running down a man on horseback who was attempting to cross his bows in
the middle of the stream. Another day a not less characteristic incident
happened. A Cossack passenger wished to be set down at a place where
there was no pier, and on being informed that there was no means of
landing him, coolly jumped overboard and walked ashore. This simple
method of disembarking cannot, of course, be recommended to those who
have no local knowledge regarding the exact position of sand-banks and
deep pools.

Good serviceable fellows are those Cossacks who drag the steamer off
the sand-banks, and are often entertaining companions. Many of them can
relate from their own experience, in plain, unvarnished style,
stirring episodes of irregular warfare, and if they happen to be in
a communicative mood they may divulge a few secrets regarding their
simple, primitive commissariat system. Whether they are confidential
or not, the traveller who knows the language will spend his time
more profitably and pleasantly in chatting with them than in gazing
listlessly at the uninteresting country through which he is passing.

Unfortunately, these Don steamers carry a large number of free
passengers of another and more objectionable kind, who do not confine
themselves to the deck, but unceremoniously find their way into the
cabin, and prevent thin-skinned travellers from sleeping. I know too
little of natural history to decide whether these agile, bloodthirsty
parasites are of the same species as those which in England assist
unofficially the Sanitary Commissioners by punishing uncleanliness;
but I may say that their function in the system of created things is
essentially the same, and they fulfil it with a zeal and energy beyond
all praise. Possessing for my own part a happy immunity from their
indelicate attentions, and being perfectly innocent of entomological
curiosity, I might, had I been alone, have overlooked their existence,
but I was constantly reminded of their presence by less happily
constituted mortals, and the complaints of the sufferers received a
curious official confirmation. On arriving at the end of the journey
I asked permission to spend the night on board, and I noticed that the
captain acceded to my request with more readiness and warmth than I
expected. Next morning the fact was fully explained. When I began
to express my thanks for having been allowed to pass the night in a
comfortable cabin, my host interrupted me with a good-natured laugh, and
assured me that, on the contrary, he was under obligations to me. "You
see," he said, assuming an air of mock gravity, "I have always on board
a large body of light cavalry, and when I have all this part of the ship
to myself they make a combined attack on me; whereas, when some one is
sleeping close by, they divide their forces!"

On certain steamers on the Sea of Azof the privacy of the sleeping-cabin
is disturbed by still more objectionable intruders; I mean rats. During
one short voyage which I made on board the Kertch, these disagreeable
visitors became so importunate in the lower regions of the vessel that
the ladies obtained permission to sleep in the deck-saloon. After this
arrangement had been made, we unfortunate male passengers received
redoubled attention from our tormentors. Awakened early one morning
by the sensation of something running over me as I lay in my berth, I
conceived a method of retaliation. It seemed to me possible that, in the
event of another visit, I might, by seizing the proper moment, kick the
rat up to the ceiling with such force as to produce concussion of the
brain and instant death. Very soon I had an opportunity of putting my
plan into execution. A significant shaking of the little curtain at the
foot of the berth showed that it was being used as a scaling-ladder. I
lay perfectly still, quite as much interested in the sport as if I had
been waiting, rifle in hand, for big game. Soon the intruder peeped
into my berth, looked cautiously around him, and then proceeded to walk
stealthily across my feet. In an instant he was shot upwards. First was
heard a sharp knock on the ceiling, and then a dull "thud" on the floor.
The precise extent of the injuries inflicted I never discovered, for
the victim had sufficient strength and presence of mind to effect his
escape; and the gentleman at the other side of the cabin, who had been
roused by the noise, protested against my repeating the experiment,
on the ground that, though he was willing to take his own share of the
intruders, he strongly objected to having other people's rats kicked
into his berth.

On such occasions it is of no use to complain to the authorities. When
I met the captain on deck I related to him what had happened,
and protested vigorously against passengers being exposed to such
annoyances. After listening to me patiently, he coolly replied, entirely
overlooking my protestations, "Ah! I did better than that this morning;
I allowed my rat to get under the blanket, and then smothered him!"

Railways and steamboats, even when their arrangements leave much to be
desired, invariably effect a salutary revolution in hotel accommodation;
but this revolution is of necessity gradual. Foreign hotelkeepers must
immigrate and give the example; suitable houses must be built; servants
must be properly trained; and, above all, the native travellers must
learn the usages of civilised society. In Russia this revolution is in
progress, but still far from being complete. The cities where foreigners
most do congregate--St. Petersburg, Moscow, Odessa--already possess
hotels that will bear comparison with those of Western Europe, and
some of the more important provincial towns can offer very respectable
accommodation; but there is still much to be done before the
West-European can travel with comfort even on the principal routes.
Cleanliness, the first and most essential element of comfort, as we
understand the term, is still a rare commodity, and often cannot be
procured at any price.

Even in good hotels, when they are of the genuine Russian type, there
are certain peculiarities which, though not in themselves objectionable,
strike a foreigner as peculiar. Thus, when you alight at such an hotel,
you are expected to examine a considerable number of rooms, and to
inquire about the respective prices. When you have fixed upon a suitable
apartment, you will do well, if you wish to practise economy, to
propose to the landlord considerably less than he demands; and you will
generally find, if you have a talent for bargaining, that the rooms
may be hired for somewhat less than the sum first stated. You must be
careful, however, to leave no possibility of doubt as to the terms of
the contract. Perhaps you assume that, as in taking a cab, a horse is
always supplied without special stipulation, so in hiring a bedroom
the bargain includes a bed and the necessary appurtenances. Such an
assumption will not always be justified. The landlord may perhaps give
you a bedstead without extra charge, but if he be uncorrupted by foreign
notions, he will certainly not spontaneously supply you with bed-linen,
pillows, blankets, and towels. On the contrary, he will assume that you
carry all these articles with you, and if you do not, you must pay for
them.

This ancient custom has produced among Russians of the old school a kind
of fastidiousness to which we are strangers. They strongly dislike
using sheets, blankets, and towels which are in a certain sense public
property, just as we should strongly object to putting on clothes which
had been already worn by other people. And the feeling may be developed
in people not Russian by birth. For my own part, I confess to having
been conscious of a certain disagreeable feeling on returning in this
respect to the usages of so-called civilised Europe.

The inconvenience of carrying about the essential articles of bedroom
furniture is by no means so great as might be supposed. Bedrooms in
Russia are always heated during cold weather, so that one light blanket,
which may be also used as a railway rug, is quite sufficient, whilst
sheets, pillow-cases, and towels take up little space in a portmanteau.
The most cumbrous object is the pillow, for air-cushions, having a
disagreeable odour, are not well suited for the purpose. But Russians
are accustomed to this encumbrance. In former days--as at the present
time in those parts of the country where there are neither railways
nor macadamised roads--people travelled in carts or carriages without
springs and in these instruments of torture a huge pile of cushions
or pillows is necessary to avoid contusions and dislocations. On the
railways the jolts and shaking are not deadly enough to require such
an antidote; but, even in unconservative Russia, customs outlive the
conditions that created them; and at every railway-station you may see
men and women carrying about their pillows with them as we carry wraps.
A genuine Russian merchant who loves comfort and respects tradition
may travel without a portmanteau, but he considers his pillow as an
indispensable article de voyage.

To return to the old-fashioned hotel. When you have completed the
negotiations with the landlord, you will notice that, unless you have a
servant with you, the waiter prepares to perform the duties of valet de
chambre. Do not be surprised at his officiousness, which seems founded
on the assumption that you are three-fourths paralysed. Formerly, every
well-born Russian had a valet always in attendance, and never dreamed
of doing for himself anything which could by any possibility be done
for him. You notice that there is no bell in the room, and no mechanical
means of communicating with the world below stairs. That is because the
attendant is supposed to be always within call, and it is so much easier
to shout than to get up and ring the bell.

In the good old times all this was quite natural. The well-born Russian
had commonly a superabundance of domestic serfs, and there was no reason
why one or two of them should not accompany their master when his Honour
undertook a journey. An additional person in the tarantass did not
increase the expense, and considerably diminished the little unavoidable
inconveniences of travel. But times have changed. In 1861 the domestic
serfs were emancipated by Imperial ukaz. Free servants demand wages; and
on railways or steamers a single ticket does not include an attendant.
The present generation must therefore get through life with a more
modest supply of valets, and must learn to do with its own hands much
that was formerly performed by serf labour. Still, a gentleman brought
up in the old conditions cannot be expected to dress himself without
assistance, and accordingly the waiter remains in your room to act as
valet. Perhaps, too, in the early morning you may learn in an unpleasant
way that other parts of the old system are not yet extinct. You may
hear, for instance, resounding along the corridors such an order
as--"Petrusha! Petrusha! Stakán vodý!" ("Little Peter, little Peter, a
glass of water!") shouted in a stentorian voice that would startle the
Seven Sleepers.

When the toilet operations are completed, and you order tea--one always
orders tea in Russia--you will be asked whether you have your own tea
and sugar with you. If you are an experienced traveller you will be able
to reply in the affirmative, for good tea can be bought only in certain
well-known shops, and can rarely be found in hotels. A huge, steaming
tea-urn, called a samovar--etymologically, a "self-boiler"--will be
brought in, and you will make your tea according to your taste. The
tumbler, you know of course, is to be used as a cup, and when using it
you must be careful not to cauterise the points of your fingers. If you
should happen to have anything eatable or drinkable in your travelling
basket, you need not hesitate to take it out at once, for the waiter
will not feel at all aggrieved or astonished at your doing nothing "for
the good of the house." The twenty or twenty-five kopeks that you pay
for the samovar--teapot, tumbler, saucer, spoon, and slop-basin being
included under the generic term pribor--frees you from all corkage and
similar dues.

These and other remnants of old customs are now rapidly disappearing,
and will, doubtless, in a very few years be things of the past--things
to be picked up in out-of-the-way corners, and chronicled by social
archaeology; but they are still to be found in towns not unknown to
Western Europe.

Many of these old customs, and especially the old method of travelling,
may be studied in their pristine purity throughout a great part of the
country. Though railway construction has been pushed forward with great
energy during the last forty years, there are still vast regions where
the ancient solitudes have never been disturbed by the shrill whistle
of the locomotive, and roads have remained in their primitive condition.
Even in the central provinces one may still travel hundreds of miles
without ever encountering anything that recalls the name of Macadam.

If popular rumour is to be trusted, there is somewhere in the Highlands
of Scotland, by the side of a turnpike, a large stone bearing the
following doggerel inscription:


"If you had seen this road before it was made, You'd lift up your hands
and bless General Wade."


Any educated Englishman reading this strange announcement would
naturally remark that the first line of the couplet contains a logical
contradiction, probably of Hibernian origin; but I have often thought,
during my wanderings in Russia, that the expression, if not logically
justifiable, might for the sake of vulgar convenience be legalised by a
Permissive Bill. The truth is that, as a Frenchman might say, "there
are roads and roads"--roads made and roads unmade, roads artificial
and roads natural. Now, in Russia, roads are nearly all of the unmade,
natural kind, and are so conservative in their nature that they have at
the present day precisely the same appearance as they had many centuries
ago. They have thus for imaginative minds something of what is called
"the charm of historical association." The only perceptible change that
takes place in them during a series of generations is that the ruts
shift their position. When these become so deep that fore-wheels can no
longer fathom them, it becomes necessary to begin making a new pair of
ruts to the right or left of the old ones; and as the roads are commonly
of gigantic breadth, there is no difficulty in finding a place for the
operation. How the old ones get filled up I cannot explain; but as
I have rarely seen in any part of the country, except perhaps in the
immediate vicinity of towns, a human being engaged in road repairing,
I assume that beneficent Nature somehow accomplishes the task without
human assistance, either by means of alluvial deposits, or by some other
cosmical action only known to physical geographers.

On the roads one occasionally encounters bridges; and here, again,
I have discovered in Russia a key to the mysteries of Hibernian
phraseology. An Irish member once declared to the House of Commons that
the Church was "the bridge that separated the two great sections of the
Irish people." As bridges commonly connect rather than separate, the
metaphor was received with roars of laughter. If the honourable members
who joined in the hilarious applause had travelled much in Russia, they
would have been more moderate in their merriment; for in that
country, despite the laudable activity of the modern system of local
administration created in the sixties, bridges often act still as a
barrier rather than a connecting link, and to cross a river by a
bridge may still be what is termed in popular phrase "a tempting of
Providence." The cautious driver will generally prefer to take to the
water, if there is a ford within a reasonable distance, though both he
and his human load may be obliged, in order to avoid getting wet feet,
to assume undignified postures that would afford admirable material for
the caricaturist. But this little bit of discomfort, even though the
luggage should be soaked in the process of fording, is as nothing
compared to the danger of crossing by the bridge. As I have no desire
to harrow unnecessarily the feelings of the reader, I refrain from all
description of ugly accidents, ending in bruises and fractures,
and shall simply explain in a few words how a successful passage is
effected.

When it is possible to approach the bridge without sinking up to the
knees in mud, it is better to avoid all risks by walking over and
waiting for the vehicle on the other side; and when this is impossible,
a preliminary survey is advisable. To your inquiries whether it is safe,
your yamstchik (post-boy) is sure to reply, "Nitchevo!"--a word which,
according to the dictionaries, means "nothing" but which has, in the
mouths of the peasantry, a great variety of meanings, as I may explain
at some future time. In the present case it may be roughly translated.
"There is no danger." "Nitchevo, Barin, proyedem" ("There is no danger,
sir; we shall get over"), he repeats. You may refer to the generally
rotten appearance of the structure, and point in particular to the great
holes sufficient to engulf half a post-horse. "Ne bos', Bog pomozhet"
("Do not fear. God will help"), replies coolly your phlegmatic Jehu. You
may have your doubts as to whether in this irreligious age Providence
will intervene specially for your benefit; but your yamstchik, who has
more faith or fatalism, leaves you little time to solve the problem.
Making hurriedly the sign of the cross, he gathers up his reins, waves
his little whip in the air, and, shouting lustily, urges on his team.
The operation is not wanting in excitement. First there is a short
descent; then the horses plunge wildly through a zone of deep mud;
next comes a fearful jolt, as the vehicle is jerked up on to the first
planks; then the transverse planks, which are but loosely held in their
places, rattle and rumble ominously, as the experienced, sagacious
animals pick their way cautiously and gingerly among the dangerous holes
and crevices; lastly, you plunge with a horrible jolt into a second
mud zone, and finally regain terra firma, conscious of that pleasant
sensation which a young officer may be supposed to feel after his first
cavalry charge in real warfare.

Of course here, as elsewhere, familiarity breeds indifference. When you
have successfully crossed without serious accident a few hundred bridges
of this kind you learn to be as cool and fatalistic as your yamstchik.

The reader who has heard of the gigantic reforms that have been
repeatedly imposed on Russia by a paternal Government may naturally
be astonished to learn that the roads are still in such a disgraceful
condition. But for this, as for everything else in the world, there is
a good and sufficient reason. The country is still, comparatively
speaking, thinly populated, and in many regions it is difficult, or
practically impossible, to procure in sufficient quantity stone of any
kind, and especially hard stone fit for road-making. Besides this, when
roads are made, the severity of the climate renders it difficult to keep
them in good repair.

When a long journey has to be undertaken through a region in which there
are no railways, there are several ways in which it may be effected.
In former days, when time was of still less value than at present, many
landed proprietors travelled with their own horses, and carried with
them, in one or more capacious, lumbering vehicles, all that was
required for the degree of civilisation which they had attained; and
their requirements were often considerable. The grand seigneur, for
instance, who spent the greater part of his life amidst the luxury of
the court society, naturally took with him all the portable elements of
civilisation. His baggage included, therefore, camp-beds, table-linen,
silver plate, a batterie de cuisine, and a French cook. The pioneers
and part of the commissariat force were sent on in advance, so that
his Excellency found at each halting-place everything prepared for his
arrival. The poor owner of a few dozen serfs dispensed, of course, with
the elaborate commissariat department, and contented himself with such
modest fare as could be packed in the holes and corners of a single
tarantass.

It will be well to explain here, parenthetically, what a tarantass
is, for I shall often have occasion to use the word. It may be briefly
defined as a phaeton without springs. The function of springs
is imperfectly fulfilled by two parallel wooden bars, placed
longitudinally, on which is fixed the body of the vehicle. It is
commonly drawn by three horses--a strong, fast trotter in the shafts,
flanked on each side by a light, loosely-attached horse that goes along
at a gallop. The points of the shafts are connected by the duga, which
looks like a gigantic, badly formed horseshoe rising high above
the collar of the trotter. To the top of the duga is attached the
bearing-rein, and underneath the highest part of it is fastened a big
bell--in the southern provinces I found two, and sometimes even three
bells--which, when the country is open and the atmosphere still, may be
heard a mile off. The use of the bell is variously explained. Some say
it is in order to frighten the wolves, and others that it is to avoid
collisions on the narrow forest-paths. But neither of these explanations
is entirely satisfactory. It is used chiefly in summer, when there is no
danger of an attack from wolves; and the number of bells is greater in
the south, where there are no forests. Perhaps the original intention
was--I throw out the hint for the benefit of a certain school of
archaeologists--to frighten away evil spirits; and the practice has been
retained partly from unreasoning conservatism, and partly with a view to
lessen the chances of collisions. As the roads are noiselessly soft,
and the drivers not always vigilant, the dangers of collision are
considerably diminished by the ceaseless peal.

Altogether, the tarantass is well adapted to the conditions in which it
is used. By the curious way in which the horses are harnessed it recalls
the war-chariot of ancient times. The horse in the shafts is compelled
by the bearing-rein to keep his head high and straight before
him--though the movement of his ears shows plainly that he would very
much like to put it somewhere farther away from the tongue of the
bell--but the side horses gallop freely, turning their heads outwards in
classical fashion. I believe that this position is assumed not from any
sympathy on the part of these animals for the remains of classical art,
but rather from the natural desire to keep a sharp eye on the driver.
Every movement of his right hand they watch with close attention, and as
soon as they discover any symptoms indicating an intention of using the
whip they immediately show a desire to quicken the pace.

Now that the reader has gained some idea of what a tarantass is, we may
return to the modes of travelling through the regions which are not yet
supplied with railways.

However enduring and long-winded horses may be, they must be allowed
sometimes, during a long journey, to rest and feed. Travelling long
distances with one's own horses is therefore necessarily a slow
operation, and is now quite antiquated. People who value their time
prefer to make use of the Imperial Post organisation. On all the
principal lines of communication there are regular post-stations, at
from ten to twenty miles apart, where a certain number of horses and
vehicles are kept for the convenience of travellers. To enjoy
the privilege of this arrangement, one has to apply to the proper
authorities for a podorozhnaya--a large sheet of paper stamped with the
Imperial Eagle, and bearing the name of the recipient, the destination,
and the number of horses to be supplied. In return, a small sum is paid
for imaginary road-repairs; the rest of the sum is paid by instalments
at the respective stations.

Armed with this document you go to the post-station and demand the
requisite number of horses. Three is the number generally used, but if
you travel lightly and are indifferent to appearances, you may content
yourself with a pair. The vehicle is a kind of tarantass, but not such
as I have just described. The essentials in both are the same, but those
which the Imperial Government provides resemble an enormous cradle on
wheels rather than a phaeton. An armful of hay spread over the bottom of
the wooden box is supposed to play the part of seats and cushions. You
are expected to sit under the arched covering, and extend your legs so
that the feet lie beneath the driver's seat; but it is advisable, unless
the rain happens to be coming down in torrents, to get this covering
unshipped, and travel without it. When used, it painfully curtails the
little freedom of movement that you enjoy, and when you are shot upwards
by some obstruction on the road it is apt to arrest your ascent by
giving you a violent blow on the top of the head.

It is to be hoped that you are in no hurry to start, otherwise your
patience may be sorely tried. The horses, when at last produced, may
seem to you the most miserable screws that it was ever your misfortune
to behold; but you had better refrain from expressing your feelings, for
if you use violent, uncomplimentary language, it may turn out that you
have been guilty of gross calumny. I have seen many a team composed of
animals which a third-class London costermonger would have spurned, and
in which it was barely possible to recognise the equine form, do their
duty in highly creditable style, and go along at the rate of ten or
twelve miles an hour, under no stronger incentive then the voice of the
yamstchik. Indeed, the capabilities of these lean, slouching, ungainly
quadrupeds are often astounding when they are under the guidance of a
man who knows how to drive them. Though such a man commonly carries a
little harmless whip, he rarely uses it except by waving it horizontally
in the air. His incitements are all oral. He talks to his cattle as he
would to animals of his own species--now encouraging them by tender,
caressing epithets, and now launching at them expressions of indignant
scorn. At one moment they are his "little doves," and at the next they
have been transformed into "cursed hounds." How far they understand and
appreciate this curious mixture of endearing cajolery and contemptuous
abuse it is difficult to say, but there is no doubt that it somehow has
upon them a strange and powerful influence.

Any one who undertakes a journey of this kind should possess a
well-knit, muscular frame and good tough sinews, capable of supporting
an unlimited amount of jolting and shaking; at the same time he should
be well inured to all the hardships and discomforts incidental to
what is vaguely termed "roughing it." When he wishes to sleep in a
post-station, he will find nothing softer than a wooden bench, unless he
can induce the keeper to put for him on the floor a bundle of hay, which
is perhaps softer, but on the whole more disagreeable than the deal
board. Sometimes he will not get even the wooden bench, for in ordinary
post-stations there is but one room for travellers, and the two
benches--there are rarely more--may be already occupied. When he
does obtain a bench, and succeeds in falling asleep, he must not be
astonished if he is disturbed once or twice during the night by people
who use the apartment as a waiting-room whilst the post-horses are being
changed. These passers-by may even order a samovar, and drink tea,
chat, laugh, smoke, and make themselves otherwise disagreeable, utterly
regardless of the sleepers. Then there are the other intruders, smaller
in size but equally objectionable, of which I have already spoken when
describing the steamers on the Don. Regarding them I desire to give
merely one word of advice: As you will have abundant occupation in the
work of self-defence, learn to distinguish between belligerents and
neutrals, and follow the simple principle of international law, that
neutrals should not be molested. They may be very ugly, but ugliness
does not justify assassination. If, for instance, you should happen
in awaking to notice a few black or brown beetles running about your
pillow, restrain your murderous hand! If you kill them you commit an act
of unnecessary bloodshed; for though they may playfully scamper around
you, they will do you no bodily harm.

Another requisite for a journey in unfrequented districts is a knowledge
of the language. It is popularly supposed that if you are familiar with
French and German you may travel anywhere in Russia. So far as the great
cities and chief lines of communication are concerned, this may be true,
but beyond that it is a delusion. The Russian has not, any more than
the West-European, received from Nature the gift of tongues. Educated
Russians often speak one or two foreign languages fluently, but the
peasants know no language but their own, and it is with the peasantry
that one comes in contact. And to converse freely with the peasant
requires a considerable familiarity with the language--far more than is
required for simply reading a book. Though there are few provincialisms,
and all classes of the people use the same words--except the words of
foreign origin, which are used only by the upper classes--the peasant
always speaks in a more laconic and more idiomatic way than the educated
man.

In the winter months travelling is in some respects pleasanter than in
summer, for snow and frost are great macadamisers. If the snow falls
evenly, there is for some time the most delightful road that can be
imagined. No jolts, no shaking, but a smooth, gliding motion, like
that of a boat in calm water, and the horses gallop along as if totally
unconscious of the sledge behind them. Unfortunately, this happy state
of things does not last all through the winter. The road soon gets cut
up, and deep transverse furrows (ukhaby) are formed. How these furrows
come into existence I have never been able clearly to comprehend, though
I have often heard the phenomenon explained by men who imagined they
understood it. Whatever the cause and mode of formation may be, certain
it is that little hills and valleys do get formed, and the sledge, as it
crosses over them, bobs up and down like a boat in a chopping sea, with
this important difference, that the boat falls into a yielding liquid,
whereas the sledge falls upon a solid substance, unyielding and
unelastic. The shaking and jolting which result may readily be imagined.

There are other discomforts, too, in winter travelling. So long as
the air is perfectly still, the cold may be very intense without being
disagreeable; but if a strong head wind is blowing, and the thermometer
ever so many degrees below zero, driving in an open sledge is a very
disagreeable operation, and noses may get frostbitten without their
owners perceiving the fact in time to take preventive measures. Then why
not take covered sledges on such occasions? For the simple reason that
they are not to be had; and if they could be procured, it would be well
to avoid using them, for they are apt to produce something very like
seasickness. Besides this, when the sledge gets overturned, it is
pleasanter to be shot out on to the clean, refreshing snow than to be
buried ignominiously under a pile of miscellaneous baggage.

The chief requisite for winter travelling in these icy regions is a
plentiful supply of warm furs. An Englishman is very apt to be imprudent
in this respect, and to trust too much to his natural power of resisting
cold. To a certain extent this confidence is justifiable, for an
Englishman often feels quite comfortable in an ordinary great coat when
his Russian friends consider it necessary to envelop themselves in furs
of the warmest kind; but it may be carried too far, in which case severe
punishment is sure to follow, as I once learned by experience. I may
relate the incident as a warning to others:

One day in mid-winter I started from Novgorod, with the intention of
visiting some friends at a cavalry barracks situated about ten miles
from the town. As the sun was shining brightly, and the distance to
be traversed was short, I considered that a light fur and a bashlyk--a
cloth hood which protects the ears--would be quite sufficient to keep
out the cold, and foolishly disregarded the warnings of a Russian friend
who happened to call as I was about to start. Our route lay along the
river due northward, right in the teeth of a strong north wind. A wintry
north wind is always and everywhere a disagreeable enemy to face; let
the reader try to imagine what it is when the Fahrenheit thermometer
is at 30 degrees below zero--or rather let him refrain from such an
attempt, for the sensation produced cannot be imagined by those who have
not experienced it. Of course I ought to have turned back--at least,
as soon as a sensation of faintness warned me that the circulation was
being seriously impeded--but I did not wish to confess my imprudence to
the friend who accompanied me. When we had driven about three-fourths of
the way we met a peasant-woman, who gesticulated violently, and shouted
something to us as we passed. I did not hear what she said, but my
friend turned to me and said in an alarming tone--we had been
speaking German--"Mein Gott! Ihre Nase ist abgefroren!" Now the word
"abgefroren," as the reader will understand, seemed to indicate that
my nose was frozen off, so I put up my hand in some alarm to discover
whether I had inadvertently lost the whole or part of the member
referred to. It was still in situ and entire, but as hard and insensible
as a bit of wood.

"You may still save it," said my companion, "if you get out at once and
rub it vigorously with snow."

I got out as directed, but was too faint to do anything vigorously. My
fur cloak flew open, the cold seemed to grasp me in the region of the
heart, and I fell insensible.

How long I remained unconscious I know not. When I awoke I found myself
in a strange room, surrounded by dragoon officers in uniform, and the
first words I heard were, "He is out of danger now, but he will have a
fever."

These words were spoken, as I afterwards discovered, by a very competent
surgeon; but the prophecy was not fulfilled. The promised fever never
came. The only bad consequences were that for some days my right hand
remained stiff, and for a week or two I had to conceal my nose from
public view.

If this little incident justifies me in drawing a general conclusion, I
should say that exposure to extreme cold is an almost painless form
of death; but that the process of being resuscitated is very painful
indeed--so painful, that the patient may be excused for momentarily
regretting that officious people prevented the temporary insensibility
from becoming "the sleep that knows no waking."

Between the alternate reigns of winter and summer there is always a
short interregnum, during which travelling in Russia by road is
almost impossible. Woe to the ill-fated mortal who has to make a long
road-journey immediately after the winter snow has melted; or, worse
still, at the beginning of winter, when the autumn mud has been
petrified by the frost, and not yet levelled by the snow!

At all seasons the monotony of a journey is pretty sure to be broken by
little unforeseen episodes of a more or less disagreeable kind. An axle
breaks, or a wheel comes off, or there is a difficulty in procuring
horses. As an illustration of the graver episodes which may occur, I
shall make here a quotation from my note-book:

Early in the morning we arrived at Maikop, a small town commanding the
entrance to one of the valleys which run up towards the main range
of the Caucasus. On alighting at the post-station, we at once ordered
horses for the next stage, and received the laconic reply, "There are no
horses."

"And when will there be some?"

"To-morrow!"

This last reply we took for a piece of playful exaggeration, and
demanded the book in which, according to law, the departure of horses
is duly inscribed, and from which it is easy to calculate when the first
team should be ready to start. A short calculation proved that we
ought to get horses by four o'clock in the afternoon, so we showed the
station-keeper various documents signed by the Minister of the
Interior and other influential personages, and advised him to avoid all
contravention of the postal regulations.

These documents, which proved that we enjoyed the special protection
of the authorities, had generally been of great service to us in our
dealings with rascally station-keepers; but this station-keeper was not
one of the ordinary type. He was a Cossack, of herculean proportions,
with a bullet-shaped head, short-cropped bristly hair, shaggy eyebrows,
an enormous pendent moustache, a defiant air, and a peculiar expression
of countenance which plainly indicated "an ugly customer." Though it was
still early in the day, he had evidently already imbibed a considerable
quantity of alcohol, and his whole demeanour showed clearly enough that
he was not of those who are "pleasant in their liquor." After glancing
superciliously at the documents, as if to intimate he could read them
were he so disposed, he threw them down on the table, and, thrusting his
gigantic paws into his capacious trouser-pockets, remarked slowly and
decisively, in something deeper than a double-bass voice, "You'll have
horses to-morrow morning."

Wishing to avoid a quarrel we tried to hire horses in the village, and
when our efforts in that direction proved fruitless, we applied to the
head of the rural police. He came and used all his influence with the
refractory station-keeper, but in vain. Hercules was not in a mood to
listen to officials any more than to ordinary mortals. At last, after
considerable trouble to himself, our friend of the police contrived to
find horses for us, and we contented ourselves with entering an account
of the circumstances in the Complaint Book, but our difficulties were by
no means at an end. As soon as Hercules perceived that we had obtained
horses without his assistance, and that he had thereby lost his
opportunity of blackmailing us, he offered us one of his own teams, and
insisted on detaining us until we should cancel the complaint against
him. This we refused to do, and our relations with him became what is
called in diplomatic language "extremement tendues." Again we had to
apply to the police.

My friend mounted guard over the baggage whilst I went to the police
office. I was not long absent, but I found, on my return, that important
events had taken place in the interval. A crowd had collected round
the post-station, and on the steps stood the keeper and his post-boys,
declaring that the traveller inside had attempted to shoot them! I
rushed in and soon perceived, by the smell of gunpowder, that firearms
had been used, but found no trace of casualties. My friend was tramping
up and down the little room, and evidently for the moment there was an
armistice.

In a very short time the local authorities had assembled, a candle had
been lit, two armed Cossacks stood as sentries at the door, and the
preliminary investigation had begun. The Chief of Police sat at the
table and wrote rapidly on a sheet of foolscap. The investigation showed
that two shots had been fired from a revolver, and two bullets were
found imbedded in the wall. All those who had been present, and some who
knew nothing of the incident except by hearsay, were duly examined. Our
opponents always assumed that my friend had been the assailant, in
spite of his protestations to the contrary, and more than once the
words pokyshenie na ubiistvo (attempt to murder) were pronounced. Things
looked very black indeed. We had the prospect of being detained for days
and weeks in the miserable place, till the insatiable demon of official
formality had been propitiated. And then?

When things were thus at their blackest they suddenly took an unexpected
turn, and the deus ex machinâ appeared precisely at the right moment,
just as if we had all been puppets in a sensation novel. There was
the usual momentary silence, and then, mixed with the sound of an
approaching tarantass, a confused murmur: "There he is! He is coming!"
The "he" thus vaguely and mysteriously indicated turned out to be an
official of the judicial administration, who had reason to visit the
village for an entirely different affair. As soon as he had been told
briefly what had happened he took the matter in hand and showed himself
equal to the occasion. Unlike the majority of Russian officials he
disliked lengthy procedure, and succeeded in making the case quite clear
in a very short time. There had been, he perceived, no attempt to murder
or anything of the kind. The station-keeper and his two post-boys, who
had no right to be in the traveller's room, had entered with threatening
mien, and when they refused to retire peaceably, my friend had fired
two shots in order to frighten them and bring assistance. The falsity of
their statement that he had fired at them as they entered the room was
proved by the fact that the bullets were lodged near the ceiling in the
wall farthest away from the door.

I must confess that I was agreeably surprised by this unexpected turn
of affairs. The conclusions arrived at were nothing more than a simple
statement of what had taken place; but I was surprised at the fact that
a man who was at once a lawyer and a Russian official should have been
able to take such a plain, commonsense view of the case.

Before midnight we were once more free men, driving rapidly in the
clear moonlight to the next station, under the escort of a fully-armed
Circassian Cossack; but the idea that we might have been detained for
weeks in that miserable place haunted us like a nightmare.



CHAPTER II

IN THE NORTHERN FORESTS


Bird's-eye View of Russia--The Northern Forests--Purpose of
my Journey--Negotiations--The Road--A Village--A Peasant's
House--Vapour-Baths--Curious Custom--Arrival.


There are many ways of describing a country that one has visited. The
simplest and most common method is to give a chronological account of
the journey; and this is perhaps the best way when the journey does
not extend over more than a few weeks. But it cannot be conveniently
employed in the case of a residence of many years. Did I adopt it, I
should very soon exhaust the reader's patience. I should have to take
him with me to a secluded village, and make him wait for me till I had
learned to speak the language. Thence he would have to accompany me to
a provincial town, and spend months in a public office, whilst I
endeavoured to master the mysteries of local self-government. After
this he would have to spend two years with me in a big library, where I
studied the history and literature of the country. And so on, and so
on. Even my journeys would prove tedious to him, as they often were to
myself, for he would have to drive with me many a score of weary miles,
where even the most zealous diary-writer would find nothing to record
beyond the names of the post-stations.

It will be well for me, then, to avoid the strictly chronological
method, and confine myself to a description of the more striking objects
and incidents that came under my notice. The knowledge which I derived
from books will help me to supply a running commentary on what I
happened to see and hear.

Instead of beginning in the usual way with St. Petersburg, I prefer for
many reasons to leave the description of the capital till some future
time, and plunge at once into the great northern forest region.

If it were possible to get a bird's-eye view of European Russia, the
spectator would perceive that the country is composed of two halves
widely differing from each other in character. The northern half is a
land of forest and morass, plentifully supplied with water in the form
of rivers, lakes, and marshes, and broken up by numerous patches of
cultivation. The southern half is, as it were, the other side of
the pattern--an immense expanse of rich, arable land, broken up by
occasional patches of sand or forest. The imaginary undulating line
separating those two regions starts from the western frontier about the
50th parallel of latitude, and runs in a northeasterly direction till it
enters the Ural range at about 56 degrees N.L.

Well do I remember my first experience of travel in the northern region,
and the weeks of voluntary exile which formed the goal of the journey.
It was in the summer of 1870. My reason for undertaking the journey was
this: a few months of life in St. Petersburg had fully convinced me that
the Russian language is one of those things which can only be acquired
by practice, and that even a person of antediluvian longevity might
spend all his life in that city without learning to express himself
fluently in the vernacular--especially if he has the misfortune of
being able to speak English, French, and German. With his friends and
associates he speaks French or English. German serves as a medium of
communication with waiters, shop keepers, and other people of that
class. It is only with isvoshtchiki--the drivers of the little open
droshkis which fulfil the function of cabs--that he is obliged to use
the native tongue, and with them a very limited vocabulary suffices. The
ordinal numerals and four short, easily-acquired expressions--poshól
(go on), na právo (to the right), na lyévo (to the left), and stoi
(stop)--are all that is required.

Whilst I was considering how I could get beyond the sphere of
West-European languages, a friend came to my assistance, and suggested
that I should go to his estate in the province of Novgorod, where I
should find an intelligent, amiable parish priest, quite innocent of
any linguistic acquirements. This proposal I at once adopted, and
accordingly found myself one morning at a small station of the Moscow
Railway, endeavouring to explain to a peasant in sheep's clothing that
I wished to be conveyed to Ivanofka, the village where my future teacher
lived. At that time I still spoke Russian in a very fragmentary and
confused way--pretty much as Spanish cows are popularly supposed to
speak French. My first remark therefore being literally interpreted,
was--"Ivanofka. Horses. You can?" The point of interrogation was
expressed by a simultaneous raising of the voice and the eyebrows.

"Ivanofka?" cried the peasant, in an interrogatory tone of voice.
In Russia, as in other countries, the peasantry when speaking with
strangers like to repeat questions, apparently for the purpose of
gaining time.

"Ivanofka," I replied.

"Now?"

"Now!"

After some reflection the peasant nodded and said something which I did
not understand, but which I assumed to mean that he was open to consider
proposals for transporting me to my destination.

"Roubles. How many?"

To judge by the knitting of the brows and the scratching of the head,
I should say that that question gave occasion to a very abstruse
mathematical calculation. Gradually the look of concentrated attention
gave place to an expression such as children assume when they endeavour
to get a parental decision reversed by means of coaxing. Then came a
stream of soft words which were to me utterly unintelligible.

I must not weary the reader with a detailed account of the succeeding
negotiations, which were conducted with extreme diplomatic caution
on both sides, as if a cession of territory or the payment of a war
indemnity had been the subject of discussion. Three times he drove away
and three times returned. Each time he abated his pretensions, and each
time I slightly increased my offer. At last, when I began to fear that
he had finally taken his departure and had left me to my own devices, he
re-entered the room and took up my baggage, indicating thereby that he
agreed to my last offer.

The sum agreed upon would have been, under ordinary circumstances,
more than sufficient, but before proceeding far I discovered that the
circumstances were by no means ordinary, and I began to understand the
pantomimic gesticulation which had puzzled me during the negotiations.
Heavy rain had fallen without interruption for several days, and now the
track on which we were travelling could not, without poetical license,
be described as a road. In some parts it resembled a water-course, in
others a quagmire, and at least during the first half of the journey I
was constantly reminded of that stage in the work of creation when the
water was not yet separated from the dry land. During the few moments
when the work of keeping my balance and preventing my baggage from being
lost did not engross all my attention, I speculated on the possibility
of inventing a boat-carriage, to be drawn by some amphibious quadruped.
Fortunately our two lean, wiry little horses did not object to being
used as aquatic animals. They took the water bravely, and plunged
through the mud in gallant style. The telega in which we were seated--a
four-wheeled skeleton cart--did not submit to the ill-treatment so
silently. It creaked out its remonstrances and entreaties, and at
the more difficult spots threatened to go to pieces; but its owner
understood its character and capabilities, and paid no attention to its
ominous threats. Once, indeed, a wheel came off, but it was soon fished
out of the mud and replaced, and no further casualty occurred.

The horses did their work so well that when about midday we arrived at
a village, I could not refuse to let them have some rest and
refreshment--all the more as my own thoughts had begun to turn in that
direction.

The village, like villages in that part of the country generally,
consisted of two long parallel rows of wooden houses. The road--if a
stratum of deep mud can be called by that name--formed the intervening
space. All the houses turned their gables to the passerby, and some of
them had pretensions to architectural decoration in the form of rude
perforated woodwork. Between the houses, and in a line with them, were
great wooden gates and high wooden fences, separating the courtyards
from the road. Into one of these yards, near the farther end of the
village, our horses turned of their own accord.

"An inn?" I said, in an interrogative tone.

The driver shook his head and said something, in which I detected the
word "friend." Evidently there was no hostelry for man and beast in the
village, and the driver was using a friend's house for the purpose.

The yard was flanked on the one side by an open shed, containing rude
agricultural implements which might throw some light on the agriculture
of the primitive Aryans, and on the other side by the dwelling-house and
stable. Both the house and stable were built of logs, nearly cylindrical
in form, and placed in horizontal tiers.

Two of the strongest of human motives, hunger and curiosity, impelled me
to enter the house at once. Without waiting for an invitation, I went
up to the door--half protected against the winter snows by a small open
portico--and unceremoniously walked in. The first apartment was empty,
but I noticed a low door in the wall to the left, and passing through
this, entered the principal room. As the scene was new to me, I noted
the principal objects. In the wall before me were two small square
windows looking out upon the road, and in the corner to the right,
nearer to the ceiling than to the floor, was a little triangular shelf,
on which stood a religious picture. Before the picture hung a curious
oil lamp. In the corner to the left of the door was a gigantic stove,
built of brick, and whitewashed. From the top of the stove to the wall
on the right stretched what might be called an enormous shelf, six or
eight feet in breadth. This is the so-called palati, as I afterwards
discovered, and serves as a bed for part of the family. The furniture
consisted of a long wooden bench attached to the wall on the right, a
big, heavy, deal table, and a few wooden stools.

Whilst I was leisurely surveying these objects, I heard a noise on the
top of the stove, and, looking up, perceived a human face, with long
hair parted in the middle, and a full yellow beard. I was considerably
astonished by this apparition, for the air in the room was stifling,
and I had some difficulty in believing that any created being--except
perhaps a salamander or a negro--could exist in such a position. I
looked hard to convince myself that I was not the victim of a delusion.
As I stared, the head nodded slowly and pronounced the customary form of
greeting.

I returned the greeting slowly, wondering what was to come next.

"Ill, very ill!" sighed the head.

"I'm not astonished at that," I remarked, in an "aside." "If I were
lying on the stove as you are I should be very ill too."

"Hot, very hot?" I remarked, interrogatively.

"Nitchevo"--that is to say, "not particularly." This remark astonished
me all the more as I noticed that the body to which the head belonged
was enveloped in a sheep-skin!

After living some time in Russia I was no longer surprised by such
incidents, for I soon discovered that the Russian peasant has a
marvellous power of bearing extreme heat as well as extreme cold. When
a coachman takes his master or mistress to the theatre or to a party,
he never thinks of going home and returning at an appointed time. Hour
after hour he sits placidly on the box, and though the cold be of an
intensity such as is never experienced in our temperate climate, he
can sleep as tranquilly as the lazzaroni at midday in Naples. In that
respect the Russian peasant seems to be first-cousin to the polar
bear, but, unlike the animals of the Arctic regions, he is not at all
incommoded by excessive heat. On the contrary, he likes it when he can
get it, and never omits an opportunity of laying in a reserve supply of
caloric. He even delights in rapid transitions from one extreme to
the other, as is amply proved by a curious custom which deserves to be
recorded.

The reader must know that in the life of the Russian peasantry the
weekly vapour-bath plays a most important part. It has even a certain
religious signification, for no good orthodox peasant would dare to
enter a church after being soiled by certain kinds of pollution without
cleansing himself physically and morally by means of the bath. In the
weekly arrangements it forms the occupation for Saturday afternoon, and
care is taken to avoid thereafter all pollution until after the morning
service on Sunday. Many villages possess a public or communal bath of
the most primitive construction, but in some parts of the country--I
am not sure how far the practice extends--the peasants take their
vapour-bath in the household oven in which the bread is baked! In
all cases the operation is pushed to the extreme limit of human
endurance--far beyond the utmost limit that can be endured by those who
have not been accustomed to it from childhood. For my own part, I only
made the experiment once; and when I informed my attendant that my life
was in danger from congestion of the brain, he laughed outright, and
told me that the operation had only begun. Most astounding of all--and
this brings me to the fact which led me into this digression--the
peasants in winter often rush out of the bath and roll themselves in the
snow! This aptly illustrates a common Russian proverb, which says that
what is health to the Russian is death to the German.

Cold water, as well as hot vapour, is sometimes used as a means of
purification. In the villages the old pagan habit of masquerading in
absurd costumes at certain seasons--as is done during the carnival in
Roman Catholic countries with the approval, or at least connivance,
of the Church--still survives; but it is regarded as not altogether
sinless. He who uses such disguises places himself to a certain extent
under the influence of the Evil One, thereby putting his soul in
jeopardy; and to free himself from this danger he has to purify himself
in the following way: When the annual mid-winter ceremony of blessing
the waters is performed, by breaking a hole in the ice and immersing a
cross with certain religious rites, he should plunge into the hole as
soon as possible after the ceremony. I remember once at Yaroslavl,
on the Volga, two young peasants successfully accomplished this
feat--though the police have orders to prevent it--and escaped,
apparently without evil consequences, though the Fahrenheit thermometer
was below zero. How far the custom has really a purifying influence,
is a question which must be left to theologians; but even an ordinary
mortal can understand that, if it be regarded as a penance, it must
have a certain deterrent effect. The man who foresees the necessity
of undergoing this severe penance will think twice before putting on a
disguise. So at least it must have been in the good old times; but in
these degenerate days--among the Russian peasantry as elsewhere--the
fear of the Devil, which was formerly, if not the beginning, at least
one of the essential elements, of wisdom, has greatly decreased. Many
a young peasant will now thoughtlessly disguise himself, and when the
consecration of the water is performed, will stand and look on passively
like an ordinary spectator! It would seem that the Devil, like his enemy
the Pope, is destined to lose gradually his temporal power.

But all this time I am neglecting my new acquaintance on the top of the
stove. In reality I did not neglect him, but listened most attentively
to every word of the long tale that he recited. What it was all about
I could only vaguely guess, for I did not understand more than ten per
cent of the words used, but I assumed from the tone and gestures that he
was relating to me all the incidents and symptoms of his illness. And
a very severe illness it must have been, for it requires a very
considerable amount of physical suffering to make the patient Russian
peasant groan. Before he had finished his tale a woman entered,
apparently his wife.

To her I explained that I had a strong desire to eat and drink, and that
I wished to know what she would give me. By a good deal of laborious
explanation I was made to understand that I could have eggs, black
bread, and milk, and we agreed that there should be a division of
labour: my hostess should prepare the samovar for boiling water, whilst
I should fry the eggs to my own satisfaction.

In a few minutes the repast was ready, and, though not very delicate,
was highly acceptable. The tea and sugar I had of course brought with
me; the eggs were not very highly flavoured; and the black rye-bread,
strongly intermixed with sand, could be eaten by a peculiar and
easily-acquired method of mastication, in which the upper molars are
never allowed to touch those of the lower jaw. In this way the grating
of the sand between the teeth is avoided.

Eggs, black bread, milk, and tea--these formed my ordinary articles of
food during all my wanderings in Northern Russia. Occasionally potatoes
could be got, and afforded the possibility of varying the bill of fare.
The favourite materials employed in the native cookery are sour cabbage,
cucumbers, and kvass--a kind of very small beer made from black bread.
None of these can be recommended to the traveller who is not already
accustomed to them.

The remainder of the journey was accomplished at a rather more rapid
pace than the preceding part, for the road was decidedly better, though
it was traversed by numerous half-buried roots, which produced violent
jolts. From the conversation of the driver I gathered that wolves,
bears, and elks were found in the forest through which we were passing.

The sun had long since set when we reached our destination, and I found
to my dismay that the priest's house was closed for the night. To rouse
the reverend personage from his slumbers, and endeavour to explain to
him with my limited vocabulary the object of my visit, was not to be
thought of. On the other hand, there was no inn of any kind in the
vicinity. When I consulted the driver as to what was to be done, he
meditated for a little, and then pointed to a large house at some
distance where there were still lights. It turned out to be the
country-house of the gentleman who had advised me to undertake the
journey, and here, after a short explanation, though the owner was not
at home, I was hospitably received.

It had been my intention to live in the priest's house, but a short
interview with him on the following day convinced me that that part
of my plan could not be carried out. The preliminary objections that I
should find but poor fare in his humble household, and much more of
the same kind, were at once put aside by my assurance, made partly by
pantomime, that, as an old traveller, I was well accustomed to simple
fare, and could always accommodate myself to the habits of people
among whom my lot happened to be cast. But there was a more serious
difficulty. The priest's family had, as is generally the case with
priests' families, been rapidly increasing during the last few years,
and his house had not been growing with equal rapidity. The natural
consequence of this was that he had not a room or a bed to spare. The
little room which he had formerly kept for occasional visitors was now
occupied by his eldest daughter, who had returned from a "school for
the daughters of the clergy," where she had been for the last two years.
Under these circumstances, I was constrained to accept the kind proposal
made to me by the representative of my absent friend, that I should
take up my quarters in one of the numerous unoccupied rooms in the
manor-house. This arrangement, I was reminded, would not at all
interfere with my proposed studies, for the priest lived close at hand,
and I might spend with him as much time as I liked.

And now let me introduce the reader to my reverend teacher and one
or two other personages whose acquaintance I made during my voluntary
exile.



CHAPTER III

VOLUNTARY EXILE


Ivanofka--History of the Place--The Steward of the Estate--Slav and
Teutonic Natures--A German's View of the Emancipation--Justices of the
Peace--New School of Morals--The Russian Language--Linguistic Talent of
the Russians--My Teacher--A Big Dose of Current History.


This village, Ivanofka by name, in which I proposed to spend some
months, was rather more picturesque than villages in these northern
forests commonly are. The peasants' huts, built on both sides of a
straight road, were colourless enough, and the big church, with its five
pear-shaped cupolas rising out of the bright green roof and its ugly
belfry in the Renaissance style, was not by any means beautiful in
itself; but when seen from a little distance, especially in the soft
evening twilight, the whole might have been made the subject of a
very pleasing picture. From the point that a landscape-painter would
naturally have chosen, the foreground was formed by a meadow, through
which flowed sluggishly a meandering stream. On a bit of rising ground
to the right, and half concealed by an intervening cluster of old
rich-coloured pines, stood the manor-house--a big, box-shaped,
whitewashed building, with a verandah in front, overlooking a small plot
that might some day become a flower-garden. To the left of this stood
the village, the houses grouping prettily with the big church, and a
little farther in this direction was an avenue of graceful birches. On
the extreme left were fields, bounded by a dark border of fir-trees.
Could the spectator have raised himself a few hundred feet from the
ground, he would have seen that there were fields beyond the village,
and that the whole of this agricultural oasis was imbedded in a forest
stretching in all directions as far as the eye could reach.

The history of the place may be told in a few words. In former times the
estate, including the village and all its inhabitants, had belonged to
a monastery, but when, in 1764, the Church lands were secularised by
Catherine, it became the property of the State. Some years afterwards
the Empress granted it, with the serfs and everything else which it
contained, to an old general who had distinguished himself in the
Turkish wars. From that time it had remained in the K---- family.
Some time between the years 1820 and 1840 the big church and the
mansion-house had been built by the actual possessor's father, who loved
country life, and devoted a large part of his time and energies to
the management of his estate. His son, on the contrary, preferred St.
Petersburg to the country, served in one of the public offices, loved
passionately French plays and other products of urban civilisation,
and left the entire management of the property to a German steward,
popularly known as Karl Karl'itch, whom I shall introduce to the reader
presently.

The village annals contained no important events, except bad harvests,
cattle-plagues, and destructive fires, with which the inhabitants seem
to have been periodically visited from time immemorial. If good
harvests were ever experienced, they must have faded from the popular
recollection. Then there were certain ancient traditions which might
have been lessened in bulk and improved in quality by being subjected to
searching historical criticism. More than once, for instance, a leshie,
or wood-sprite, had been seen in the neighbourhood; and in several
households the domovoi, or brownie, had been known to play strange
pranks until he was properly propitiated. And as a set-off against these
manifestations of evil powers, there were well-authenticated stories
about a miracle-working image that had mysteriously appeared on the
branch of a tree, and about numerous miraculous cures that had been
effected by means of pilgrimages to holy shrines.

But it is time to introduce the principal personages of this little
community. Of these, by far the most important was Karl Karl'itch, the
steward.

First of all I ought, perhaps, to explain how Karl Schmidt, the son of
a well-to-do Bauer in the Prussian village of Schonhausen, became Karl
Karl'itch, the principal personage in the Russian village of Ivanofka.

About the time of the Crimean War many of the Russian landed proprietors
had become alive to the necessity of improving the primitive,
traditional methods of agriculture, and sought for this purpose German
stewards for their estates. Among these proprietors was the owner of
Ivanofka. Through the medium of a friend in Berlin he succeeded in
engaging for a moderate salary a young man who had just finished his
studies in one of the German schools of agriculture--the institution at
Hohenheim, if my memory does not deceive me. This young man had arrived
in Russia as plain Karl Schmidt, but his name was soon transformed into
Karl Karl'itch, not from any desire of his own, but in accordance with
a curious Russian custom. In Russia one usually calls a man not by his
family name, but by his Christian name and patronymic--the latter being
formed from the name of his father. Thus, if a man's name is Nicholas,
and his father's Christian name is--or was--Ivan, you address him as
Nikolai Ivanovitch (pronounced Ivan'itch); and if this man should happen
to have a sister called Mary, you will address her--even though she
should be married--as Marya Ivanovna (pronounced Ivanna).

Immediately on his arrival young Schmidt had set himself vigorously
to reorganise the estate and improve the method of agriculture. Some
ploughs, harrows, and other implements which had been imported at a
former period were dragged out of the obscurity in which they had
lain for several years, and an attempt was made to farm on scientific
principles. The attempt was far from being completely successful, for
the serfs--this was before the Emancipation--could not be made to work
like regularly trained German labourers. In spite of all admonitions,
threats, and punishments, they persisted in working slowly, listlessly,
inaccurately, and occasionally they broke the new instruments from
carelessness or some more culpable motive. Karl Karl'itch was not
naturally a hard-hearted man, but he was very rigid in his notions of
duty, and could be cruelly severe when his orders were not executed with
an accuracy and punctuality that seemed to the Russian rustic mind mere
useless pedantry. The serfs did not offer him any open opposition, and
were always obsequiously respectful in their demeanour towards him, but
they invariably frustrated his plans by their carelessness and stolid,
passive resistance.

Thus arose that silent conflict and that smouldering mutual enmity which
almost always result from the contact of the Teuton with the Slav. The
serfs instinctively regretted the good old times, when they lived under
the rough-and-ready patriarchal rule of their masters, assisted by
a native "burmister," or overseer, who was one of themselves. The
burmister had not always been honest in his dealings with them, and
the master had often, when in anger, ordered severe punishments to be
inflicted; but the burmister had not attempted to make them change their
old habits, and had shut his eyes to many little sins of omission
and commission, whilst the master was always ready to assist them in
difficulties, and commonly treated them in a kindly, familiar way. As
the old Russian proverb has it, "Where danger is, there too is kindly
forgiveness." Karl Karl'itch, on the contrary, was the personification
of uncompassionate, inflexible law. Blind rage and compassionate
kindliness were alike foreign to his system of government. If he had
any feeling towards the serfs, it was one of chronic contempt. The word
durak (blockhead) was constantly on his lips, and when any bit of work
was well done, he took it as a matter of course, and never thought of
giving a word of approval or encouragement.

When it became evident, in 1859, that the emancipation of the serfs was
at hand, Karl Karl'itch confidently predicted that the country would
inevitably go to ruin. He knew by experience that the peasants were lazy
and improvident, even when they lived under the tutelage of a master,
and with the fear of the rod before their eyes. What would they become
when this guidance and salutary restraint should be removed? The
prospect raised terrible forebodings in the mind of the worthy steward,
who had his employer's interests really at heart; and these forebodings
were considerably increased and intensified when he learned that
the peasants were to receive by law the land which they occupied on
sufferance, and which comprised about a half of the whole arable land
of the estate. This arrangement he declared to be a dangerous and
unjustifiable infraction of the sacred rights of property, which
savoured strongly of communism, and could have but one practical result:
the emancipated peasants would live by the cultivation of their own
land, and would not consent on any terms to work for their former
master.

In the few months which immediately followed the publication of the
Emancipation Edict in 1861, Karl Karl'itch found much to confirm his
most gloomy apprehensions. The peasants showed themselves dissatisfied
with the privileges conferred upon them, and sought to evade the
corresponding duties imposed on them by the new law. In vain he
endeavoured, by exhortations, promises, and threats, to get the most
necessary part of the field-work done, and showed the peasants the
provision of the law enjoining them to obey and work as of old until
some new arrangement should be made. To all his appeals they replied
that, having been freed by the Tsar, they were no longer obliged to
work for their former master; and he was at last forced to appeal to
the authorities. This step had a certain effect, but the field-work was
executed that year even worse than usual, and the harvest suffered in
consequence.

Since that time things had gradually improved. The peasants had
discovered that they could not support themselves and pay their taxes
from the land ceded to them, and had accordingly consented to till the
proprietor's fields for a moderate recompense. "These last two years,"
said Karl Karl'itch to me, with an air of honest self-satisfaction, "I
have been able, after paying all expenses, to transmit little sums to
the young master in St. Petersburg. It was certainly not much, but it
shows that things are better than they were. Still, it is hard, uphill
work. The peasants have not been improved by liberty. They now work less
and drink more than they did in the times of serfage, and if you say a
word to them they'll go away, and not work for you at all." Here
Karl Karl'itch indemnified himself for his recent self-control in the
presence of his workers by using a series of the strongest epithets
which the combined languages of his native and of his adopted country
could supply. "But laziness and drunkenness are not their only faults.
They let their cattle wander into our fields, and never lose an
opportunity of stealing firewood from the forest."

"But you have now for such matters the rural justices of the peace," I
ventured to suggest.

"The justices of the peace!" . . . Here Karl Karl'itch used an inelegant
expression, which showed plainly that he was no unqualified admirer
of the new judicial institutions. "What is the use of applying to the
justices? The nearest one lives six miles off, and when I go to him he
evidently tries to make me lose as much time as possible. I am sure to
lose nearly a whole day, and at the end of it I may find that I have got
nothing for my pains. These justices always try to find some excuse for
the peasant, and when they do condemn, by way of exception, the
affair does not end there. There is pretty sure to be a pettifogging
practitioner prowling about--some rascally scribe who has been dismissed
from the public offices for pilfering and extorting too openly--and he
is always ready to whisper to the peasant that he should appeal. The
peasant knows that the decision is just, but he is easily persuaded
that by appealing to the Monthly Sessions he gets another chance in
the lottery, and may perhaps draw a prize. He lets the rascally scribe,
therefore, prepare an appeal for him, and I receive an invitation to
attend the Session of Justices in the district town on a certain day.

"It is a good five-and-thirty miles to the district town, as you know,
but I get up early, and arrive at eleven o'clock, the hour stated in the
official notice. A crowd of peasants are hanging about the door of the
court, but the only official present is the porter. I enquire of him
when my case is likely to come on, and receive the laconic answer, 'How
should I know?' After half an hour the secretary arrives. I repeat my
question, and receive the same answer. Another half hour passes, and one
of the justices drives up in his tarantass. Perhaps he is a glib-tongued
gentleman, and assures me that the proceedings will commence at once:
'Sei tchas! sei tchas!' Don't believe what the priest or the dictionary
tells you about the meaning of that expression. The dictionary will tell
you that it means 'immediately,' but that's all nonsense. In the mouth
of a Russian it means 'in an hour,' 'next week,' 'in a year or two,'
'never'--most commonly 'never.' Like many other words in Russian, 'sei
tchas' can be understood only after long experience. A second justice
drives up, and then a third. No more are required by law, but these
gentlemen must first smoke several cigarettes and discuss all the local
news before they begin work.

"At last they take their seats on the bench--a slightly elevated
platform at one end of the room, behind a table covered with green
baize--and the proceedings commence. My case is sure to be pretty far
down on the list--the secretary takes, I believe, a malicious pleasure
in watching my impatience--and before it is called the justices have to
retire at least once for refreshments and cigarettes. I have to amuse
myself by listening to the other cases, and some of them, I can assure
you, are amusing enough. The walls of that room must be by this time
pretty well saturated with perjury, and many of the witnesses catch at
once the infection. Perhaps I may tell you some other time a few of the
amusing incidents that I have seen there. At last my case is called. It
is as clear as daylight, but the rascally pettifogger is there with
a long-prepared speech, he holds in his hand a small volume of the
codified law, and quotes paragraphs which no amount of human ingenuity
can make to bear upon the subject. Perhaps the previous decision is
confirmed; perhaps it is reversed; in either case, I have lost a second
day and exhausted more patience than I can conveniently spare. And
something even worse may happen, as I know by experience. Once during
a case of mine there was some little informality--someone inadvertently
opened the door of the consulting-room when the decision was being
written, or some other little incident of the sort occurred, and the
rascally pettifogger complained to the Supreme Court of Revision, which
is a part of the Senate. The case was all about a few roubles, but it
was discussed in St. Petersburg, and afterwards tried over again by
another court of justices. Now I have paid my Lehrgeld, and go no more
to law."

"Then you must expose yourself to all kinds of extortion?"

"Not so much as you might imagine. I have my own way of dispensing
justice. When I catch a peasant's horse or cow in our fields, I lock it
up and make the owner pay a ransom."

"Is it not rather dangerous," I inquired, "to take the law thus into
your own hands? I have heard that the Russian justices are extremely
severe against any one who has recourse to what our German jurists call
Selbsthulfe."

"That they are! So long as you are in Russia, you had much better let
yourself be quietly robbed than use any violence against the robber. It
is less trouble, and it is cheaper in the long run. If you do not, you
may unexpectedly find yourself some fine morning in prison! You must
know that many of the young justices belong to the new school of
morals."

"What is that? I have not heard of any new discoveries lately in the
sphere of speculative ethics."

"Well, to tell you the truth, I am not one of the initiated, and I can
only tell you what I hear. So far as I have noticed, the representatives
of the new doctrine talk chiefly about Gumannost' and Tchelovetcheskoe
dostoinstvo. You know what these words mean?"

"Humanity, or rather humanitarianism and human dignity," I replied, not
sorry to give a proof that I was advancing in my studies.

"There, again, you allow your dictionary and your priest to mislead you.
These terms, when used by a Russian, cover much more than we understand
by them, and those who use them most frequently have generally a special
tenderness for all kinds of malefactors. In the old times, malefactors
were popularly believed to be bad, dangerous people; but it has been
lately discovered that this is a delusion. A young proprietor who lives
not far off assures me that they are the true Protestants, and the
most powerful social reformers! They protest practically against those
imperfections of social organisation of which they are the involuntary
victims. The feeble, characterless man quietly submits to his chains;
the bold, generous, strong man breaks his fetters, and helps others to
do the same. A very ingenious defence of all kinds of rascality, isn't
it?"

"Well, it is a theory that might certainly be carried too far, and might
easily lead to very inconvenient conclusions; but I am not sure that,
theoretically speaking, it does not contain a certain element of truth.
It ought at least to foster that charity which we are enjoined to
practise towards all men. But perhaps 'all men' does not include
publicans and sinners?"

On hearing these words Karl Karl'itch turned to me, and every feature of
his honest German face expressed the most undisguised astonishment.
"Are you, too, a Nihilist?" he inquired, as soon as he had partially
recovered his breath.

"I really don't know what a Nihilist is, but I may assure you that I am
not an 'ist' of any kind. What is a Nihilist?"

"If you live long in Russia you'll learn that without my telling you.
As I was saying, I am not at all afraid of the peasants citing me before
the justice. They know better now. If they gave me too much trouble I
could starve their cattle."

"Yes, when you catch them in your fields," I remarked, taking no notice
of the abrupt turn which he had given to the conversation.

"I can do it without that. You must know that, by the Emancipation
Law, the peasants received arable land, but they received little or no
pasturage. I have the whip hand of them there!"

The remarks of Karl Karl'itch on men and things were to me always
interesting, for he was a shrewd observer, and displayed occasionally a
pleasant, dry humour. But I very soon discovered that his opinions were
not to be accepted without reserve. His strong, inflexible Teutonic
nature often prevented him from judging impartially. He had no sympathy
with the men and the institutions around him, and consequently he was
unable to see things from the inside. The specks and blemishes on the
surface he perceived clearly enough, but he had no knowledge of the
secret, deep-rooted causes by which these specks and blemishes were
produced. The simple fact that a man was a Russian satisfactorily
accounted, in his opinion, for any kind of moral deformity; and his
knowledge turned out to be by no means so extensive as I had at first
supposed. Though he had been many years in the country, he knew very
little about the life of the peasants beyond that small part of it which
concerned directly his own interests and those of his employer. Of the
communal organisation, domestic life, religious beliefs, ceremonial
practices, and nomadic habits of his humble neighbours, he knew little,
and the little he happened to know was far from accurate. In order to
gain a knowledge of these matters it would be better, I perceived, to
consult the priest, or, better still, the peasants themselves. But to do
this it would be necessary to understand easily and speak fluently the
colloquial language, and I was still very far from having, acquired the
requisite proficiency.

Even for one who possesses a natural facility for acquiring foreign
tongues, the learning of Russian is by no means an easy task. Though
it is essentially an Aryan language like our own, and contains only a
slight intermixture of Tartar words,--such as bashlyk (a hood), kalpak
(a night-cap), arbuz (a water-melon), etc.--it has certain sounds
unknown to West-European ears, and difficult for West-European tongues,
and its roots, though in great part derived from the same original stock
as those of the Graeco-Latin and Teutonic languages, are generally not
at all easily recognised. As an illustration of this, take the Russian
word otets. Strange as it may at first sight appear, this word is merely
another form of our word father, of the German vater, and of the French
pere. The syllable ets is the ordinary Russian termination denoting the
agent, corresponding to the English and German ending er, as we see in
such words as--kup-ets (a buyer), plov-ets (a swimmer), and many others.
The root ot is a mutilated form of vot, as we see in the word otchina (a
paternal inheritance), which is frequently written votchina. Now vot is
evidently the same root as the German vat in Vater, and the English fath
in father. Quod erat demonstrandum.

All this is simple enough, and goes to prove the fundamental identity,
or rather the community of origin, of the Slav and Teutonic languages;
but it will be readily understood that etymological analogies so
carefully disguised are of little practical use in helping us to acquire
a foreign tongue. Besides this, the grammatical forms and constructions
in Russian are very peculiar, and present a great many strange
irregularities. As an illustration of this we may take the future tense.
The Russian verb has commonly a simple and a frequentative future. The
latter is always regularly formed by means of an auxiliary with the
infinitive, as in English, but the former is constructed in a variety of
ways, for which no rule can be given, so that the simple future of each
individual verb must be learned by a pure effort of memory. In many
verbs it is formed by prefixing a preposition, but it is impossible
to determine by rule which preposition should be used. Thus idu (I go)
becomes poidu; pishu (I write) becomes napishu; pyu (I drink) becomes
vuipyu, and so on.

Closely akin to the difficulties of pronunciation is the difficulty of
accentuating the proper syllable. In this respect Russian is like Greek;
you can rarely tell a priori on what syllable the accent falls. But
it is more puzzling than Greek, for two reasons: firstly, it is not
customary to print Russian with accents; and secondly, no one has yet
been able to lay down precise rules for the transposition of the accent
in the various inflections of the same word, Of this latter peculiarity,
let one illustration suffice. The word ruka (hand) has the accent on the
last syllable, but in the accusative (ruku) the accent goes back to the
first syllable. It must not, however, be assumed that in all words
of this type a similar transposition takes place. The word beda
(misfortune), for instance, as well as very many others, always retains
the accent on the last syllable.

These and many similar difficulties, which need not be here enumerated,
can be mastered only by long practice. Serious as they are, they need
not frighten any one who is in the habit of learning foreign tongues.
The ear and the tongue gradually become familiar with the peculiarities
of inflection and accentuation, and practice fulfils the same function
as abstract rules.

It is commonly supposed that Russians have been endowed by Nature with
a peculiar linguistic talent. Their own language, it is said, is so
difficult that they have no difficulty in acquiring others. This common
belief requires, as it seems to me, some explanation. That highly
educated Russians are better linguists than the educated classes of
Western Europe there can be no possible doubt, for they almost always
speak French, and often English and German also. The question, however,
is whether this is the result of a psychological peculiarity, or of
other causes. Now, without venturing to deny the existence of a natural
faculty, I should say that the other causes have at least exercised a
powerful influence. Any Russian who wishes to be regarded as civilised
must possess at least one foreign language; and, as a consequence of
this, the children of the upper classes are always taught at least
French in their infancy. Many households comprise a German nurse, a
French tutor, and an English governess; and the children thus become
accustomed from their earliest years to the use of these three
languages. Besides this, Russian is phonetically very rich and contains
nearly all the sounds which are to be found in West-European tongues.
Perhaps on the whole it would be well to apply here the Darwinian
theory, and suppose that the Russian Noblesse, having been obliged
for several generations to acquire foreign languages, have gradually
developed a hereditary polyglot talent.

Several circumstances concurred to assist me in my efforts, during my
voluntary exile, to acquire at least such a knowledge of the language
as would enable me to converse freely with the peasantry. In the first
place, my reverend teacher was an agreeable, kindly, talkative man,
who took a great delight in telling interminable stories, quite
independently of any satisfaction which he might derive from the
consciousness of their being understood and appreciated. Even when
walking alone he was always muttering something to an imaginary
listener. A stranger meeting him on such occasions might have supposed
that he was holding converse with unseen spirits, though his broad
muscular form and rubicund face militated strongly against such a
supposition; but no man, woman, or child living within a radius of
ten miles would ever have fallen into this mistake. Every one in the
neighbourhood knew that "Batushka" (papa), as he was familiarly called,
was too prosaical, practical a man to see things ethereal, that he was
an irrepressible talker, and that when he could not conveniently find an
audience he created one by his own imagination. This peculiarity of his
rendered me good service. Though for some time I understood very little
of what he said, and very often misplaced the positive and negative
monosyllables which I hazarded occasionally by way of encouragement,
he talked vigorously all the same. Like all garrulous people, he was
constantly repeating himself; but to this I did not object, for the
custom--however disagreeable in ordinary society--was for me highly
beneficial, and when I had already heard a story once or twice before,
it was much easier for me to assume at the proper moment the requisite
expression of countenance.

Another fortunate circumstance was that at Ivanofka there were no
distractions, so that the whole of the day and a great part of the night
could be devoted to study. My chief amusement was an occasional walk in
the fields with Karl Karl'itch; and even this mild form of dissipation
could not always be obtained, for as soon as rain had fallen it was
difficult to go beyond the verandah--the mud precluding the
possibility of a constitutional. The nearest approach to excitement was
mushroom-gathering; and in this occupation my inability to distinguish
the edible from the poisonous species made my efforts unacceptable. We
lived so "far from the madding crowd" that its din scarcely reached
our ears. A week or ten days might pass without our receiving any
intelligence from the outer world. The nearest post-office was in the
district town, and with that distant point we had no regular system of
communication. Letters and newspapers remained there till called for,
and were brought to us intermittently when some one of our neighbours
happened to pass that way. Current history was thus administered to us
in big doses.

One very big dose I remember well. For a much longer time than usual
no volunteer letter-carrier had appeared, and the delay was more than
usually tantalising, because it was known that war had broken out
between France and Germany. At last a big bundle of a daily paper called
the Golos was brought to me. Impatient to learn whether any great battle
had been fought, I began by examining the latest number, and stumbled
at once on an article headed, "Latest Intelligence: the Emperor at
Wilhelmshohe!!!" The large type in which the heading was printed and
the three marks of exclamation showed plainly that the article was very
important. I began to read with avidity, but was utterly mystified. What
emperor was this? Probably the Tsar or the Emperor of Austria, for
there was no German Emperor in those days. But no! It was evidently the
Emperor of the French. And how did Napoleon get to Wilhelmshohe? The
French must have broken through the Rhine defences, and pushed far
into Germany. But no! As I read further, I found this theory equally
untenable. It turned out that the Emperor was surrounded by Germans,
and--a prisoner! In order to solve the mystery, I had to go back to the
preceding numbers of the paper, and learned, at a sitting, all about the
successive German victories, the defeat and capitulation of Macmahon's
army at Sedan, and the other great events of that momentous time. The
impression produced can scarcely be realised by those who have always
imbibed current history in the homeopathic doses administered by the
morning and evening daily papers.

By the useful loquacity of my teacher and the possibility of devoting
all my time to my linguistic studies, I made such rapid progress in
the acquisition of the language that I was able after a few weeks to
understand much of what was said to me, and to express myself in a
vague, roundabout way. In the latter operation I was much assisted by
a peculiar faculty of divination which the Russians possess in a high
degree. If a foreigner succeeds in expressing about one-fourth of
an idea, the Russian peasant can generally fill up the remaining
three-fourths from his own intuition.

As my powers of comprehension increased, my long conversations with
the priest became more and more instructive. At first his remarks and
stories had for me simply a philological interest, but gradually
I perceived that his talk contained a great deal of solid,
curious information regarding himself and the class to which he
belonged--information of a kind not commonly found in grammatical
exercises. Some of this I now propose to communicate to the reader.



CHAPTER IV

THE VILLAGE PRIEST


Priests' Names--Clerical Marriages--The White and the Black Clergy--Why
the People do not Respect the Parish Priests--History of the White
Clergy--The Parish Priest and the Protestant Pastor--In What Sense
the Russian People are Religious--Icons--The Clergy and Popular
Education--Ecclesiastical Reform--Premonitory Symptoms of Change--Two
Typical Specimens of the Parochial Clergy of the Present Day.


In formal introductions it is customary to pronounce in a more or less
inaudible voice the names of the two persons introduced. Circumstances
compel me in the present case to depart from received custom. The truth
is, I do not know the names of the two people whom I wish to bring
together! The reader who knows his own name will readily pardon one-half
of my ignorance, but he may naturally expect that I should know the name
of a man with whom I profess to be acquainted, and with whom I daily
held long conversations during a period of several months. Strange as
it may seem, I do not. During all the time of my sojourn in Ivanofka I
never heard him addressed or spoken of otherwise than as "Batushka." Now
"Batushka" is not a name at all. It is simply the diminutive form of an
obsolete word meaning "father," and is usually applied to all village
priests. The ushka is a common diminutive termination, and the root Bat
is evidently the same as that which appears in the Latin pater.

Though I do not happen to know what Batushka's family name was, I can
communicate two curious facts concerning it: he had not possessed it in
his childhood, and it was not the same as his father's.

The reader whose intuitive powers have been preternaturally sharpened by
a long course of sensation novels will probably leap to the conclusion
that Batushka was a mysterious individual, very different from what he
seemed--either the illegitimate son of some great personage, or a man of
high birth who had committed some great sin, and who now sought oblivion
and expiation in the humble duties of a parish priest. Let me dispel
at once all delusions of this kind. Batushka was actually as well as
legally the legitimate son of an ordinary parish priest, who was
still living, about twenty miles off, and for many generations all his
paternal and maternal ancestors, male and female, had belonged to the
priestly caste. He was thus a Levite of the purest water, and thoroughly
Levitical in his character. Though he knew by experience something about
the weakness of the flesh, he had never committed any sins of the heroic
kind, and had no reason to conceal his origin. The curious facts above
stated were simply the result of a peculiar custom which exists among
the Russian clergy. According to this custom, when a boy enters the
seminary he receives from the Bishop a new family name. The name may be
Bogoslafski, from a word signifying "Theology," or Bogolubof, "the love
of God," or some similar term; or it may be derived from the name of the
boy's native village, or from any other word which the Bishop thinks fit
to choose. I know of one instance where a Bishop chose two French words
for the purpose. He had intended to call the boy Velikoselski, after his
native place, Velikoe Selo, which means "big village"; but finding
that there was already a Velikoselski in the seminary, and being in a
facetious frame of mind, he called the new comer Grandvillageski--a word
that may perhaps sorely puzzle some philologist of the future.

My reverend teacher was a tall, muscular man of about forty years of
age, with a full dark-brown beard, and long lank hair falling over his
shoulders. The visible parts of his dress consisted of three articles--a
dingy-brown robe of coarse material buttoned closely at the neck and
descending to the ground, a wideawake hat, and a pair of large, heavy
boots. As to the esoteric parts of his attire, I refrained from making
investigations. His life had been an uneventful one. At an early age he
had been sent to the seminary in the chief town of the province, and had
made for himself the reputation of a good average scholar. "The seminary
of that time," he used to say to me, referring to that part of his
life, "was not what it is now. Nowadays the teachers talk about
humanitarianism, and the boys would think that a crime had been
committed against human dignity if one of them happened to be flogged.
But they don't consider that human dignity is at all affected by their
getting drunk, and going to--to--to places that I never went to. I was
flogged often enough, and I don't think that I am a worse man on that
account; and though I never heard then anything about pedagogical
science that they talk so much about now, I'll read a bit of Latin yet
with the best of them.

"When my studies were finished," said Batushka, continuing the simple
story of his life, "the Bishop found a wife for me, and I succeeded
her father, who was then an old man. In that way I became a priest of
Ivanofka, and have remained here ever since. It is a hard life, for the
parish is big, and my bit of land is not very fertile; but, praise be to
God! I am healthy and strong, and get on well enough."

"You said that the Bishop found a wife for you," I remarked. "I suppose,
therefore, that he was a great friend of yours."

"Not at all. The Bishop does the same for all the seminarists who wish
to be ordained: it is an important part of his pastoral duties."

"Indeed!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "Surely that is carrying the
system of paternal government a little too far. Why should his Reverence
meddle with things that don't concern him?"

"But these matters do concern him. He is the natural protector of widows
and orphans, especially among the clergy of his own diocese. When a
parish priest dies, what is to become of his wife and daughters?"

Not perceiving clearly the exact bearing of these last remarks, I
ventured to suggest that priests ought to economise in view of future
contingencies.

"It is easy to speak," replied Batushka: "'A story is soon told,' as
the old proverb has it, 'but a thing is not soon done.' How are we to
economise? Even without saving we have the greatest difficulty to make
the two ends meet."

"Then the widow and daughters might work and gain a livelihood."

"What, pray, could they work at?" asked Batushka, and paused for a
reply. Seeing that I had none to offer him, he continued, "Even the
house and land belong not to them, but to the new priest."

"If that position occurred in a novel," I said, "I could foretell what
would happen. The author would make the new priest fall in love with
and marry one of the daughters, and then the whole family, including the
mother-in-law, would live happily ever afterwards."

"That is exactly how the Bishop arranges the matter. What the novelist
does with the puppets of his imagination, the Bishop does with real
beings of flesh and blood. As a rational being he cannot leave things
to chance. Besides this, he must arrange the matter before the young man
takes orders, because, by the rules of the Church, the marriage cannot
take place after the ceremony of ordination. When the affair is arranged
before the charge becomes vacant, the old priest can die with the
pleasant consciousness that his family is provided for."

"Well, Batushka, you certainly put the matter in a very plausible way,
but there seem to be two flaws in the analogy. The novelist can make two
people fall in love with each other, and make them live happily together
with the mother-in-law, but that--with all due respect to his Reverence,
be it said--is beyond the power of a Bishop."

"I am not sure," said Batushka, avoiding the point of the objection,
"that love-marriages are always the happiest ones; and as to the
mother-in-law, there are--or at least there were until the emancipation
of the serfs--a mother-in-law and several daughters-in-law in almost
every peasant household."

"And does harmony generally reign in peasant households?"

"That depends upon the head of the house. If he is a man of the right
sort, he can keep the women-folks in order." This remark was made in
an energetic tone, with the evident intention of assuring me that the
speaker was himself "a man of the right sort"; but I did not attribute
much importance to it, for I have occasionally heard henpecked husbands
talk in this grandiloquent way when their wives were out of hearing.
Altogether I was by no means convinced that the system of providing for
the widows and orphans of the clergy by means of mariages de convenance
was a good one, but I determined to suspend my judgment until I should
obtain fuller information.

An additional bit of evidence came to me a week or two later. One
morning, on going into the priest's house, I found that he had a friend
with him--the priest of a village some fifteen miles off. Before we had
got through the ordinary conventional remarks about the weather and the
crops, a peasant drove up to the door in his cart with a message that
an old peasant was dying in a neighbouring village, and desired the last
consolations of religion. Batushka was thus obliged to leave us, and his
friend and I agreed to stroll leisurely in the direction of the village
to which he was going, so as to meet him on his way home. The harvest
was already finished, so that our road, after emerging from the village,
lay through stubble-fields. Beyond this we entered the pine forest, and
by the time we had reached this point I had succeeded in leading the
conversation to the subject of clerical marriages.

"I have been thinking a good deal on this subject," I said, "and I
should very much like to know your opinion about the system."

My new acquaintance was a tall, lean, black-haired man, with a sallow
complexion and vinegar aspect--evidently one of those unhappy mortals
who are intended by Nature to take a pessimistic view of all things, and
to point out to their fellows the deep shadows of human life. I was not
at all surprised, therefore, when he replied in a deep, decided tone,
"Bad, very bad--utterly bad!"

The way in which these words were pronounced left no doubt as to the
opinion of the speaker, but I was desirous of knowing on what that
opinion was founded--more especially as I seemed to detect in the tone a
note of personal grievance. My answer was shaped accordingly.

"I suspected that; but in the discussions which I have had I have always
been placed at a disadvantage, not being able to adduce any definite
facts in support of my opinion."

"You may congratulate yourself on being unable to find any in your own
experience. A mother-in-law living in the house does not conduce to
domestic harmony. I don't know how it is in your country, but so it is
with us."

I hastened to assure him that this was not a peculiarity of Russia.

"I know it only too well," he continued. "My mother-in-law lived with
me for some years, and I was obliged at last to insist on her going to
another son-in-law."

"Rather selfish conduct towards your brother-in-law," I said to myself,
and then added audibly, "I hope you have thus solved the difficulty
satisfactorily."

"Not at all. Things are worse now than they were. I agreed to pay her
three roubles a month, and have regularly fulfilled my promise, but
lately she has thought it not enough, and she made a complaint to the
Bishop. Last week I went to him to defend myself, but as I had not money
enough for all the officials in the Consistorium, I could not obtain
justice. My mother-in-law had made all sorts of absurd accusations
against me, and consequently I was laid under an inhibition for six
weeks!"

"And what is the effect of an inhibition?"

"The effect is that I cannot perform the ordinary rites of our religion.
It is really very unjust," he added, assuming an indignant tone, "and
very annoying. Think of all the hardship and inconvenience to which it
gives rise."

As I thought of the hardship and inconvenience to which the parishioners
must be exposed through the inconsiderate conduct of the old
mother-in-law, I could not but sympathise with my new acquaintance's
indignation. My sympathy was, however, somewhat cooled when I perceived
that I was on a wrong tack, and that the priest was looking at the
matter from an entirely different point of view.

"You see," he said, "it is a most unfortunate time of year. The peasants
have gathered in their harvest, and can give of their abundance.
There are merry-makings and marriages, besides the ordinary deaths
and baptisms. Altogether I shall lose by the thing more than a hundred
roubles!"

I confess I was a little shocked on hearing the priest thus speak of his
sacred functions as if they were an ordinary marketable commodity, and
talk of the inhibition as a pushing undertaker might talk of sanitary
improvements. My surprise was caused not by the fact that he regarded
the matter from a pecuniary point of view--for I was old enough to know
that clerical human nature is not altogether insensible to pecuniary
considerations--but by the fact that he should thus undisguisedly
express his opinions to a stranger without in the least suspecting
that there was anything unseemly in his way of speaking. The incident
appeared to me very characteristic, but I refrained from all audible
comments, lest I should inadvertently check his communicativeness. With
the view of encouraging it, I professed to be very much interested, as
I really was, in what he said, and I asked him how in his opinion the
present unsatisfactory state of things might be remedied.

"There is but one cure," he said, with a readiness that showed he had
often spoken on the theme already, "and that is freedom and publicity.
We full-grown men are treated like children, and watched like
conspirators. If I wish to preach a sermon--not that I often wish to
do such a thing, but there are occasions when it is advisable--I am
expected to show it first to the Blagotchinny, and--"

"I beg your pardon, who is the Blagotchinny?"

"The Blagotchinny is a parish priest who is in direct relations with
the Consistory of the Province, and who is supposed to exercise a strict
supervision over all the other parish priests of his district. He acts
as the spy of the Consistory, which is filled with greedy, shameless
officials, deaf to any one who does not come provided with a handful of
roubles. The Bishop may be a good, well-intentioned man, but he always
sees and acts through these worthless subordinates. Besides this, the
Bishops and heads of monasteries, who monopolise the higher places in
the ecclesiastical Administration, all belong to the Black Clergy--that
is to say, they are all monks--and consequently cannot understand our
wants. How can they, on whom celibacy is imposed by the rules of the
Church, understand the position of a parish priest who has to bring up
a family and to struggle with domestic cares of every kind? What they do
is to take all the comfortable places for themselves, and leave us all
the hard work. The monasteries are rich enough, and you see how poor we
are. Perhaps you have heard that the parish priests extort money from
the peasants--refusing to perform the rites of baptism or burial until
a considerable sum has been paid. It is only too true, but who is to
blame? The priest must live and bring up his family, and you cannot
imagine the humiliations to which he has to submit in order to gain a
scanty pittance. I know it by experience. When I make the periodical
visitation I can see that the peasants grudge every handful of rye and
every egg that they give me. I can overbear their sneers as I go away,
and I know they have many sayings such as--'The priest takes from the
living and from the dead.' Many of them fasten their doors, pretending
to be away from home, and do not even take the precaution of keeping
silent till I am out of hearing."

"You surprise me," I said, in reply to the last part of this long
tirade; "I have always heard that the Russians are a very religious
people--at least the lower classes."

"So they are; but the peasantry are poor and heavily taxed. They set
great importance on the sacraments, and observe rigorously the fasts,
which comprise nearly a half of the year; but they show very little
respect for their priests, who are almost as poor as themselves."

"But I do not see clearly how you propose to remedy this state of
things."

"By freedom and publicity, as I said before." The worthy man seemed to
have learned this formula by rote. "First of all, our wants must be made
known. In some provinces there have been attempts to do this by means of
provincial assemblies of the clergy, but these efforts have always been
strenuously opposed by the Consistories, whose members fear publicity
above all things. But in order to have publicity we must have more
freedom."

Here followed a long discourse on freedom and publicity, which seemed to
me very confused. So far as I could understand the argument, there was
a good deal of reasoning in a circle. Freedom was necessary in order to
get publicity, and publicity was necessary in order to get freedom;
and the practical result would be that the clergy would enjoy bigger
salaries and more popular respect. We had only got thus far in the
investigation of the subject when our conversation was interrupted by
the rumbling of a peasant's cart. In a few seconds our friend Batushka
appeared, and the conversation took a different turn.

Since that time I have frequently spoken on this subject with competent
authorities, and nearly all have admitted that the present condition of
the clergy is highly unsatisfactory, and that the parish priest rarely
enjoys the respect of his parishioners. In a semi-official report,
which I once accidentally stumbled upon when searching for material of
a different kind, the facts are stated in the following plain language:
"The people"--I seek to translate as literally as possible--"do not
respect the clergy, but persecute them with derision and reproaches, and
feel them to be a burden. In nearly all the popular comic stories the
priest, his wife, or his labourer is held up to ridicule, and in all the
proverbs and popular sayings where the clergy are mentioned it is always
with derision. The people shun the clergy, and have recourse to them not
from the inner impulse of conscience, but from necessity. . . . And why
do the people not respect the clergy? Because it forms a class apart;
because, having received a false kind of education, it does not
introduce into the life of the people the teaching of the Spirit, but
remains in the mere dead forms of outward ceremonial, at the same time
despising these forms even to blasphemy; because the clergy itself
continually presents examples of want of respect to religion, and
transforms the service of God into a profitable trade. Can the people
respect the clergy when they hear how one priest stole money from below
the pillow of a dying man at the moment of confession, how another was
publicly dragged out of a house of ill-fame, how a third christened a
dog, how a fourth whilst officiating at the Easter service was dragged
by the hair from the altar by the deacon? Is it possible for the
people to respect priests who spend their time in the gin-shop, write
fraudulent petitions, fight with the cross in their hands, and abuse
each other in bad language at the altar?

"One might fill several pages with examples of this kind--in each
instance naming the time and place--without overstepping the boundaries
of the province of Nizhni-Novgorod. Is it possible for the people
to respect the clergy when they see everywhere amongst them simony,
carelessness in performing the religious rites, and disorder in
administering the sacraments? Is it possible for the people to respect
the clergy when they see that truth has disappeared from it, and
that the Consistories, guided in their decisions not by rules, but
by personal friendship and bribery, destroy in it the last remains of
truthfulness? If we add to all this the false certificates which the
clergy give to those who do not wish to partake of the Eucharist, the
dues illegally extracted from the Old Ritualists, the conversion of
the altar into a source of revenue, the giving of churches to priests'
daughters as a dowry, and similar phenomena, the question as to whether
the people can respect the clergy requires no answer."

As these words were written by an orthodox Russian,* celebrated for his
extensive and intimate knowledge of Russian provincial life, and were
addressed in all seriousness to a member of the Imperial family, we
may safely assume that they contain a considerable amount of truth. The
reader must not, however, imagine that all Russian priests are of
the kind above referred to. Many of them are honest, respectable,
well-intentioned men, who conscientiously fulfil their humble duties,
and strive hard to procure a good education for their children. If they
have less learning, culture, and refinement than the Roman Catholic
priesthood, they have at the same time infinitely less fanaticism, less
spiritual pride, and less intolerance towards the adherents of other
faiths.

     * Mr. Melnikof, in a "secret" Report to the Grand Duke
     Constantine Nikolaievitch.

Both the good and the bad qualities of the Russian priesthood at the
present time can be easily explained by its past history, and by certain
peculiarities of the national character.

The Russian White Clergy--that is to say, the parish priests, as
distinguished from the monks, who are called the Black Clergy--have had
a curious history. In primitive times they were drawn from all classes
of the population, and freely elected by the parishioners. When a man
was elected by the popular vote, he was presented to the Bishop, and
if he was found to be a fit and proper person for the office, he was
at once ordained. But this custom early fell into disuse. The Bishops,
finding that many of the candidates presented were illiterate peasants,
gradually assumed the right of appointing the priests, with or without
the consent of the parishioners; and their choice generally fell on the
sons of the clergy as the men best fitted to take orders. The creation
of Bishops' schools, afterwards called seminaries, in which the sons of
the clergy were educated, naturally led, in the course of time, to the
total exclusion of the other classes. The policy of the civil Government
led to the same end. Peter the Great laid down the principle that every
subject should in some way serve the State--the nobles as officers in
the army or navy, or as officials in the civil service; the clergy as
ministers of religion; and the lower classes as soldiers, sailors, or
tax-payers. Of these three classes the clergy had by far the lightest
burdens, and consequently many nobles and peasants would willingly have
entered its ranks. But this species of desertion the Government could
not tolerate, and accordingly the priesthood was surrounded by a legal
barrier which prevented all outsiders from entering it. Thus by the
combined efforts of the ecclesiastical and the civil Administration the
clergy became a separate class or caste, legally and actually incapable
of mingling with the other classes of the population.

The simple fact that the clergy became an exclusive caste, with a
peculiar character, peculiar habits, and peculiar ideals, would in
itself have had a prejudicial influence on the priesthood; but this
was not all. The caste increased in numbers by the process of natural
reproduction much more rapidly than the offices to be filled, so that
the supply of priests and deacons soon far exceeded the demand; and the
disproportion between supply and demand became every year greater and
greater. In this way was formed an ever-increasing clerical Proletariat,
which--as is always the case with a Proletariat of any kind--gravitated
towards the towns. In vain the Government issued ukazes prohibiting the
priests from quitting their places of domicile, and treated as vagrants
and runaways those who disregarded the prohibition; in vain successive
sovereigns endeavoured to diminish the number of these supernumeraries
by drafting them wholesale into the army. In Moscow, St. Petersburg, and
all the larger towns the cry was, "Still they come!" Every morning, in
the Kremlin of Moscow, a large crowd of them assembled for the purpose
of being hired to officiate in the private chapels of the rich nobles,
and a great deal of hard bargaining took place between the priests and
the lackeys sent to hire them--conducted in the same spirit, and in
nearly the same forms, as that which simultaneously took place in the
bazaar close by between extortionate traders and thrifty housewives.
"Listen to me," a priest would say, as an ultimatum, to a lackey who was
trying to beat down the price: "if you don't give me seventy-five kopeks
without further ado, I'll take a bite of this roll, and that will be
an end to it!" And that would have been an end to the bargaining, for,
according to the rules of the Church, a priest cannot officiate after
breaking his fast. The ultimatum, however, could be used with effect
only to country servants who had recently come to town. A sharp lackey,
experienced in this kind of diplomacy, would have laughed at the threat,
and replied coolly, "Bite away, Batushka; I can find plenty more of your
sort!" Amusing scenes of this kind I have heard described by old people
who professed to have been eye-witnesses.

The condition of the priests who remained in the villages was not much
better. Those of them who were fortunate enough to find places were
raised at least above the fear of absolute destitution, but their
position was by no means enviable. They received little consideration
or respect from the peasantry, and still less from the nobles. When the
church was situated not on the State Domains, but on a private estate,
they were practically under the power of the proprietor--almost as
completely as his serfs; and sometimes that power was exercised in a
most humiliating and shameful way. I have heard, for instance, of one
priest who was ducked in a pond on a cold winter day for the amusement
of the proprietor and his guests--choice spirits, of rough, jovial
temperament; and of another who, having neglected to take off his hat as
he passed the proprietor's house, was put into a barrel and rolled down
a hill into the river at the bottom!

In citing these incidents, I do not at all mean to imply that they
represent the relations which usually existed between proprietors and
village priests, for I am quite aware that wanton cruelty was not among
the ordinary vices of Russian serf-owners. My object in mentioning the
incidents is to show how a brutal proprietor--and it must be admitted
that they were not a few brutal individuals in the class--could maltreat
a priest without much danger of being called to account for his conduct.
Of course such conduct was an offence in the eyes of the criminal law;
but the criminal law of that time was very shortsighted, and strongly
disposed to close its eyes completely when the offender was an
influential proprietor. Had the incidents reached the ears of the
Emperor Nicholas he would probably have ordered the culprit to be
summarily and severely punished but, as the Russian proverb has it,
"Heaven is high, and the Tsar is far off." A village priest treated in
this barbarous way could have little hope of redress, and, if he were
a prudent man, he would make no attempt to obtain it; for any annoyance
which he might give the proprietor by complaining to the ecclesiastical
authorities would be sure to be paid back to him with interest in some
indirect way.

The sons of the clergy who did not succeed in finding regular sacerdotal
employment were in a still worse position. Many of them served as
scribes or subordinate officials in the public offices, where they
commonly eked out their scanty salaries by unblushing extortion and
pilfering. Those who did not succeed in gaining even modest employment
of this kind had to keep off starvation by less lawful means, and not
unfrequently found their way into the prisons or to Siberia.

In judging of the Russian priesthood of the present time, we must call
to mind this severe school through which it has passed, and we must
also take into consideration the spirit which has been for centuries
predominant in the Eastern Church--I mean the strong tendency both in
the clergy and in the laity to attribute an inordinate importance to
the ceremonial element of religion. Primitive mankind is everywhere and
always disposed to regard religion as simply a mass of mysterious rites
which have a secret magical power of averting evil in this world
and securing felicity in the next. To this general rule the Russian
peasantry are no exception, and the Russian Church has not done all it
might have done to eradicate this conception and to bring religion into
closer association with ordinary morality. Hence such incidents as the
following are still possible: A robber kills and rifles a traveller,
but he refrains from eating a piece of cooked meat which he finds in the
cart, because it happens to be a fast-day; a peasant prepares to rob a
young attache of the Austrian Embassy in St. Petersburg, and ultimately
kills his victim, but before going to the house he enters a church
and commends his undertaking to the protection of the saints; a
housebreaker, when in the act of robbing a church, finds it difficult to
extract the jewels from an Icon, and makes a vow that if a certain saint
assists him he will place a rouble's-worth of tapers before the saint's
image! These facts are within the memory of the present generation. I
knew the young attache, and saw him a few days before his death.

All these are of course extreme cases, but they illustrate a tendency
which in its milder forms is only too general amongst the Russian
people--the tendency to regard religion as a mass of ceremonies which
have a magical rather than a spiritual significance. The poor woman who
kneels at a religious procession in order that the Icon may be carried
over her head, and the rich merchant who invites the priests to bring
some famous Icon to his house, illustrates this tendency in a more
harmless form.

According to a popular saying, "As is the priest, so is the parish," and
the converse proposition is equally true--as is the parish, so is the
priest. The great majority of priests, like the great majority of men
in general, content themselves with simply striving to perform what is
expected of them, and their character is consequently determined to a
certain extent by the ideas and conceptions of their parishioners. This
will become more apparent if we contrast the Russian priest with the
Protestant pastor.

According to Protestant conceptions, the village pastor is a man of
grave demeanour and exemplary conduct, and possesses a certain amount
of education and refinement. He ought to expound weekly to his flock, in
simple, impressive words, the great truths of Christianity, and exhort
his hearers to walk in the paths of righteousness. Besides this, he is
expected to comfort the afflicted, to assist the needy, to counsel those
who are harassed with doubts, and to admonish those who openly stray
from the narrow path. Such is the ideal in the popular mind, and
pastors generally seek to realise it, if not in very deed, at least in
appearance. The Russian priest, on the contrary, has no such ideal set
before him by his parishioners. He is expected merely to conform
to certain observances, and to perform punctiliously the rites and
ceremonies prescribed by the Church. If he does this without practising
extortion his parishioners are quite satisfied. He rarely preaches or
exhorts, and neither has nor seeks to have a moral influence over his
flock. I have occasionally heard of Russian priests who approach to what
I have termed the Protestant ideal, and I have even seen one or two of
them, but I fear they are not numerous.

In the above contrast I have accidentally omitted one important feature.
The Protestant clergy have in all countries rendered valuable service to
the cause of popular education. The reason of this is not difficult to
find. In order to be a good Protestant it is necessary to "search the
Scriptures," and to do this, one must be able at least to read. To be a
good member of the Greek Orthodox Church, on the contrary, according to
popular conceptions, the reading of the Scriptures is not necessary, and
therefore primary education has not in the eyes of the Greek Orthodox
priest the same importance which it has in the eyes of the Protestant
pastor.

It must be admitted that the Russian people are in a certain sense
religions. They go regularly to church on Sundays and holy-days, cross
themselves repeatedly when they pass a church or Icon, take the Holy
Communion at stated seasons, rigorously abstain from animal food--not
only on Wednesdays and Fridays, but also during Lent and the other long
fasts--make occasional pilgrimages to holy shrines, and, in a word,
fulfil punctiliously the ceremonial observances which they suppose
necessary for salvation. But here their religiousness ends. They are
generally profoundly ignorant of religious doctrine, and know little or
nothing of Holy Writ. A peasant, it is said, was once asked by a priest
if he could name the three Persons of the Trinity, and replied without a
moment's hesitation, "How can one not know that, Batushka? Of course
it is the Saviour, the Mother of God, and Saint Nicholas the
miracle-worker!"

That answer represents fairly enough the theological attainments of a
very large section of the peasantry. The anecdote is so often repeated
that it is probably an invention, but it is not a calumny of theology
and of what Protestants term the "inner religious life" the orthodox
Russian peasant--of Dissenters, to whom these remarks do not apply, I
shall speak later--has no conception. For him the ceremonial part of
religion suffices, and he has the most unbounded, childlike confidence
in the saving efficacy of the rites which he practises. If he has been
baptised in infancy, has regularly observed the fasts, has annually
partaken of the Holy Communion, and has just confessed and received
extreme unction, he feels death approach with the most perfect
tranquillity. He is tormented with no doubts as to the efficacy of faith
or works, and has no fears that his past life may possibly have rendered
him unfit for eternal felicity. Like a man in a sinking ship who has
buckled on his life-preserver, he feels perfectly secure. With no fear
for the future and little regret for the present or the past, he awaits
calmly the dread summons, and dies with a resignation which a Stoic
philosopher might envy.

In the above paragraph I have used the word Icon, and perhaps the reader
may not clearly understand the word. Let me explain then, briefly,
what an Icon is--a very necessary explanation, for the Icons play an
important part in the religious observances of the Russian people.

Icons are pictorial, usually half-length, representations of the
Saviour, of the Madonna, or of a saint, executed in archaic Byzantine
style, on a yellow or gold ground, and varying in size from a square
inch to several square feet. Very often the whole picture, with the
exception of the face and hands of the figure, is covered with a metal
plaque, embossed so as to represent the form of the figure and the
drapery. When this plaque is not used, the crown and costume are often
adorned with pearls and other precious stones--sometimes of great price.

In respect of religions significance, Icons are of two kinds: simple,
and miraculous or miracle-working (tchudotvorny). The former are
manufactured in enormous quantities--chiefly in the province of
Vladimir, where whole villages are employed in this kind of work--and
are to be found in every Russian house, from the hut of the peasant to
the palace of the Emperor. They are generally placed high up in a corner
facing the door, and good orthodox Christians on entering bow in that
direction, making at the same time the sign of the cross. Before and
after meals the same short ceremony is always performed. On the eve of
fete-days a small lamp is kept burning before at least one of the Icons
in the house.

The wonder-working Icons are comparatively few in number, and are always
carefully preserved in a church or chapel. They are commonly believed
to have been "not made with hands," and to have appeared in a miraculous
way. A monk, or it may be a common mortal, has a vision, in which he
is informed that he may find a miraculous Icon in such a place, and on
going to the spot indicated he finds it, sometimes buried, sometimes
hanging on a tree. The sacred treasure is then removed to a church, and
the news spreads like wildfire through the district. Thousands flock to
prostrate themselves before the heaven-sent picture, and some are healed
of their diseases--a fact that plainly indicates its miracle-working
power. The whole affair is then officially reported to the Most Holy
Synod, the highest ecclesiastical authority in Russia, in order that
the existence of the miracle-working power may be fully and regularly
proved. The official recognition of the fact is by no means a mere
matter of form, for the Synod is well aware that wonder-working Icons
are always a rich source of revenue to the monasteries where they are
kept, and that zealous Superiors are consequently apt in such cases
to lean to the side of credulity, rather than that of over-severe
criticism. A regular investigation is therefore made, and the formal
recognition is not granted till the testimony of the finder is
thoroughly examined and the alleged miracles duly authenticated. If
the recognition is granted, the Icon is treated with the greatest
veneration, and is sure to be visited by pilgrims from far and near.

Some of the most revered Icons--as, for instance, the Kazan
Madonna--have annual fete-days instituted in their honour; or, more
correctly speaking, the anniversary of their miraculous appearance is
observed as a religions holiday. A few of them have an additional title
to popular respect and veneration: that of being intimately associated
with great events in the national history. The Vladimir Madonna, for
example, once saved Moscow from the Tartars; the Smolensk Madonna
accompanied the army in the glorious campaign against Napoleon in
1812; and when in that year it was known in Moscow that the French were
advancing on the city, the people wished the Metropolitan to take the
Iberian Madonna, which may still be seen near one of the gates of the
Kremlin, and to lead them out armed with hatchets against the enemy.

If the Russian priests have done little to advance popular education,
they have at least never intentionally opposed it. Unlike their Roman
Catholic brethren, they do not hold that "a little learning is a
dangerous thing," and do not fear that faith may be endangered by
knowledge. Indeed, it is a remarkable fact that the Russian Church
regards with profound apathy those various intellectual movements which
cause serious alarm to many thoughtful Christians in Western Europe. It
considers religion as something so entirely apart that its votaries
do not feel the necessity of bringing their theological beliefs into
logical harmony with their scientific conceptions. A man may remain a
good orthodox Christian long after he has adopted scientific opinions
irreconcilable with Eastern Orthodoxy, or, indeed, with dogmatic
Christianity of any kind. In the confessional the priest never seeks to
ferret out heretical opinions; and I can recall no instance in
Russian history of a man being burnt at the stake on the demand of the
ecclesiastical authorities, as so often happened in the Roman Catholic
world, for his scientific views. This tolerance proceeds partly, no
doubt, from the fact that the Eastern Church in general, and the
Russian Church in particular, have remained for centuries in a kind of
intellectual torpor. Even such a fervent orthodox Christian as the late
Ivan Aksakof perceived this absence of healthy vitality, and he did
not hesitate to declare his conviction that, "neither the Russian nor the
Slavonic world will be resuscitated . . . so long as the Church remains
in such lifelessness (mertvennost'), which is not a matter of chance,
but the legitimate fruit of some organic defect."*

     * Solovyoff, "Otcherki ig istorii Russkoi Literaturi XIX.
     veka." St. Petersburg, 1903, p. 269.

Though the unsatisfactory condition of the parochial clergy is generally
recognised by the educated classes, very few people take the trouble
to consider seriously how it might be improved. During the Reform
enthusiasm which raged for some years after the Crimean War
ecclesiastical affairs were entirely overlooked. Many of the reformers
of those days were so very "advanced" that religion in all its forms
seemed to them an old-world superstition which tended to retard rather
than accelerate social progress, and which consequently should be
allowed to die as tranquilly as possible; whilst the men of more
moderate views found they had enough to do in emancipating the serfs
and reforming the corrupt civil and judicial Administration. During the
subsequent reactionary period, which culminated in the reign of the
late Emperor, Alexander III., much more attention was devoted to Church
matters, and it came to be recognised in official circles that something
ought to be done for the parish clergy in the way of improving their
material condition so as to increase their moral influence. With this
object in view, M. Pobedonostsef, the Procurator of the Holy Synod,
induced the Government in 1893 to make a State-grant of about 6,500,000
roubles, which should be increased every year, but the sum was very
inadequate, and a large portion of it was devoted to purposes of
political propaganda in the form of maintaining Greek Orthodox priests
in districts where the population was Protestant or Roman Catholic.
Consequently, of the 35,865 parishes which Russia contains, only 18,936,
or a little more than one-half, were enabled to benefit by the grant. In
an optimistic, semi-official statement published as late as 1896 it is
admitted that "the means for the support of the parish clergy must even
now be considered insufficient and wanting in stability, making the
priests dependent on the parishioners, and thereby preventing the
establishment of the necessary moral authority of the spiritual father
over his flock."

In some places the needs of the Church are attended to by voluntary
parish-curatorships which annually raise a certain sum of money, and the
way in which they distribute it is very characteristic of the Russian
people, who have a profound veneration for the Church and its rites, but
very little consideration for the human beings who serve at the altar.
In 14,564 parishes possessing such curatorships no less than 2,500,000
roubles were collected, but of this sum 2,000,000 were expended on the
maintenance and embellishment of churches, and only 174,000 were devoted
to the personal wants of the clergy. According to the semi-official
document from which these figures are taken the whole body of the
Russian White Clergy in 1893 numbered 99,391, of whom 42,513 were
priests, 12,953 deacons, and 43,925 clerks.

In more recent observations among the parochial clergy I have noticed
premonitory symptoms of important changes. This may be illustrated by
an entry in my note-book, written in a village of one of the Southern
provinces, under date of 30th September, 1903:

"I have made here the acquaintance of two good specimens of the parish
clergy, both excellent men in their way, but very different from each
other. The elder one, Father Dmitri, is of the old school, a plain,
practical man, who fulfils his duties conscientiously according to his
lights, but without enthusiasm. His intellectual wants are very limited,
and he devotes his attention chiefly to the practical affairs of
everyday life, which he manages very successfully. He does not squeeze
his parishioners unduly, but he considers that the labourer is worthy of
his hire, and insists on his flock providing for his wants according to
their means. At the same time he farms on his own account and attends
personally to all the details of his farming operations. With the
condition and doings of every member of his flock he is intimately
acquainted, and, on the whole, as he never idealised anything or
anybody, he has not a very high opinion of them.

"The younger priest, Father Alexander, is of a different type, and the
difference may be remarked even in his external appearance. There is a
look of delicacy and refinement about him, though his dress and
domestic surroundings are of the plainest, and there is not a tinge of
affectation in his manner. His language is less archaic and picturesque.
He uses fewer Biblical and semi-Slavonic expressions--I mean expressions
which belong to the antiquated language of the Church Service rather
than to modern parlance--and his armoury of terse popular proverbs
which constitute such a characteristic trait of the peasantry, is less
frequently drawn on. When I ask him about the present condition of the
peasantry, his account does not differ substantially from that of his
elder colleague, but he does not condemn their sins in the same forcible
terms. He laments their shortcomings in an evangelical spirit and has
apparently aspirations for their future improvement. Admitting frankly
that there is a great deal of lukewarmness among them, he hopes to
revive their interest in ecclesiastical affairs and he has an idea of
constituting a sort of church committee for attending to the temporal
affairs of the village church and for works of charity, but he looks to
influencing the younger rather than the older generation.

"His interest in his parishioners is not confined to their spiritual
welfare, but extends to their material well-being. Of late an
association for mutual credit has been founded in the village, and
he uses his influence to induce the peasants to take advantage of the
benefits it offers, both to those who are in need of a little ready
money and to those who might invest their savings, instead of keeping
them hidden away in an old stocking or buried in an earthen pot. The
proposal to create a local agricultural society meets also with his
sympathy."

If the number of parish priests of this type increase, the clergy may
come to exercise great moral influence on the common people.



CHAPTER V

A MEDICAL CONSULTATION


Unexpected Illness--A Village Doctor--Siberian Plague--My
Studies--Russian Historians--A Russian Imitator of Dickens--A ci-devant
Domestic Serf--Medicine and Witchcraft--A Remnant of Paganism--Credulity
of the Peasantry--Absurd Rumours--A Mysterious Visit from St.
Barbara--Cholera on Board a Steamer--Hospitals--Lunatic Asylums--Amongst
Maniacs.


In enumerating the requisites for travelling in the less frequented
parts of Russia, I omitted to mention one important condition: the
traveller should be always in good health, and in case of illness be
ready to dispense with regular medical attendance. This I learned by
experience during my stay at Ivanofka.

A man who is accustomed to be always well, and has consequently cause
to believe himself exempt from the ordinary ills that flesh is heir
to, naturally feels aggrieved--as if some one had inflicted upon him
an undeserved injury--when he suddenly finds himself ill. At first he
refuses to believe the fact, and, as far as possible, takes no notice of
the disagreeable symptoms.

Such was my state of mind on being awakened early one morning by
peculiar symptoms which I had never before experienced. Unwilling to
admit to myself the possibility of being ill, I got up, and endeavoured
to dress as usual, but very soon discovered that I was unable to stand.
There was no denying the fact; not only was I ill, but the malady,
whatever it was, surpassed my powers of diagnosis; and when the
symptoms increased steadily all that day and the following night, I
was constrained to take the humiliating decision of asking for medical
advice. To my inquiries whether there was a doctor in the neighbourhood,
the old servant replied, "There is not exactly a doctor, but there is a
Feldsher in the village."

"And what is a Feldsher?"

"A Feldsher is . . . . is a Feldsher."

"I am quite aware of that, but I would like to know what you mean by the
word. What is this Feldsher?"

"He's an old soldier who dresses wounds and gives physic."

The definition did not predispose me in favour of the mysterious
personage, but as there was nothing better to be had I ordered him to be
sent for, notwithstanding the strenuous opposition of the old servant,
who evidently did not believe in feldshers.

In about half an hour a tall, broad-shouldered man entered, and
stood bolt upright in the middle of the room in the attitude which
is designated in military language by the word "Attention." His
clean-shaven chin, long moustache, and closely-cropped hair confirmed
one part of the old servant's definition; he was unmistakably an old
soldier.

"You are a Feldsher," I said, making use of the word which I had
recently added to my vocabulary.

"Exactly so, your Nobility!" These words, the ordinary form of
affirmation used by soldiers to their officers, were pronounced in a
loud, metallic, monotonous tone, as if the speaker had been an automaton
conversing with a brother automaton at a distance of twenty yards.
As soon as the words were pronounced the mouth of the machine closed
spasmodically, and the head, which had been momentarily turned towards
me, reverted to its former position with a jerk as if it had received
the order "Eyes front!"

"Then please to sit down here, and I'll tell you about my ailment."
Upon this the figure took three paces to the front, wheeled to the
right-about, and sat down on the edge of the chair, retaining the
position of "Attention" as nearly as the sitting posture would allow.
When the symptoms had been carefully described, he knitted his brows,
and after some reflection remarked, "I can give you a dose of . . . ."
Here followed a long word which I did not understand.

"I don't wish you to give me a dose of anything till I know what is the
matter with me. Though a bit of a doctor myself, I have no idea what it
is, and, pardon me, I think you are in the same position." Noticing
a look of ruffled professional dignity on his face, I added, as a
sedative, "It is evidently something very peculiar, so that if the first
medical practitioner in the country were present he would probably be as
much puzzled as ourselves."

The sedative had the desired effect. "Well, sir, to tell you the truth,"
he said, in a more human tone of voice, "I do not clearly understand
what it is."

"Exactly; and therefore I think we had better leave the cure to Nature,
and not interfere with her mode of treatment."

"Perhaps it would be better."

"No doubt. And now, since I have to lie here on my back, and feel rather
lonely, I should like to have a talk with you. You are not in a hurry, I
hope?"

"Not at all. My assistant knows where I am, and will send for me if I am
required."

"So you have an assistant, have you?"

"Oh, yes; a very sharp young fellow, who has been two years in the
Feldsher school, and has now come here to help me and learn more by
practice. That is a new way. I never was at a school of the kind myself,
and had to pick up what I could when a servant in the hospital. There
were, I believe, no such schools in my time. The one where my assistant
learned was opened by the Zemstvo."

"The Zemstvo is the new local administration, is it not?"

"Exactly so. And I could not do without the assistant," continued my new
acquaintance, gradually losing his rigidity, and showing himself, what
he really was, a kindly, talkative man. "I have often to go to other
villages, and almost every day a number of peasants come here. At first
I had very little to do, for the people thought I was an official, and
would make them pay dearly for what I should give them; but now they
know that they don't require to pay, and come in great numbers. And
everything I give them--though sometimes I don't clearly understand what
the matter is--seems to do them good. I believe that faith does as much
as physic."

"In my country," I remarked, "there is a sect of doctors who get the
benefit of that principle. They give their patients two or three little
balls no bigger than a pin's head, or a few drops of tasteless liquid,
and they sometimes work wonderful cures."

"That system would not do for us. The Russian muzhik would have no
faith if he swallowed merely things of that kind. What he believes in is
something with a very bad taste, and lots of it. That is his idea of a
medicine; and he thinks that the more he takes of a medicine the better
chance he has of getting well. When I wish to give a peasant several
doses I make him come for each separate dose, for I know that if I did
not he would probably swallow the whole as soon as he was out of sight.
But there is not much serious disease here--not like what I used to see
on the Sheksna. You have been on the Sheksna?"

"Not yet, but I intend going there." The Sheksna is a river which
falls into the Volga, and forms part of the great system of
water-communication connecting the Volga with the Neva.

"When you go there you will see lots of diseases. If there is a hot
summer, and plenty of barges passing, something is sure to break
out--typhus, or black small-pox, or Siberian plague, or something of the
kind. That Siberian plague is a curious thing. Whether it really comes
from Siberia, God only knows. So soon as it breaks out the horses die
by dozens, and sometimes men and women are attacked, though it is not
properly a human disease. They say that flies carry the poison from the
dead horses to the people. The sign of it is a thing like a boil, with
a dark-coloured rim. If this is cut open in time the person may recover,
but if it is not, the person dies. There is cholera, too, sometimes."

"What a delightful country," I said to myself, "for a young doctor who
wishes to make discoveries in the science of disease!"

The catalogue of diseases inhabiting this favoured region was apparently
not yet complete, but it was cut short for the moment by the arrival of
the assistant, with the announcement that his superior was wanted.

This first interview with the feldsher was, on the whole, satisfactory.
He had not rendered me any medical assistance, but he had helped me to
pass an hour pleasantly, and had given me a little information of the
kind I desired. My later interviews with him were equally agreeable. He
was naturally an intelligent, observant man, who had seen a great deal
of the Russian world, and could describe graphically what he had seen.
Unfortunately the horizontal position to which I was condemned prevented
me from noting down at the time the interesting things which he related
to me. His visits, together with those of Karl Karl'itch and of the
priest, who kindly spent a great part of his time with me, helped me to
while away many an hour which would otherwise have been dreary enough.

During the intervals when I was alone I devoted myself to
reading--sometimes Russian history and sometimes works of fiction. The
history was that of Karamzin, who may fairly be called the Russian Livy.
It interested me much by the facts which it contained, but irritated me
not a little by the rhetorical style in which it is written. Afterwards,
when I had waded through some twenty volumes of the gigantic work
of Solovyoff--or Solovief, as the name is sometimes unphonetically
written--which is simply a vast collection of valuable but undigested
material, I was much less severe on the picturesque descriptions and
ornate style of his illustrious predecessor. The first work of fiction
which I read was a collection of tales by Grigorovitch, which had been
given to me by the author on my departure from St. Petersburg. These
tales, descriptive of rural life in Russia, had been written, as the
author afterwards admitted to me, under the influence of Dickens. Many
of the little tricks and affectations which became painfully obtrusive
in Dickens's later works I had no difficulty in recognising under their
Russian garb. In spite of these I found the book very pleasant reading,
and received from it some new notions--to be afterwards verified, of
course--about Russian peasant life.

One of these tales made a deep impression upon me, and I still remember
the chief incidents. The story opens with the description of a village
in late autumn. It has been raining for some time heavily, and the road
has become covered with a deep layer of black mud. An old woman--a small
proprietor--is sitting at home with a friend, drinking tea and trying to
read the future by means of a pack of cards. This occupation is suddenly
interrupted by the entrance of a female servant, who announces that
she has discovered an old man, apparently very ill, lying in one of the
outhouses. The old woman goes out to see her uninvited guest, and, being
of a kindly nature, prepares to have him removed to a more comfortable
place, and properly attended to; but her servant whispers to her that
perhaps he is a vagrant, and the generous impulse is thereby checked.
When it is discovered that the suspicion is only too well founded, and
that the man has no passport, the old woman becomes thoroughly alarmed.
Her imagination pictures to her the terrible consequences that would
ensue if the police should discover that she had harboured a vagrant.
All her little fortune might be extorted from her. And if the old man
should happen to die in her house or farmyard! The consequences in that
case might be very serious. Not only might she lose everything, but she
might even be dragged to prison. At the sight of these dangers the old
woman forgets her tender-heartedness, and becomes inexorable. The old
man, sick unto death though he be, must leave the premises instantly.
Knowing full well that he will nowhere find a refuge, he walks forth
into the cold, dark, stormy night, and next morning a dead body is found
at a short distance from the village.

Why this story, which was not strikingly remarkable for artistic merit,
impressed me so deeply I cannot say. Perhaps it was because I was myself
ill at the time, and imagined how terrible it would be to be turned out
on the muddy road on a cold, wet October night. Besides this, the story
interested me as illustrating the terror which the police inspired
during the reign of Nicholas I. The ingenious devices which they
employed for extorting money formed the subject of another sketch, which
I read shortly afterwards, and which has likewise remained in my memory.
The facts were as follows: An officer of rural police, when driving on
a country road, finds a dead body by the wayside. Congratulating himself
on this bit of good luck, he proceeds to the nearest village, and lets
the inhabitants know that all manner of legal proceedings will be taken
against them, so that the supposed murderer may be discovered. The
peasants are of course frightened, and give him a considerable sum of
money in order that he may hush up the affair. An ordinary officer
of police would have been quite satisfied with this ransom, but this
officer is not an ordinary man, and is very much in need of money; he
conceives, therefore, the brilliant idea of repeating the experiment.
Taking up the dead body, he takes it away in his tarantass, and a few
hours later declares to the inhabitants of a village some miles off
that some of them have been guilty of murder, and that he intends to
investigate the matter thoroughly. The peasants of course pay liberally
in order to escape the investigation, and the rascally officer,
emboldened by success, repeats the trick in different villages until he
has gathered a large sum.

Tales and sketches of this kind were very much in fashion during the
years which followed the death of the great autocrat, Nicholas I., when
the long-pent-up indignation against his severe, repressive regime was
suddenly allowed free expression, and they were still much read during
the first years of my stay in the country. Now the public taste
has changed. The reform enthusiast has evaporated, and the existing
administrative abuses, more refined and less comical than their
predecessors, receive comparatively little attention from the satirists.

When I did not feel disposed to read, and had none of my regular
visitors with me, I sometimes spent an hour or two in talking with the
old man-servant who attended me. Anton was decidedly an old man, but
what his age precisely was I never could discover; either he did not
know himself, or he did not wish to tell me. In appearance he seemed
about sixty, but from certain remarks which he made I concluded that he
must be nearer seventy, though he had scarcely a grey hair on his head.
As to who his father was he seemed, like the famous Topsy, to have no
very clear ideas, but he had an advantage over Topsy with regard to his
maternal ancestry. His mother had been a serf who had fulfilled for some
time the functions of a lady's maid, and after the death of her
mistress had been promoted to a not very clearly defined position of
responsibility in the household. Anton, too, had been promoted in
his time. His first function in the household had been that of
assistant-keeper of the tobacco-pipes, from which humble office he had
gradually risen to a position which may be roughly designated as that of
butler. All this time he had been, of course, a serf, as his mother had
been before him; but being naturally a man of sluggish intellect, he had
never thoroughly realised the fact, and had certainly never conceived
the possibility of being anything different from what he was. His master
was master, and he himself was Anton, obliged to obey his master, or
at least conceal disobedience--these were long the main facts in his
conception of the universe, and, as philosophers generally do with
regard to fundamental facts or axioms, he had accepted them without
examination. By means of these simple postulates he had led a tranquil
life, untroubled by doubts, until the year 1861, when the so-called
freedom was brought to Ivanofka. He himself had not gone to the church
to hear Batushka read the Tsar's manifesto, but his master, on returning
from the ceremony, had called him and said, "Anton, you are free now,
but the Tsar says you are to serve as you have done for two years
longer."

To this startling announcement Anton had replied coolly, "Slushayus,"
or, as we would say, "Yes, sir," and without further comment had gone to
fetch his master's breakfast; but what he saw and heard during the next
few weeks greatly troubled his old conceptions of human society and
the fitness of things. From that time must be dated, I suppose, the
expression of mental confusion which his face habitually wore.

The first thing that roused his indignation was the conduct of his
fellow-servants. Nearly all the unmarried ones seemed to be suddenly
attacked by a peculiar matrimonial mania. The reason of this was that
the new law expressly gave permission to the emancipated serfs to marry
as they chose without the consent of their masters, and nearly all the
unmarried adults hastened to take advantage of their newly-acquired
privilege, though many of them had great difficulty in raising the
capital necessary to pay the priest's fees. Then came disorders among
the peasantry, the death of the old master, and the removal of the
family first to St. Pet

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