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THE LAND OF RIDDLES

(RUSSIA OF TO-DAY)

BY
HUGO GANZ

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
AND EDITED BY

HERMAN ROSENTHAL

[Illustration: Logo]

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
1904


Copyright, 1904, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

_All rights reserved._

Published November, 1904.




CONTENTS


CHAP.                                                       PAGE
        PREFACE                                                v

I.      INTRODUCTION                                           1

II.     WARSAW                                                 8

III.    WARSAW--_Continued_                                   17

IV.     ST. PETERSBURG                                        24

V.      ST. PETERSBURG--_Continued_                           33

VI.     ARTIST AND PROFESSOR--ILYA RYEPIN                     44

VII.    THE HERMITAGE                                         60

VIII.   THE HERMITAGE--_Continued_                            69

IX.     THE CAMORRA--A TALK WITH A RUSSIAN PRINCE             83

X.      SÄNGER'S FALL                                         94

XI.     THE PEOPLE'S PALACE OF ST. PETERSBURG (NARODNI DOM)  103

XII.    RUSSIA'S FINANCIAL FUTURE                            111

XIII.   THE RUSSIAN FINANCES                                 123

XIV.    A FUNERAL                                            133

XV.     THE CHINOVNIK (THE RUSSIAN OFFICIAL)                 144

XVI.    THE SUFFERINGS OF THE JEWS                           154

XVII.   THE JEWISH QUESTION                                  167

XVIII.  PLEHVE                                               173

XIX.    THE ADMINISTRATION OF JUSTICE                        182

XX.     THE IMPERIAL FAMILY AS THE PUBLIC SEES IT            196

XXI.    PUBLIC OPINION AND THE PRESS                         206

XXII.   SOME REALITIES OF THE LEGAL PROFESSION               217

XXIII.  THE STUDENT BODY IN RUSSIA                           226

XXIV.   BEFORE THE CATASTROPHE                               235

XXV.    SECTARIANS AND SOCIALISTS                            245

XXVI.   MOSCOW                                               257

XXVII.  MOSCOW--_Continued_                                  270

XXVIII. A VISIT TO TOLSTOÏ                                   285

XXIX.   A VISIT TO TOLSTOÏ--_Continued_                      295

XXX.    A VISIT TO TOLSTOÏ--_Continued_                      310




PREFACE


In this volume is presented to American readers an unbiased description
of the real state of affairs in Russia to-day. The sketches here brought
together are the result of a special visit to Russia by Mr. Hugo Ganz,
the well-known writer of Vienna, who was furnished with the best of
introductions to the various circles of Russian society, and had thus
exceptional opportunities to acquire reliable information.

Were not the reputation of the author and the standard of his informants
alike absolutely above suspicion, it would seem incredible that such
conditions as those depicted could exist in the twentieth century in a
country claiming a place among civilized nations. Indeed, whereas Japan
has incontestably proved that she is emerging from the darkness of
centuries, Russia is content to remain in a state of semi-barbarism
which might be looked for in the Middle Ages.

Since the sketches were written, the birth of an heir to the imperial
throne and the assassination of Von Plehve have altered Russian
conditions to a certain extent. But though the appointment of
Svyatopolk-Mirski seems at first sight to afford ground for
congratulation, it is evident that even with the best intentions the new
minister of the interior will hardly be able to effect much amelioration
until the entire system of the Russian government is changed.

Several of the articles in the following pages have appeared in the
Berlin _Nation_ and in the Frankfort _Zeitung_, and have received very
favorable notice in the German press. It is intended to publish an
edition of the book in German, but the present translation is the only
authorized one in the English language.

HERMAN ROSENTHAL

NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY,
_October 1, 1904_.




THE LAND OF RIDDLES

(RUSSIA OF TO-DAY)




I

INTRODUCTION


Shortly before my departure from Vienna I chanced to meet an
acquaintance, a Viennese writer.

"Are you really going to Russia?" said he. "I almost envy you, for it is
to us a land of riddles. It has great artists and writers and
undoubtedly a highly educated upper stratum of the nation; at the same
time it displays political conditions really barbarous in their
backwardness. How are these co-ordinated? How is the maintenance
possible, in the close proximity of comparatively free governments, of a
régime which knows no personal liberty, no privacy of the mails, and in
which there is but one master--namely, the absolute police?"

"You are raising the very questions which lead me there," I replied. "We
do not know Russia. We wonder at its great writers, but we cannot
conceive how their greatness is possible under the existing conditions
of public life, which remind one of a penitentiary rather than of a
civilized state. And the question that persistently arises is whether
our conception of these conditions corresponds to reality, or whether we
are laboring under such a delusion as would befall one attempting to
judge public life in Germany from the speeches of Bebel and other
radicals. In truth, we know only the opposition or revolutionary
literature of Russia; and, as far as appearances go, it is hardly
credible that a system such as it describes and brands for its _inhuman_
wickedness can long retain the ascendency."

"You are going, then, without prejudices?"

"I think I may say that I have none. We have long been cured of the
notion that one and the same form of government may be prescribed as the
only one leading to contentment in all times and in all countries.
Deductive philosophy in political science has been replaced by inductive
realistic philosophy, and a true understanding of existing conditions
appears now to us of greater moment than the most beautiful ideals.
Above all things, I feel myself free from the childish moral valuation
of different political beliefs. One person may be at the same time a
conservative and a gentleman or a radical and a knave. Should I come to
the conclusion that Russian absolutism is or can be defended in good
faith by upright Russian patriots there will be nothing to prevent my
freely admitting it. An unbiased observer should not be wedded to any
doctrine."

"In that case I shall be doubly curious as to the results of your
studies."

We parted.

I have cited here this characteristic conversation because it
demonstrates better than any introduction what the intelligent European
is nowadays eager to discover about Russia, and what led me in the depth
of winter, at the critical moment before the outbreak of a great war, to
the northern empire. That this war was imminent was then (at the
beginning of January) apparent to every statesman free from official
bias. There was scarcely a foreboding of it in Russia itself. For me,
however, that particular moment was of value, for it offered an
opportunity to study for a short time Russian society, first in a state
of calm, and then in the excitement which naturally followed the
declaration of war. I made provision for both war and peace and set out
on my journey.

To be sure, I was not as light of heart as if I had been preparing to
spend the winter on the Riviera or in Sicily. The climate had no terrors
for me, for I knew that nowhere is one so well protected from the
severity of the season as in the regions where ice and snow hold sway
for at least one-third of the year. But it was the gorgon-headed Russian
police that confronted me threateningly. My aim in travel was the study
of political conditions, the unreserved discussion with clear-sighted
and well-informed persons of the existing state of affairs. It was my
purpose to record carefully my impressions and observations, and to
report them to all who were interested in my studies. But we are told
that all political conversation is forbidden in Russia. One may subject
himself and his friends to great annoyance by allowing some meddling
ear-witness to catch accidentally a fragment of a political
conversation. Writing and note-taking are even more dangerous; for the
police open all letters, and they are not deterred by any conscientious
scruples from confiscating the notes even of foreigners when they appear
suspicious. Ambassadors and consuls are loath to engage in altercations
with the Russian police, for statesmanship enjoins friendly relations
with the government of the powerful Russian empire, and when an
inconvenient foreigner disappears somewhere in darkest Russia--as was
the case with a French engineer who came in conflict with the police in
a concert-hall and was never seen again--no one is disturbed by the
incident. All these reflections were not cheering to me, who, besides,
was unfamiliar with the language of the country. None the less was I
averse to returning home without my whole skin or with empty hands.

Here I would state that I did not experience the slightest annoyance
throughout my entire journey. I was not subjected to police
surveillance, nor did I notice in my meagre correspondence the least
trace of police interference--the latter being probably due to the
extreme precautions taken by me in sending my mail in inconspicuous
envelopes. And yet what a condition of things for a great country--that
every traveller who wishes to enter its territory must arm himself with
precautionary measures, as if he were preparing to visit a robber's den!
Is it compatible with the usages of modern Europe, forsooth, that no
step may be taken in this country without one's being provided with
documents of identification; that one may not cross the boundary either
into or out of the country without the special permission of the
consulate or of the police? Is Russia a state or a prison? Is it a
modern Tauris full of terrors to the stranger? I am not now speaking of
the passport difficulties peculiar to Jews, who, generally speaking, can
hardly obtain entrance to holy Russia, and who, when they succeed in
gaining admission, must be in constant dread of unpleasantness in every
town and in every hotel. I merely ask whether it is compatible with the
good name of a state that still wishes to exchange courtesies with
neighboring states to appear in the popular imagination as a ferocious
monster ignoring right and without decency? How can trade and
intercourse develop; how can the unimpeded flow of the sap of culture,
the circulation of the national blood, take place in a land where terror
guards the boundaries and where the reputation of arbitrariness impedes
all progress? And what modern state or system of national economy may,
without the unimpeded circulation of the sap of culture, maintain itself
at a level corresponding to the modern requirements of its internal and
external productive capacity? Are the advantages of an all-controlling
police system in any degree proportionate to its innumerable economic
disadvantages? Is the occasional annoyance of a really objectionable
intruder sufficient compensation for the evil reputation which this
system attaches to the whole country? It is a sheer impossibility to
watch daily and hourly a hundred million people. Why are such enormous
sacrifices made at all for the sake of an undertaking injurious in
itself and, moreover, impossible of execution?

Such are the thoughts that the traveller approaching the frontier cannot
escape. I may here say, in advance, that the police could not prevent my
holding conversations throughout Russia with men in various walks of
life on subjects very objectionable to the police officials. Is it worth
while, then, to bear the evil repute that Russia is a prison where no
man's life or property is secure? Apart from actual fact, the stranger
does not know, before crossing the boundary, whether the police tyranny
is really as inexorable as it is pictured and is believed abroad, but of
this he is certain, that such an evil reputation does the country
incalculable economic injury, and that a country with such an evil
repute can never be regarded as mature from the economic stand-point, to
say nothing of political honor, to which, perhaps, there is a
disposition to attach less value in the high places of autocratic rule.




II

WARSAW


The express-train is nearing the frontier at dawn. We are greeted by the
sleeping-car conductor with the significant announcement, "We shall soon
be in Russia"--an announcement which, it must be confessed, produces a
slight palpitation of the heart. We are now at the gate of a mysterious
country, with passport and baggage in the best of order. A Russian
consulate had found us worthy to set foot upon the soil of holy Russia,
and had explicitly stated that fact in our passport. Travellers may
journey without this certificate through the five continents, but if
unprovided with it may not set foot on Russian soil. We have no weapons
save our five fingers, and, above all, not a single printed book or
newspaper that might cause trouble at the frontier, excepting the
invaluable _Baedeker_, for the importation of books, as we already knew
at home, is put under severe ban in the domain of the Holy Synod. None
the less, a slight palpitation of the heart, a slight anxiety, are felt
at the sight of a narrow bridge leading between two sentry-boxes over a
small stream separating two countries--nay, two civilizations. Shall we
find favor in the eyes of the almighty gendarme who enters our coupé
with a polite bow, as we approach the station, and asks for our
passport? May it not be that a secret police prohibition has preceded
us, notwithstanding the regularity of our passport, and that it now
precludes our entrance? Has not your pen sinned many a time against the
knout and autocracy, and are you not, after all, if carefully examined,
with all your scribbling, a thoroughly objectionable person in the eyes
of the police--at least, when seen with Russian eyes?

But, thank Heaven, the world is great and I am insignificant; Russian
censorship has not yet taken notice of all the sins of my pen; hence the
same officer returns to me with the same bow my passport after the
customs inspection. The holy Russian empire, from Warsaw to Vladivostok,
is now exposed to my curious eyes.

The customs inspection was in itself a peculiar experience. The porter,
a Pole with a good-natured, handsome face, takes our baggage and
baggage-certificate, and invites us with a friendly gesture to follow
him to the great inspection hall. The hall is scrupulously clean and no
loud talking is heard there. The passengers take their places on one
side of the inspection-table, the porters on the other, the latter in
orderly file with their caps in their hands. They communicate with one
another only with their eyes. _Silence_ has begun. I do not know
whether it is purposely so, or whether it is merely incidental to the
particularly strict local régime, that the implicit obedience, the
silent subjection, and the irresistible power of despotism are here
brought home so effectively to the stranger. But this impression remains
with the traveller throughout the entire journey:


     "Be silent, restrain yourselves,
     We are watched in word and look."


An empire of one hundred and thirty millions of prisoners and of one
million jailers--such is Russia; and these jailers understand no joke.
It is a terrible machinery, this despotism, with all its wheels working
one within the other. It is relentless and keen in all its mechanism,
henceforth no loud word shall be spoken. The official organs alone have
a voice; private persons may speak only in low tones.

But how orderly, politely, and neatly do the officials and porters
execute the examination and forwarding of our baggage when despotism
wishes to reconcile people to its threatening silence. Only ten kopeks,
turned into the common treasury, are asked for the handling of our large
amount of baggage, and we are then led, together with the other
travellers, to the Russian exit of the customs inspection hall. After a
short wait there the gate is opened, and at a given signal we are
marched out of the hall in single file to refresh ourselves, before the
departure of the train, with a little breakfast.

Scrupulous cleanliness reigns in the large, airy restaurant also. We
are in the land of caviar. Caviar sandwiches, appetizingly prepared, lie
on the buffet-table. "Caviar" may also be found in one or another of the
foreign papers offered for sale by the newsboys. When the censorship
finds it inconvenient to eliminate entire pages whose contents are
objectionable, it generously spreads printer's ink on the condemned
passages, scatters sand over them, and puts the whole in the press. The
result is a lattice-like pattern, not unlike in appearance to pressed
caviar, to which the Russian, with good-natured self-derision, applies
the term "press-caviar," an expression which has a two-fold meaning.
Caviar is admittedly regarded as an easily digestible food. The Russian
censor considers his caviar more useful and less harmful than that which
ill-advised men in foreign countries allow themselves to print.

A few glasses of tea drawn from a samovar drive away the last traces of
the morning frost, and, wrapped in fur coats, and with a feeling like
that succeeding an adventure crowned with victory, we for the first time
stroll along a Russian railway platform.

We again enter the coupé, now in charge of Russian attendants.

A long, monotonous ride through level, swampy country, over which there
slowly floats the gray vapor of the locomotive, finally brings us at
dusk to Warsaw.

Nothing oppresses the spirit more deeply than such a ten-hour monotony
of leaden-gray skies, dirty-gray snow, and a thick, gray, smoky mist.
The gendarmes in gray coats at the infrequent stations; the greasy Jews
with their long coats of uncertain color; the secret police with their
questionable gentility, never absent--all these are not calculated to
relieve the painful feeling of sadness and dreariness. We were out of
humor when we reached Warsaw. We believed that we had the right to
expect crisp winter weather in Russia and were disappointed to find only
mud and humidity. But perhaps Warsaw is not really Russia? Or are we
still in central Europe? The evening at the hotel and the following days
conclusively proved to us that Warsaw, indeed all Poland, with its
climate, its civilization, its religion, and--its ideas, does not
belong, in the real sense of the term, to Russia; that the isotherm
which connects Russia proper with other regions of the same mean
temperature runs considerably north of Poland. A Buckle would be puzzled
by this fact alone. The dwellers could not be of the same race here nor
the same system be possible. When, nevertheless, only one power rules
here, it does so by violence and in spite of natural laws; it must give
rise to resentment and can give no promise of permanence.

On my return journey from the heart of Russia I purposely suppressed the
first impression gained by me in Warsaw, but when I was there again
this impression reasserted itself even more strongly. Warsaw is no more
Russia than Lemberg or Dresden, in spite of the overpowering Russian
churches, in spite of the innumerable Russian officers and soldiers, in
spite of the obligatory Russian signs on the stores, which, with some
experience, may be deciphered as "Chajim Berlinerblau," or something
similar.

Aside from its jargon-speaking Jews, Warsaw is pre-eminently a Catholic
city, and its entire civilization is Roman Catholic. Its very situation
is striking. Approaching it from the Vistula, one may see where the city
had built its defences--towards the east! Thence came the enemy, the
Mongol, the Russian. From the east there came barbarism and oppression,
therefore the fortifications and walls were built on the river-bank
commanding the valley of the Vistula, through which alone an enemy could
come. From the west came only the blessings of civilization and
religion, with its messengers that once were harbingers of civilization,
and which, perhaps, still remain such in this region.

Warsaw is a beautiful and fashionable city when considered apart from
the sections where the Jews are crowded together. The members of its
elegant society know how to live in spite of national misery and
oppression. Hotel Bristol, the finest hotel in the city, is their
rendezvous. Here they meet one another at breakfast, at dinner, in the
splendid English dining-room; men and women, guests from
Prussian-Poland and Galicia, noble families of the partitioned kingdom.
They are of one race, one class, one caste; they know one another, like
members of the same club, and all approximately the same type--somewhat
overslender forms, long, nervous hands, finely sculptured noses, sharply
chiselled temples, angular foreheads, the women supple and lissome, each
motion accompanied by a touch of polished affectation. When compared
with this Polish aristocracy, the Russian officers, who eat at separate
tables, leave the impression, with their German scholar-faces or Cossack
physiognomies, of provincial backwardness. They are merely bourgeois in
uniform even though they be real princes, while the Pole who has
graduated from that high-school of refinement, the Jesuit
boarding-school, is an aristocrat, a cavalier, from head to foot. They
remain separate like oil and water. The Russian, even though he is the
master, is of no consequence here. It is only necessary to observe for
the space of an hour from some corner of the elegant dining-room of
Hotel Bristol the behavior of the Polish society and the complete
isolation of the Russian officers or officials; it is only necessary to
be able to distinguish the groups from one another--the Baltic nobility
with their almost bourgeois families, merchants from all the principal
countries, Russian functionaries, and Polish society--and it will at
once become clear who is at home here, firmly rooted to the soil, so
that all others become strangers and intruders; it is the Poles and the
Poles alone.

There is some talk of a change of relations that has been attempted with
the aid of the French ally through the Vatican, so as to array Poland
against Protestant Prussia and to reconcile it to orthodox Russia.
Indeed, the Russian government has found it necessary to allow religious
instructions in secondary schools to be given in the Polish
mother-tongue, just at the time when the German government had on its
hands the Wreschen trials. In fact, the more Prussian narrowness insults
and provokes the Poles the greater are the Russian efforts to win them
over. This, however, is only a political move, an attempt at bribery
that the Poles let pass because it suits them, though one, perhaps, that
the real go-betweens, the Jesuits, take in earnest, but the success of
which, after all, would be contrary to all known facts of history and
civilization, for it would be opposed to the national sentiment. In
Russia dwells the marrow of the Polish nation; in Russia dwell the
Polish aristocracy and that industrial middle class which has become
rich and Polish in spirit in so far as it was of foreign origin; and yet
in this homogeneous land of Poland the Polish language is interdicted,
so to speak, and tolerated everywhere only as a local dialect.
University, gymnasiums, courts, and administration are all Russian--a
Gessler hat, placed in the Russian sign of every store, on which the
Latin-Polish inscription may appear only in a secondary position--a
proceeding to which no self-respecting people will submit, and need not
submit, especially from a master whose so-called civilization is of far
more recent origin than its own. The German in America becomes
Americanized voluntarily and irresistibly, because the English language
is recognized as a more useful medium than his own, as the
world-language. The Pole will never become Russianized as long as he
remains on Polish soil; and no matter how significantly the
"Ausgleichspolen" (Polish compromise party) flirt with the Russian
régime, such an attitude hides a sense of annoyance and is not caused by
real fellow-feeling. For the Pole, Germanization is an ill-fitting
garment that only binds; Russianization is a thorn in the flesh,
producing pus and throwing the entire system into a fever.




III

WARSAW--_CONTINUED_


Political reflections force themselves on you in this subjugated but by
no means pacified country. It is in vain you tell yourself that the
constant factors of climate, soil, race, and religion are of greater
importance for the true understanding of a country, city, or people than
passing political incidents and systems. You cannot emancipate yourself
from politics in Poland. This is not a country like German Alsace,
where, according to Moltke, a guard must be kept for fifty years, after
which, like the German country it originally was, it will again become
and remain German. Poland is a country forcibly subjected and conquered,
and you feel it when walking the streets and in the fashionable hotel,
where the national sorrow is generously moistened with champagne at the
tables of the aristocracy even at the early breakfast hour.

However, it is not necessary for us to be more passionately patriotic
and political than these champagne counts, and we must attempt to secure
something of the street scenes without becoming involved too deeply in
political problems.

Whenever I come to a town I ask myself, Why was it built here and not
elsewhere? With the help of a little imagination one can understand even
to-day how Warsaw came into existence. It was at the head of a bridge.
The word "Warsaw" is believed to be derived from the word "Warszain" (on
the height). So the city lies at a height of about forty metres on the
bank of the Vistula, fully half a kilometre wide at this place. An
elevation of forty metres on the immediate bank of a broad stream
offered, at the time of its foundation in the twelfth century, a natural
fortification, and the merchants who came up from the sea to sell their
wares to the semi-barbarous inhabitants of the plain may have found
perhaps on this height a frequent protection from the attacks of the
plainsmen. Later the fort became a city and culture and luxury made
their appearance, offering to the tamed dwellers of the plains and to
the landed proprietors from far and near the opportunity to squander the
proceeds of their crops. The numerous churches did not fare badly in the
days of penitence then.

To-day, Warsaw is still a fine city of broad streets paved with wooden
blocks, with rows of stores on both sides, prominent among which are the
richly equipped jewelry establishments. Carriage traffic is
considerable, even though it cannot compare with that in St. Petersburg.
Just now the main artery of the city, the Vistula, is closed. The stream
is frozen almost over its entire width and ravens croak on the snowy
shoals. But within the city there pass unceasingly modestly neat
cabriolets, fashionable cabs, and splendid private turnouts with Russian
harness and servants. The buildings are of little interest. A few
attempts in the Russian style, a few Polish shadings of quite modern
secession architecture strike the foreigner, but the deepest impression
is created by the feverish life on the streets and not by its ornamental
frame-work. From this should be excepted the pleasure Villa Lazienki and
its quaint park situated at the end of the avenue. Even snow and ice
cannot banish the spirits that possess one in these gardens. It is a
miniature Versailles. Here is a little castle within which is a
picture-gallery of aristocratic beauties, statues, and portraits of King
Stanislas Poniatowski represented mythologically as King Solomon
entering Jerusalem; without are enchanting villas scattered throughout
the park, in the centre of which is a little natural theatre built in
the open of stone, and arranged like an amphitheatre, the stage
separated from the rest by an arena of the wide lake, and constructed of
Corinthian columns and palisade of bushes. Plays were given here in the
times when the court and the "beauties" of the picture-gallery enjoyed
nature and art together. The moon in the sky was one of the requisites,
and fireworks were burned for the relaxation of the high and most high
lords. Meanwhile the kingdom hastened to its ruin; for a witty,
pleasure-loving court and an immoral oligarchy together are beyond the
endurance of one people, especially when it is surrounded by covetous
neighbors. One hundred years of slavery and three ruthlessly suppressed
revolutions are the historical penalty for the pleasures of Castle
Lazienki. There and on the broad election plane the "Pole Elekcji
Krolow," in the southern part of the town, where the "schlachtzitz"
(lordling) could deposit his "liberum veto" for a couple of rubles or
thalers, the kingdom was destroyed, and its resurrection is a pious wish
the fulfilment of which even our grandchildren will not live to see.

I have no faith in a Polish kingdom. There may be a Polish revolution
to-morrow, perhaps, when the Russians shall meet defeat in eastern Asia,
as the Russian patriots hope, but a Polish kingdom there will never be.
It is quite apparent how the influence of the times is changing the
entire social structure of the people. No nation can maintain itself
without a middle class, and Poland still has no middle class. The
material for such a class, the strong Jewish population, has been so
ground down that a half-century would not be sufficient for its
restoration and the Russian régime of to-day is disposed to anything
rather than to the uplifting and the education of the Polish Jewry. It
is stated that there are in Warsaw a quarter of a million Jews, a few
well-to-do people among them, who have hastened, for the most part, to
transform themselves into "Poles of the Mosaic faith," without
disarming thereby the clerical anti-Semitism of the Polish people, and
innumerable beggars or half-beggars, who are designated in western
Europe as "schnorrer." And of these there are in Warsaw an unknown
number. It is hard to draw the line between the "schnorrer" and the
"Luftmensch" (a man without any certain source of income), who has not
yet resigned himself to beggary, and yet cannot tell in the morning
whence he is to draw his sustenance at noon. These include artisans,
sweat-shop workers, agents, and go-betweens, a city proletariat of the
very worst kind. I have seen no such shocking misery in the Jewish
quarters on the Moldau as I encountered in the brilliant capital Warsaw.
The Polish Jew, everywhere despised and unwelcome, is the wandering
poverty-witness of Polish mismanagement. A system that succeeds in
depraving the sober, pious, and sexually disciplined orthodox Jew to the
extent observed in a portion of the Jewish Polish proletariat should be
accorded recognition as the most useless system on the face of the
earth. In the last analysis it was the Polish "schlachtzitz," and the
Polish clerical going hand-in-hand with him, that constituted the prime
cause of all the miseries of the nineteenth century.

And yet, to be just, one should compare this cheerless Polish-Jewish
proletariat with its immediate environment--the Polish peasants and the
common people. Here one would still find a plus of virtues on the Jewish
side. The wretched Polish peasant is not more cleanly than the Jew. On
the contrary, he lives in the same room with his pig, and no ritual
requirement compels him to wash his body at least once a week. The Jew,
under his patched garment, is for the most part comparatively clean,
only hopelessly stunted and emaciated. The Jew does not drink, while his
"master," the Pole, has a kindly disposition towards all sorts of
spirituous liquors. Also, the modesty of the Jewish women has yielded
but lately to the pressure of endless misery or the temptations of the
cities, while of the higher classes of Polish and Russian society but
little of an exemplary character has been told. And finally:


     "Deutsche Redlichkeit suchst Du in allen Winkeln vergebens."


Goethe's verse applies not only to the Italians, for whom it was
intended; it applies also to Poland and Russia, where less faith is
attached to statements than is customary with us, and it applies, above
all, to the merchant classes of all nations who are wont to make their
living by overreaching their neighbors. There is a wide gulf between the
development of commercial ethics, as they are understood with us and in
England, and the tricks and devices of petty trade no matter of what
nation. But the Jew in Poland and in Russia has been and still is being
driven, in great measure, into a class of wretched petty traders; and
the law of the land forces back into the pale of settlement by drastic
regulations him who would escape from its cage and from an occupation of
dubious ethics.

The Jewish section is the "partie Hortense" of the beautiful Polish
capital; the Jewish misery is a shameful stain on Polish rule and its
Nemesis. All the five continents must have their misery and toil, and
they need a firm, all-embracing humanity to relieve them of this
contagious wretchedness, this residue of centuries of depravity. But for
Poland and Russia the humane solution of the Jewish question is simply a
life-question.




IV

ST. PETERSBURG


A hymn of praise to the Russian railroad! The Russian tracks begin at
Warsaw to have a considerably broader bed. This for a strategical
purpose, to render difficult the invasion by European armies. It is also
a benefit to the traveller, for the Russian coaches are wider and more
comfortable than the European, and the side-passages along the coupé are
very convenient for little walks during the journey. A separate heating
compartment and buffet, with the indispensable samovar, where one may
secure a glass of tea at any time, are situated in the centre of the
long car. The trains do not jolt, although they are almost as fast as
ours. The smoke and soot do not drive through the tightly closed double
windows. A twenty-four hour trip here tires one less than a six-hour
trip with us. Certainly there is more need of preparation for a
comfortable journey in Russia than in the West. The distances are
immense, a twenty-four hour journey creating no comments. The
Warsaw-Petersburg train was as well filled as the ordinary express-train
between Frankfort and Cologne.

The run, which lasts from one morning to the next, is naturally not
very entertaining. The broad expanse of snowy plain, relieved only by
snow-breaks and frozen swamps, at every two miles a few wretched
half-Asiatic huts, and occasionally the dark profile of a forest, no
more to be seen, and a sea of unintelligible Slavic sounds, no more to
be heard. The feeling of loneliness grows upon one, and the impression
becomes constantly stronger that Russia is a world for itself.

But there is an end to everything, even to a railroad journey without
books, without papers, and without conversation. At the dawn of the
clear, wintry day one may already distinguish the signs of a great city.
A station with magnificent buildings and a well-cared-for park
stretching almost to the tracks claims our attention after the many
unimpressive sights of the long road. We decipher the name "Gatschina,"
and understand why there is such a strong police force on the platform.
This is the Winter Palace. Scarcely an hour later the gilded cupolas
stand out bright above the snow; the brakes are put on; we are in St.
Petersburg.

It cannot be said that the city appears in a favorable light when viewed
from the railroad. The not over-elegant two-horse vehicle which takes us
and our baggage rattles over miserable pavements, dirty from the melting
snow, through broad, endless suburban streets. The houses on either side
are of only one story, built mostly of wood, their poverty-stricken
appearance being intensified here and there by three-storied barracks.
Liquor-shops, little second-hand stores, wooden huts, with putrid
garbage, follow one another in a variety by no means pleasing. The
passers-by, ill-clad, with the inevitable rubber shoes, shuffle along
the slushy sidewalks; trucks with two or sometimes three horses, their
necks bent under the brightly painted Russian "duga" (wooden yoke), a
truly Gorki atmosphere in its entirety. One can scarcely believe that he
is entering one of the most brilliant cities of the continent. The
endless rows of stores with their two-storied sheds, which one passes on
the way to the centre of the city, but slightly improve one's first
impression, for even they are far removed from the splendor of the
capital.

We finally reach the hotel to which our mail has been addressed. It is
an enormous structure, more than two hundred metres long. Yet it has no
room for us. It is filled to overflowing. It is impossible to crowd in
one more soul. We again take our carriage. We drive from one hotel to
another, growing constantly more modest in our demands for lodging. But
our efforts are vain. Everything is occupied to the very gables.

We were careless in coming to St. Petersburg in January. This is the
time of congresses, of business, of carnivals. All the provincial
officials are here to render their annual reports to their ministries.
Naturally, they bring with them their families, who wish to make their
important purchases here and to taste of the social season. Congresses
and conferences are held here not in the summer and vacation months as
with us, but shortly before the "butter-week," really a carnival, the
pleasure of which one may wish to take this opportunity to test.
Medical, teachers', and insurance congresses are held here at the same
time. Foreign merchants come here to complete their transactions. But
the great city of St. Petersburg is not adapted for foreign guests.

The instincts of self-defence awake at the time of need. We do not
intend to camp to-night under the bridge arch. We make great efforts and
by the evening have secured a room, in spite of the "absolute
impossibility," in that large and only comfortable hotel in St.
Petersburg, which we shared with a friendly mouse, but which was free
from other objectionable tenants. Even the little mouse was deprived in
a base manner of its life and liberty the very next night. Once provided
with board and lodging, we decided to become acquainted with the better
side of St. Petersburg. What does a stranger usually do in the evening
when he visits a strange city? He goes to some theatre.

There are plenty of hotel porters and agents to provide for the wishes
of the guests. "Hello, agent; get me tickets for the Imperial
Theatre"--where a ballet of Tschaikowski's is to be presented to-night
by first-class talent. The theatre programme, obligingly provided with a
French translation, informs us that among others, Kscheschinska will do
herself the honor to play the leading rôle. "But, honored sir, that is
quite impossible; first, because this is the carnival time; second,
because most of the seats are already subscribed for; and third, because
Kscheschinska dances to-night"--a sly closing of the left eye
accompanies the mention of the name--"and neither the Emperor nor the
court will be absent from the theatre. Unless you pay twenty to thirty
rubles to a speculator you will hardly get into the theatre."

Since my passion for the ballet or for Kscheschinska does not attain the
proportions of a twenty-ruble investment, I find it preferable to devote
the evening to the always interesting and fruitful hotel studies. What
seething life in the numberless corridors, dining-halls, and vestibules
of the fashionable St. Petersburg Hotel! Governors in generals'
gold-braided uniforms, covered with so many orders and medals that it
makes one curious to find out about all the deeds of heroism for which
they were bestowed; chamberlains with refined elegance in their gala
dress, hiding the "beau restes" of the one-sided Adonis; tall, agile,
dark-eyed Circassians with the indispensable cartridge-pouch on the
breast region of their long coats, with the dagger hanging in its
massive gold sheath from the tightly drawn belt; Cossacks with fur caps
a foot high, made of white or black Angora skins, placed on their
bristly heads; a nimble Chinese man, or maid, servant, with long
pigtail, whose sex it is impossible to distinguish; a whole troop of
dark-eyed Khivanese squatting on their prayer-rugs before the apartment
of their khan, passing the nargile from hand to hand, and exchanging
witticisms about the passing Europeans; beardless Tatar waiters
shuffling by in their flat-soled shoes--a mixture of Europe and Asia
such as may hardly be seen at once in any other part of the world. The
west European merchants and other travellers, who throng the hotel, are
scarcely noted among the exotic appearances. In this hotel, as elsewhere
throughout St. Petersburg, the European, the civilian, is seemingly
merely tolerated. The city belongs to the functionaries, soldiers,
officials, and chamberlains, to the Cossacks, Circassians, and, above
all others, to the police. More intimate acquaintance reveals that a
goodly portion of the uniformed persons in St. Petersburg are ordinary
students, technologists, professors, etc., and that these uniformed
persons do not equally represent the state. On the contrary, the fight
of the state, or, to be more precise, of the police, against the free
professions, would not be so bitter if the members of the latter were
not entitled to wear uniforms. As it is, they also may appear to the
common people as representatives of the Czar's authority.

We slept through the night. Kind fate had decreed for us snow and cold
in succession to the disagreeable thaw, and we availed ourselves of the
clear weather to become acquainted with the bright side of St.
Petersburg. And, first of all, the snow! It changes the entire
appearance of the city as if by a magic wand. The narrow, open carriages
where two persons can accommodate themselves only with difficulty,
especially when wrapped in fur coats, have disappeared. Their places
have been taken by small, low sleighs without backs. The "izwozchik"
(driver) in his blue, plaited Tatar fur coat and multicolored sash, with
fur-trimmed plush cap on his head, sits almost in the passenger's lap.
Yet there is compensation for the meagre dimensions of the sleigh. The
small, rugged horses speed along like arrows through the straight
streets, hastened on by the caressing words or the exclamations of the
bearded driver. Horse, driver, and sleigh are very essential figures in
the St. Petersburg street scenes. We at home cannot at all realize how
much driving is done in St. Petersburg. The distances are enormous;
streets five or six kilometres long are not unusual. There are almost no
streetcar lines, thanks to the selfishness of the town representatives,
composed of St. Petersburg house-owners, who do not care to see a
reduction in rents in the central portion of the town. The average city
inhabitant readily parts with the thirty, forty, or fifty kopeks
demanded by the "izwozchik," and thus everything is rushed along in an
unending race. The "pravo" (right) or "hei beregis!" (look out!), which
the drivers bawl to one another or to the pedestrians, resounds through
the streets, but they are not very effectual. One must open his eyes
more than his ears if he wishes to escape injury in the streets of St.
Petersburg. The constant racing often results in four or five rows of
speeding conveyances attempting to pass one another. The drivers with
their bearded, apostle faces, which appear lamblike when they
good-naturedly invite you to enter their conveyances, are like wild men
when they let loose. Their Cossack nature then asserts itself. On and
always on, and let the poor pedestrian take care of his bones. And
however much the little horse may pant and the flakes of foam may fly
from its sides, "his excellency," "the count," "his highness" (the
izwozchik is extremely generous with his titles), will surely add a few
kopeks when the driver has been very smart; and so the little horse must
run until the passenger, unaccustomed to such driving, loses his breath.

But the Russian barbarian conception of wealth and fashion is to have
his driver race even when out for a pleasure drive, as if it were a
question of life or death. The numberless private turnouts,
distinguished by their greater elegance, their splendid horses, harness,
liveries, and carriages, have no less speed than the hackney-coachman,
but the reverse, at a still greater speed, thanks to the elasticity of
their high-stepping Arab trotters. And now imagine twenty-five thousand
such vehicles simultaneously in racing motion, with here and there a
jingling "troika," its two outer horses galloping madly and the middle
horse trotting furiously; imagine, at the same time, the bright colors
of the four-cornered plush caps on the heads of the stylish drivers, the
gay- rugs on the "troikas," the blue and green nets on the
galloping horses of the private sleighs, the glitter of the gold and
silver harness, the scarlet coats of the court coachmen and lackeys,
everything rushing along on a crisp winter day, over the glimmering,
freshly fallen snow, between the mighty façades of imposing structures,
flanked by an almost unbroken chain of tall policeman and gendarmes, and
you have the picture of the heart of St. Petersburg at the time of
social activity. Splendor, riches, wildness are all caricatured into
magnificence as if calculated to impress and to frighten. Woe to him
here who is not of the masters!




V

ST. PETERSBURG--_CONTINUED_


St. Petersburg is an act of violence. I have never received in any city
such an impression of the forced and the unnatural as in this colossal
prison or fortress of the Russia's mighty rule. The Neva, around whose
islands the city is clustered, is really not a stream. It comes from
nowhere and leads nowhere. It is the efflux of the Heaven-forsaken
Ladoga Lake, where no one has occasion to search for anything; and it
leads into the Bay of Finland, which is frozen throughout half of the
year. No commercial considerations, not even strategical reasons, can
justify the establishment of this capital at the mouth of the Neva. The
fact that St. Petersburg has none the less become a city of millions of
inhabitants is due entirely to the barbaric energy of its founder, Peter
the Great, an energy which still works in the plastic medium of Russian
national character. On the bank of the Neva stands the equestrian statue
of Peter, raised on a mighty block of granite, a notable work of the
Frenchman Falconet. The face of the Emperor as he ascends the rock is
turned to the northwest, where his most dangerous rival, the Swedish
Charles, lived. And just as his whole attitude expresses defiance and
self-conscious power, so his city, St. Petersburg, is only a monument of
the defiance and the iron will of its founder. The historians relate
that Peter intended, by removing his residence to St. Petersburg, to
facilitate the access of European civilization to the Russian people. If
this be true, Peter utterly failed in his purpose. The old commercial
city, Riga, would have answered the purpose much better. To be sure,
Riga did not come into Russian possession until eighteen years after the
founding of St. Petersburg. Yet what was there to prevent the despot
from abandoning the work that he had begun? But no, St. Petersburg was
to bid defiance to the contemporary might of Sweden, and so forty
thousand men had to work for years in the swamps of the Neva to build
the mighty tyrant's castles, the Peter-and-Paul fortress, an immense
stone block on the banks of the icy stream. Malarial fevers carried off
most of them; but the Russian people supplied more men, for such was the
will of the Czar. The drinking-water of St. Petersburg to-day is still a
yellow, filthy fluid, consumption of which is sure to bring on typhoid
fever; but the will of Peter still works, and St. Petersburg remains the
capital.

Peter, with his peculiar blending of political supremacy and democratic
fancifulness, built for himself a little house on the fortress island,
where the furniture made by himself is still preserved by the side of
the miracle-working image of the Redeemer which the despot always
carried with him. His spirit soars over this city and this land. What he
did not entirely trust to his unscrupulous fist he left in honest
bigotry to the bones of the holy Alexander Nevski, which he had brought
to his capital soon after its establishment. Autocracy and popocracy
still reign in the Russian empire. The Peter-and-Paul fortress, in the
subterranean vaults of which many of the noblest hearts and heads of
Russia have found their grave, the Isaac cathedral, with its barbarian
pomp of gold and precious stones, and the mighty monoliths--these are
the symbols of the city of St. Petersburg and of its régime. If there is
in Russia, even among the enlightened minds, something like a fanatical
hatred of civilization and of the West, it is due to the manner in which
the half-barbarian Peter imposed Western ideas and civilization on a
harmless and good-natured people.

What brutal power of will may do in defiance of unfriendly nature has
been done on the banks of the Neva. Indeed, its green waters are now
hidden by an ice-crust three feet thick, over which the sleighs run a
race with the little cars of the electrical railway. Yet even without
the restless shimmer of the water the view of the river-bank is still
very impressive. The golden glitter of the great cupolas of the Isaac
cathedral, the long red front of the Winter Palace, the pale yellow
columns of the admiralty, between Renaissance structures, stand out
from among the rest.

Palaces and palaces stretch along the stream right up to the Field of
Mars. The gilded spire of the Peter-and-Paul cathedral pierces the
white-blue sky and greets, with its angel balanced on the extreme spire,
the equally grotesque high spire of the admiralty. Great stone and iron
bridges span the broad stream, its opposite shore almost faded in the
light mist of the wintry day. Walking towards the middle of the bridge,
whence a splendid view may be obtained, one sees the long row of
buildings on the farther islands standing out of the mist. One row of
columns is followed by another--the Academy of Arts, the Academy of
Sciences, the house of Menschikov, which Catherine built for her
favorite, come into view. Towards the west the hulls of vessels stand
out from among the docks. Still farther out the mist hides the shoals of
the Neva, together with those of the Gulf of Finland, in an impenetrable
gray. Towards the north stretch the endless lanes with their bare
branches which lead to the islands. This is the Bois de Boulogne of St.
Petersburg, where the gilded youth race in brightly decorated "troikas,"
and hasten to squander in champagne, at cards, and in gypsy
entertainments, the wages of the starved muzhik. It is a magnificent
picture of power, of self-conscious riches, the better part of which is
furnished by the mighty stream itself.

It is easy now to realize that St. Petersburg was originally planned
for a seaport, and that it therefore presents its glittering front to
the sea. The railroads which conduct the traffic to-day could no longer
penetrate with their stations into the city proper; hence the visitors
must first pass through the broad, melancholy suburban girdle which
gives one the impression of a giant village. When access to the city was
still by boat from the Gulf of Finland, the landing at the "English
quay," with its view of all these colossal structures, golden domes and
spires, must have created a powerful impression. Nothing less was
contemplated by this massing of palaces. The capital and residence city
was not intended to facilitate the access of the West but rather to
inspire it with awe.

The splendor of the city naturally becomes gradually diminished from the
banks of the Neva towards the vast periphery. The main artery of traffic
in St. Petersburg, the "Nevski Prospect," and its continuation, the
"Bolshaya Morskaya," remain stately and impressive to their very end. A
peculiar feature of St. Petersburg is the numerous canals which begin
and end at the Neva, and which once served to drain the swampy soil of
the city. They are now to be filled, for they do not answer the purpose.
Nevertheless, they offer meanwhile an opportunity for pretty bridge
structures, as, for instance, the one leading over the Fontanka,
ornamented with the four groups of the horse-tamers by Baron Klodt. A
comparison with the lagoon city, Venice, would really be a flattering
hyperbole, for one does not get the impression here of being on the sea,
as in the case of the "Canal-Grande." The city rather reminds one of the
models that were nearer to its founder, the canal-furrowed cities of
Holland. Still, these canals are a pleasant diversion in the otherwise
monotonous pictures of the city streets.

Should it be mentioned here that St. Petersburg has its "millionnaya"
(millionaire's street)? It is well known that hither and towards Moscow
flow the treasures of a country squeezed dry. The great wealth of the
one almost presupposes the nameless misery of the other. The
indifference with which the shocking famine conditions of entire
provinces and the threatening economic collapse of the whole empire are
regarded here finds its explanation only in the bearing of these
boyar-millionaires, who consider themselves Europeans because their
valets are shaved in the English fashion.

The eye of the stranger who wishes to understand, and not merely to
gaze, will rather turn to other phenomena more characteristic than
splendid buildings of the country and its people.

There is, in the first place, the pope (priest), and then the policeman.

The priests and the policemen are the handsomest persons in St.
Petersburg. Although the flowing hair of the bearded priest, reaching to
his shoulders, is not to be regarded as a characteristic peculiarity,
since every third man in Russia displays long hair or profuse locks that
would undoubtedly draw to their fortunate possessor in our land the
attention of the street boys, still they are carefully chosen human
material, tall, graceful men with handsome heads and proud mien.
Notwithstanding this they are accorded but little reverence even among
the bigoted Russians, for no matter how often and copiously these may
cross themselves before every sacred image, they quite often experience,
behind the priest, a sort of salvation which compels them suddenly to
empty their mouths in a very demonstrative manner. This may be due to
various kinds of superstition, which regard the meeting with a priest as
very undesirable, but it finds its explanation also in the not always
exemplary life of this servant of the Lord. He is especially accredited
with a decided predilection for various distilled liquors that at times
exert a doubtful influence on a man's behavior. One may see in St.
Petersburg men wrapped in costly sable furs make the acquaintance of the
street pavements, especially during the "butter-week," yet for spiritual
garments the gutter is even less a place of legitimate rest, and, at any
rate, it is difficult to acknowledge as the appointed interpreter of
God's will a man whose mouth savors of an entirely different spirit than
the "spiritus sanctus."

For all this, however, the Russian is filled, outwardly at least, and
during divine services, with a devotion which, to us, is scarcely
comprehensible. With fanatical fervor he kisses in church the hand of
the same priest behind whose back he spat at the church door. His body
never rests. As with the orthodox Jew and the howling dervish, his
praying consists in an almost unceasing bowing, and a not at all
inconsiderable application of gymnastics. He is perpetually crossing
himself. Particularly fervent suppliants, of the female gender
especially, can hardly satisfy themselves by kissing again and again the
stone flags of the floor, the hem of the priest's coat, the sacred
images, and the numberless relics. But how effective and mind-ensnaring
is the orthodox church service. The glimmer of the innumerable small and
large wax candles brought by most of the congregants fills the golden
mist of the place with an unearthly light. Rubies, emeralds, and
diamonds shine from the silver and gold crowns on the sacred images. The
gigantic priest in his gold-embroidered vestments lets sound his deep,
powerful, bass voice, and wonderful choirs answer him from both sides of
the "ikonostas." Clouds of incense float through the high nave. The
faithful, ranged one after another, intoxicate and carry one another by
their devotion--a huge general hypnosis in which education and priestly
art are equally concerned. The orthodox cult is not to be compared, at
least in my opinion, with that of the Roman Catholics in the depth and
nobility of the music and in the artistic arrangement of the service.
But in its archaic monotony, in its use of the coarsest material
stimuli, it is perhaps even more suggestive for the Eastern masses than
is the other for the civilized peoples of the West. The quantity of
gold, silver, and precious stones offered up, especially in the Isaac
cathedral and in the Kazan cathedral--fashioned after that of St.
Peter's in Rome--to give the faithful a conception of the just claims of
Heaven on treasure and reverence, is beyond the belief of Europeans. The
artistically excellent silver ornaments of the Isaac cathedral weigh not
less than eleven thousand kilograms. A single copy of the New Testament
is bound in twenty kilograms of gold. The sacred image made in
commemoration of the catastrophe of Borki is almost entirely covered
with diamonds. These endowments came, for the most part, from members of
the imperial house. The union of church and state is more intimate here
than elsewhere, and, apparently, even more profitable for the guardians
of the altar. Among all the sacred relics and trophies of the St.
Petersburg church, one impresses the foreigner above the others. It is a
collection of silver gifts from the French, ranged along the wall of the
Peter-and-Paul cathedral. By the side of the coffins of the Russian
emperors and empresses, from Peter the Great to Alexander III., which
one cannot pass without a peculiar feeling of historical respect, under
innumerable flags and war trophies, there stand, as the greatest triumph
that the despotic barbarian state has won from civilized Europe, the
silver crowns and the shields of honor which Félix Faure,
Casimir-Périer, the senate, the chamber, and the Parisian press
presented to the Russian ally of France.

"You see here the greatest misfortune that has befallen us in this
century," said my companion, an orthodox Russian of nothing less than
radical views. "Until then, until this alliance, with all our
boastfulness we still felt some shame before Europe for our barbarous
and shameful rule. But since the most distinguished men and corporations
of the most enlightened republic have begun prostrating themselves
before us, the knout despotism has received the consecration of Europe
and has thrown all shame to the winds."

"But the French have lent you eight milliards for it," I replied.

"A part of which has gone into Heaven knows whose pockets; the other
supports our police against us, and the remainder was sunk in a
worthless railroad, while we, in order to provide the interest, must
take the horse from our peasant's plough and the cow from its stable,
until even that shall come to an end, for nothing else will be left for
the executor."

"A Jesuit trick," I said. "You owe the alliance to the diplomacy of
Rampolla."

"The sword and the holy-water sprinkler," answered the Russian, as he
pointed his hand in a circle from the war trophies to the "ikonostas,"
"they go everywhere hand-in-hand and enslave and plunder the nations."

The leaden, snowy skies looked down on us oppressively as with a deep
shudder at the prison gratings of the Peter-and-Paul fortress we
hastened back to the city. I heard in my mind the notes of the
"Marseillaise," and before my eyes there stood the gifts of honor from
the French nation brought to the despot of the fortress. They are very
near each other, cathedral and prison. In the still of the night the
watchman of the French offerings may often hear the groans and the
despairing cries of the poor souls who had dreamed of freedom and
brotherhood and had paid for their dreams behind the heavy iron bars,
deep under the mirror-like surface of the Neva, in the dungeons of the
Peter-and-Paul fortress.




VI

ARTIST AND PROFESSOR--ILYA RYEPIN


Should some one assert that there is a great artist in a European
capital, honored by an entire nation as its very greatest master, yet,
nevertheless, not even known by name among the great European public, we
should shake our heads unbelievingly, for such a phenomenon is
impossible in our age of railroads and printer's-ink. And yet this
assertion would be literally true. There is such a great artist living
in a city of a million inhabitants, and recognized by millions, yet of
his works even art-students outside of Russia have seen but one or two.
To make this even more incomprehensible, it should be stated that this
artist had attained renown in his country not merely a few years ago,
but has created masterpiece after masterpiece for more than thirty
years; indeed, his first picture at the world's fair in Vienna in 1873
was generally recognized as startling. Nevertheless, the name of the
master has long been forgotten on our side of the Vistula; it may be
because no one found it to his interest to advertise him and thus to
create competition for others, but more probably because Russia is a
separate world and isolates itself from the rest of Europe with almost
barbaric insolence.

There is, however, some advantage for Russia in this isolation from the
"rotten West." They are not obliged to pass through all the various
phases of our so-called art movement, and therefore are not carried from
one extreme to the other, but calmly pursue their own quiet way. They
also had the good-fortune, while the rest of Europe was in a state of
conflict over unfruitful theories, to possess really great creative
artists, always the best antidote against doctrinarianism. When the
one-sided, methodically proletarian naturalism reigned in the West,
itself a protest against the shallow idealistic formalism of the
preceding decades, Russian literature possessed its greatest realistic
poets, Tolstoï, Turgenyev, Dostoyevski, who never overlooked the inner
process, the true themes of poetical creation, for the sake of outward
appearances, and have thereby created that incomparable, physiological
realism that we still lack. And because their great realists were poets,
great poets and geniuses, they felt no need of a new drawing-room art,
which of necessity goes to the other extreme, the romantic,
aristocratic, catholic. They had no Zola, and therefore they needed no
Maeterlinck. And it was exactly so with their painting. Their great
artists did not lose themselves, like Manet and his school, in problems
purely of light and air without poetical contents; hence to rediscover
poetry and to save it for art there was no need for Preraphaelites or
Decadents. The great painter is artist, man, and poet, a phenomenon like
Leo Tolstoï, therefore the few symbolists who believe they must imitate
European fashions make no headway against them.

Imitators can only exist among imitators, by the side of nature's
imitators, imitators of Raphael's predecessors.

A single true artist frightens away all the ghosts of the night, and
thus decadence plays an insignificant rôle alongside of Tolstoï and
Ryepin, whether it be the decadent literature of Huysmans and
Maeterlinck, or the decadence of the Neoromanticists and of the
Neoidealists.

It is time, however, to speak of the artist himself, an artist of sixty,
still in the fulness of power, who, besides wielding the brush, occupies
a professor's chair at the St. Petersburg Academy. I have just called
him professor. He is more than that, he is, like Leo Tolstoï, a
revolutionist, the terrible accuser of the two diabolical forces that
keep the nation in its course, the church and the despotism of
government. But, to the honor of the Russian dynasty be it said, this
artist, acknowledged to be the greatest of his country, was never
"induced" to cast aside the criticism of the prevailing system he made
by his painting and to engage in the decorative court art. His so-called
nihilist pictures, reproduction of which has been prohibited by the
police, are for the most part in the possession of grand-dukes, and,
notwithstanding his undisguised opinions, he was intrusted with the
painting of the imperial council representing the Czar in the midst of
his councillors. The czars have always been more liberal than their
administrators. Nicholas I. prized Gogol's "Revizor" above all else, and
Nicholas II. is the greatest admirer of Tolstoï. And so Ryepin may paint
whatever and however he will. And we shall see that he makes proper use
of this opportunity. He is Russian, and nothing but Russian. At
twenty-two he received for his work, "The Awakening of Jairus's Little
Daughter," an academic prize and a travelling fellowship for a number of
years. But before the expiration of the appointed time spent by him in
Berlin and Paris he returned to Russia, and produced in 1873 his
"Burlaks" (barge-towers), which attracted great attention at the Vienna
exposition. The thirty years that have passed since then have detracted
nothing from the painting. How far surpassed do Manet's
"revolutionizing" works already appear to us, and still how indelibly
fresh these "barge-towers." That is so. The reason is simple--it is no
painting of theory but of nature represented as the individual sees it,
the masterly impression of an artist, the most concentrated effect of
landscape, light, and action. The purely technical problem is
subordinated to the whole, to the unity of action and mood, solved
naturally and easily. The problem of the artist to tell us what we
cannot forget, to give us something of his soul, his sentiments, his
thoughts, is of first importance, just as geniuses of all ages cared
less to be thought masters of technique than to win friends,
fellow-thinkers, and comrades, to share their joys and feelings. From
the purely technical stand-point, where is there a painting that
presents in a more masterly manner the glimmer of sunlight on the
surface of a broad stream--as in this case--and where, nevertheless, the
landscape is treated merely as the background? And again, where is the
action of twelve men wearily plodding onward, drawing with rhythmic step
the boat against the stream, seized more forcibly, more suggestively
than in this plaintive song of the Russian people's soul?

The youth of barely twenty-four years had at one leap placed himself at
the head of all contemporary artists. Analogies between him and the
artistic career and method of Leo Tolstoï force themselves on us again
and again. Tolstoï's _Sketches from the Caucasus_, _Sevastopol_,
_Cossacks_, are his early works, yet they are the most wonderful that
the entire prose of all literature can show. And so it is in this
lifelike picture of a twenty-four-year-old youth. Had we no other work
of his than the "Barge-towers," we should yet see in him a great master.
It is but necessary to look at the feet of these twelve wretched toilers
to realize with wonder the characterization, the full measure of which
is given only to genius. How they strain against the ground and almost
dig into the rock! How the bodies are bent forward in the broad belt
that holds the tow-line! What an old, sad melody is this to which these
bare-footed men keep step as they struggle up along the stream? In all
his barefoot stories of the ancient sorrow of the steppe children, Gorki
has not painted with greater insight. A sorrowful picture for all its
sunshine, and the more sorrowful because no tendency is made evident. It
means seeing, seeing with the eyes and with the heart, and, therefore,
it is art.

It would be wrong, however, to say that Ryepin--in his works as a whole
if not in a given instance--has introduced a "tendency" in his choice of
solely sorrowful subjects. Such is not the case. There is nothing more
exuberant, more convulsing than his large painting, "Cossacks Preparing
a Humorous Reply to a Threatening Letter of Mohammed III." The answer
could not have been very respectful. That may be seen from the sarcastic
expression of the intelligent scribe as well as from the effect that his
wit has on the martial environment. A be-mustached old fellow in a white
lamb-skin cap holds his big belly for laughing; another almost falls
over backward, his bald pate quite jumping out of the canvas. One snaps
his fingers; another, old and toothless, grins with joy; a third pounds
with clinched fist on the almost bare back of his neighbor; another
shuts his right eye as if perceiving a doubtful odor; one with a great
tooth-gap shouts aloud, while others smile in quiet joy through the
smoke of their short pipes. All these are crowded around a primitive
wooden table scarcely a metre wide; twenty figures, a natural group, one
head hiding another, and with all you have an unobstructed view of the
camp lying bright in the sunshine and dust and full of horses and men.
The effect of the picture is so overpowering that at the mere
recollection of it you can scarcely refrain from joining in the hearty
laughter of these sturdy, untutored natures. In the entire range of
modern painting there is no other picture so full of the strong joy of
living.

"The Village Procession," preserved in the Tretyakov Gallery in
Moscow--the finest collection of the master's works--is not gloomy like
the mournful song of the "Barge-towers," nor exuberant with serf
arrogance and vitality like the Cossack camp, but a fragment of the
colorless Russian national life as it really is, a sorrowful human
document for the thoughtful observer alone. Tattered muzhiks in fur
coats are carrying on poles a heavy sacred image, and behind them crowds
the village populace with flags and crucifixes. I will not again
emphasize how masterfully everything is noted here, from the gold border
of the sacred image to the last bit of dusty sunshine on the village
street. Absolute mastery is self-evident in Ryepin's work. We are again
attracted in this picture by the great intensity of mood. What harmony
there is in it--the mounted gendarme who pitilessly strikes with his
knout into the peasant group to make room for the priests and the local
officials; the half-idiotic, greasy sexton; the well-fed, bearded
priest; the crowd of the abandoned, the crippled, and the maimed, the
brutalized peasants, the old women. A long procession of folly,
brutality, official darkness, ignorance; a chapter from the might of
darkness; the crucifix misused as an aid to the knout, a symbol of the
Russian régime that could not be held up to scorn more passionately by
any demagogue; and yet only a street-scene which would hardly strike the
Moscow merchant when strolling in the gallery of a Sunday, because of
its freedom from any "tendency."

Then comes a work of an entirely different character, a tragedy of
Shakespearean force, a painting that is red on red. Ivan the Terrible
holds in his arms the son he has just stricken to death with his heavy
staff. It is a horrible scene from which one turns because of the almost
unbearable misery depicted there, and yet you return to it again and
again. So great is the conception, so wonderful the insight, so
incomparable the technique. The madman, whom a nation of slaves endures
as its master, is at last overtaken by Nemesis, and he is truly an
object for pity as he crouches on the ground with the body of his dying
son in his arms. He would stanch the blood that is streaming from the
gaping wound to the red carpet. He kisses the hair where but a moment
before his club had struck. The tears flow from his horrified eyes, and
their terror is augmented, for at this last and perhaps first caress of
the terrible father a happy smile plays on the face of the dying son. He
had killed his son! Nothing can save him! He the Czar of Moscow, the
master of the Kremlin, can do nothing. He draws his son to himself,
presses him to his breast, to his lips. What had he done in his anger,
that anger so often a source of joy to him when he struck others less
near to him and for which he had been lauded by his servile courtiers,
since the Czar must be stern, a terrible and unrelenting master?

Shakespeare has nothing more thrilling than this single work, its effect
so tragic because the artist has succeeded in awakening our pity for
this fiend, pity which is the deliverance from hatred and resentment.
The pity that seizes us is identical with the awe of the deepest faith,
the feeling of Christian forgiveness. We can have no resentment towards
this sorrow-crushed old man with the torn, thin, white hair. And we can
never quite forget the look in these glassy old eyes from which the
bitter tears are gushing, the first that the monster had ever shed. And
how the picture is painted, the red of the blood contrasting with the
red of the Persian rug and the green-red of the tapestry. Nothing else
is seen on the floor except an overturned chair. The figures of the
father, and of the son raising himself for the last time, alone in all
the vast space, hold the gaze of the spectator. With this painting
hanging in the ruler's palace the death-sentence would never be signed
again.

Still another ghastly picture shows that the artist, like all great
masters, is not held back by affectation and feels equal to any
emergency. It represents Sophia, the sister of Peter the Great, who from
her prison is made to witness the hanging of her faithful "streltzy"
(sharp-shooters) before her windows. It was a brotherly mark of
consideration shown her by the Czar. The resemblance of the princess to
her brother is striking; but the expression of pain, anger, and fear on
the stony face turned green and yellow is really terrifying. But it is
also characteristic of the great master to have chosen just that
incident in the life of the great Czar.

In general it must be said that for a professor in the imperial academy
the choice of historical subjects is curious enough. It certainly does
not indicate loyalty.

I could not if I would discuss in detail the fruits of thirty years of
the artist's activity. Besides, mere words cannot give an adequate idea
of the beauty of his works. But there is one thing that may be
accomplished by the description of his most important painting--namely,
the refutation of the absurd notion that the artist and his art can
become important only when they are entirely indifferent to the joys and
sorrows of their fellow-men and concern solely the solution of artistic
problems. The doctrine of art for art's sake has no more determined
opponents than the great artists of our time, and among them also Ryepin
in the front rank. He is willing to subscribe to it just as far as
every artist must seek to influence only by means of his own peculiar
art; yet he rejects the absurdity that it is immaterial for the
greatness of the artist whether he depicts the essence of a great, rich,
and deep mind or only that of a commonplace mind. According to him only
a great man that is a warm-hearted, upright, and courageous man can
become a great artist; and he regards it as the first duty of such to
share the life of their fellow-men, to honor the man even in the
humblest fellow-being, and to strengthen with all their might the call
for freedom and humanity as long as it remains unheeded by the powerful.
Just like Tolstoï, he has only a deep contempt for the exalted decadents
who, with their exclusive and affected morality, would attack nations
fighting for their freedom. Like every independent thinker, he is
disgusted with the modern epidemic of individualism, and his sympathies
belong to the progressive movement derided by the fools of fashion. To
be sure, that does not make him greater as artist, for artistic
greatness has absolutely nothing to do with party affiliations; neither
does it make him less, for his artistic achievements are not at all
lessened by his giving us sentiments as well as images. But if a humane,
altruistic, cultured man who finds joy in progress stands ethically
higher than the exclusive, narrow-minded reactionary or self-sufficient,
surfeited decadent, then Ryepin is worth more than the idols of snobs.
And not as man only; he also stands higher as artist, for he gives
expression with at least the same mastery, and, in truth, with an
incomparably greater mastery, to the ideals of a more noble, greater,
and richer mind. The belief that participation in the struggles and
movements of the day affects the artist unfavorably is ridiculed by him;
the contrary is true in his case. It has given him an abundance of
striking themes as well as the duel and nihilist cycles.

I will pass by the duel cycle culminating in the powerfully portrayed
suffering of the repenting victor. For us the nihilist cycle is more
interesting, more Russian. "Nihilist" is, by-the-way, an abominable name
for those noble young men and women who, staking their lives, go out
among the common people to redeem them from their greatest
enemies--ignorance and immorality. The real nihilists in Russia are
those of the government who are not held back even by murder when it is
of service to the system, the cynics with the motto, "Après nous le
déluge"; surely not these noble-hearted dreamers who throw down the
gauntlet to the all-powerful Holy Synod and to the not less powerful
holy knout.

At the time when the "well-disposed" portion of Russian society had
turned away in honor from the Russian youth because a few fanatics had
believed that they could more quickly attain their aims by the
propaganda of action than by the fully as dangerous and difficult work
among the people, Ryepin painted his cycle which explains why among the
young people there were a few who resorted to murder. Who does not know
from the Russian novels those meetings of youths who spent half the
night at the steaming samovar discussing the liberation of the people
and the struggle against despotism, in debates that have no other result
than a heavy head and an indefinite desire for self-sacrifice? The cycle
begins with such a discussion. Men and women students are gathered
together, unmistakably Russian, all of them, Slavic types, the women
with short hair, the men mostly bearded and with long hair. In the smoky
room, imperfectly lighted by the lamp, they are listening to a fiery
young orator. We find this young man again as village teacher in the
second picture. He had gone among the people. In one of the following
pictures he has already been informed against, and the police search
through his books and find forbidden literature. The police spy and
informer, who triumphantly brings the package to light, is pictured to
his very finger-tips as the gentleman that he is. In still another
picture the young martyr is already sitting between gendarmes on his way
to Siberia; and in the last he returns home old and broken, recognized
with difficulty by his family, whom he surprises in the simple room. One
may see this cycle in the Tretyakov Gallery, and copies of it in the
possession of a few private individuals, persons in high authority, who
are above fear of the police; and one is reminded of the saying so
often heard in Russia, "We are governed by the scoundrels, and our
upright men are languishing in the prisons." The nihilist has the
features of Dostoyevski who was so broken in Siberia that he thanked the
Czar, on his return, for his well-deserved punishment, and who had
become a mystic and a reactionary. In another picture a young nihilist
on his way to the scaffold is being offered the consolation of religion
by the priest, but he harshly motions him back.

All these pictures are homely in their treatment. The poverty of the
interior, the inspired faces of the noble dreamers, and the brutal and
stupid faces of the authorities speak for themselves clearly enough, and
no theatrical effects of composition are necessary to impart the proper
mood to the observer. On the contrary, it is just this discretion, the
almost Uhde-like simplicity that is so effective. Yet Pobydonostzev and
Plehve will scarcely thank the artist for these works that for
generations will awaken hatred against the system among all
better-informed young men. However, their reproduction is prohibited.

On the other hand, the drawings which Ryepin made for popular Russian
literature are circulated by hundreds of thousands among the people. It
is an undertaking initiated by Leo Tolstoï with the aid of several
philanthropists, for combating bad popular literature. It is under the
excellent management of Gorbunov in Moscow. There are annually placed
among the people about two millions of books, ranging in price from one
to twenty kopeks. It may be taken for granted that the men who enjoy
Tolstoï's confidence will not be a party to barbarism. The foremost
artists supply the sketches for the title-pages, among them Ryepin, the
fiery Tolstoïan. Ryepin's admiration for the great poet of the Russian
soil is also evident from his numerous pictures of Tolstoï. He has
painted the saint of Yasnaya Polyana at least a dozen times--at his
working-table; in the park reclining under a tree and reading after his
swim; a bare-footed disciple of Kneipp; or following the plough, with
flowing beard, his powerful hand resting on the plough-handle. All are
masterly portraits, and, above all things, they reflect the
all-embracing kindness that shines in the blue eyes of the poet--eyes
that one can never forget when their kindly light has once shone upon
him.

Public opinion in Russia has been particularly engrossed with a recent
picture which furnishes much food for reflection. Two young people, a
student clad in the Russian student uniform and a young gentlewoman with
hat and muff, step out hand-in-hand from a rock right into the raging
sea. What is the meaning of it? The triumphant young faces, the
outstretched arms of the student exclude the thought of suicide. It has
been suggested that it is an illustration of the Russian saying, "To the
courageous the sea is only knee-deep." But in that case it would mean,
"Have courage, young people; do not fear the conflict; for you the sea
is only knee-deep." But it could also be interpreted, "Madmen, what are
you doing? Do you not see that this is the terrible, relentless sea into
which you would step?" In that case it would be a warning intended for
the Russian youth, revolutionary throughout, who would dare anything.
This much is certain: the greatest Russian painter, and one of the
greatest of contemporary painters, is on the side of these young people,
and his heart is with them even though he may doubt, as many another,
the success of the heroic self-sacrifice. The noble ideals of youth
cannot conquer this sea of ignorance and slave-misery. Great and
immeasurable as is the Russian nation, nothing can help the country. It
must and will collapse within itself, and then will come the hour of
release for all, whether noble or poor, to whom the Ryepins and the Leo
Tolstoïs have dedicated their incomparably great works. Perhaps this
hour is nearer than is suspected. Russian soil is already groaning under
the March storms which precede every spring.




VII

THE HERMITAGE


The curious conception of Tolstoï's as to the severing and injurious
influence of art that does not strive directly to make people more
noble, can perhaps be understood only when the collections in the St.
Petersburg Hermitage and Alexander Museum are examined. Striking proof
will there be found that the enjoyment of art--nay, the understanding of
it--need not necessarily go hand-in-hand with humane and moral
sentiments. Antiquity and the Renaissance prove that, under certain
conditions, inhumanity and scandalous immorality can harmonize very well
with the understanding of art, or with, at least, a great readiness to
make sacrifices for the sake of it. The inference that the greater
refinement of the taste for art is the cause of moral degeneration is
not far from the truth. It is quite conceivable from the stand-point of
an essentially revolutionary philosophy, framed for the struggle against
the demoralizing, violent government of St. Petersburg, since everything
that is apparently entitled to respect in this St. Petersburg is
unveiled and damned in its nothingness. Thus it is with science--that
is to say, a university that does not begin its work by denouncing a
despotism only seemingly favorable to civilization; so it is with a
fancy for art, which possibly may convince czars and their servants that
they also have contributed their mite towards the welfare of mankind.

The stranger who does not see things with the eyes of the passionate
philanthropist and patriot, and who when gazing at the master-works of
art, does not necessarily think of the depravity of the gatherers of
these works, is surely permitted to disregard the association of ideas
between art and morality, and to give himself over unconstrainedly to
the enjoyment of collections that can hold their own with the best
museums of the world. To be sure, Catherine II. was not an exemplary
empress or woman, yet by her purchases for the Hermitage she rendered a
real service to her country, a service that will ultimately plead for
her at the judgment-seat of the world's history. Alexander III. and his
house were misfortunes for his country, but the museum that bears his
name will keep alive his memory and will cast light of forgiveness on a
soul enshrouded in darkness. Besides, it has nowhere been shown that
without the diversion of expensive tastes for art, slovenly empresses
would have been less slovenly or dull despots less violent. But in the
Hermitage one may forget for a couple of hours that he is in the capital
of the most unfortunate and the most wretchedly governed of all
countries.

On the whole, it is impossible to give in a mere description an
adequate conception of the great mass of masterpieces here gathered
together. I shall attempt, in the following, to seize only a few meagre
rays of the brightest solitaires.

Borne by the one-story high--entirely too high--naked Atlas of polished
black granite, there rises the side roof of the Hermitage over a terrace
of the "millionnaya" (millionaires' street). We enter the dark, high
entrance-hall, from which a high marble staircase, between polished
walls, leads to a pillared hall, already seen from below. The
attendants, in scarlet uniforms, jokingly known at the court as
"lobsters," officiously relieve us of our fur coats, and we hasten into
the long ground floor, where await us the world-famous antiquities from
Kertch, in the Crimea. Unfortunately, there awaits us also a sad
disappointment. The high walls are so dark, even in the middle of the
gray winter day, that the beauty of the many charming miniatures must be
surmised rather than felt. We could see scarcely anything of the great
collection of vases. We breathe with relief when we at last enter a hall
that has light and air, now richly rewarded for our Tantalus-like
sufferings in the preceding rooms. Here glitter the gold laurel and
acorn crowns that once adorned proud Greek foreheads; there sparkles the
gold-braided border with which the Greek woman trimmed her garments,
representing in miniature relief lions' and rams' heads. The gold
bracelets and necklaces, ear-rings and brooches tell us that there is
nothing new under the sun. Before the birth of Christ there were worn in
Chersonesus the same patterns that are now designed anew by diligent
artistic craftsmen--nay, even vases and tumblers, the creations of the
most modern individualities, had already lain buried under the rubbish
of thousands of years. Our attention is drawn to a vase in a separate
case, which gives an excellent representation of the progress of a
bride's toilet from the bath to its finishing touches ready for the
bridegroom's reception. Who knows what scene of domestic happiness was
involved in the presentation of this gift thousands of years ago!
Sensations which one experiences only in the streets and houses of
Pompeii are renewed here while looking at the glass cases with their
collections of ornaments and of articles of utility that tell us of the
refined pleasures and the exquisite taste of times long gone by. The
waves of the Black Sea played about Greek patrician houses where to-day
the rugged Cossack rides with the knout in his hand. A great hall shows
us finally the Olympian Zeus with the eagles at his feet, also with the
soaring Nike in his right hand. Klinger's "Beethoven" reminds us
involuntarily of this lofty work without attaining its majesty. A
torch-bearer, a mighty caryatid of Praxiteles with a truly wonderful
draping of the garments, a Dionysus of the fourth century, an Omphale
clad in the attributes of Hercules, sarcophagi with masterly reliefs, a
divine Augustus, portrait busts of satyrs, entitle this collection to
rank with that of the Vatican, not in numbers, but in the great worth of
single works. But our wonder and admiration become greater when we enter
the splendid halls of the picture-gallery. We hasten past Canova and
Houdon, however; the graceful figures of the one and the characteristic
"Voltaire" of the other had attracted us at other times. On to Murillo,
Rembrandt, Rubens, Titian, to be presented to us in unusual
completeness. Twenty-two Murillos, the finest of them carried away by
the French from Madrid, wrapped around flag-staffs. I must confess that
I had not hitherto fully comprehended Murillo's fame, for I am not
acquainted with the Spanish galleries. It was only in St. Petersburg
that the full greatness of the master dawned upon me. No description can
give an adequate idea of the charm of the Virgin Mother in the two
gray-walled pictures of "The Conception" and "The Assumption." What
distinguishes it from the famous Louvre picture is, above all, the
childlike expression of the sweet girl's head. A Mignon as Mary! The
dark eyes looking up to heaven with such inspired enthusiasm; the full
cheeks delicately tinted; the light garment of the maiden, almost a
child, enfolding it chastely; the entire figure, to the blue, loosely
fluttering cloak bathed in light; the cupids crowding about the knees
and carrying her heavenward; sweet rogues on the cloud wall, a part
still in the light radiated by her, and a part already immersed in the
deep darkness of space--the whole sublime, as on the first day of
creation, no note failing in the Spaniard's full glow of color.

No less splendid and inspired is "Repose During the Flight to Egypt,"
where the mother of the Lord again awakens the most fervent sensations.
She is no longer the half-childlike virgin of the Conception and the
Assumption; she is the mother, tenderly and rapturously gazing at the
sleeping child surrounded by a halo of heavenly light. Angels crowd
forward in naïve curiosity; the saintly Joseph looks with emotion on the
contented infant; the thick foliage gives to the entire group shade and
coolness. Even the ass looks comfortable and pious. The color and
composition are entirely beyond comparison.

A painting brimful of roguishness is "Jacob's Ladder," where angels
ascending and descending, making up the dreams of the sleeper, amuse
themselves in most innocent fashion. Well known is the charming
Christ-Child in the painting of "St. Joseph," and the charming little
"John" often fondly painted by him, his arms entwined about his lambkin.
Hardy peasant types are not wanting; and that the inspiration of the
great Spaniard may not exceed all bounds, there are a few pictures
which, with all their artistic excellence make us realize what a chasm
separates us from the passionate Catholic Murillo. We believe that full
artistic justice may be done to the poetry of Biblical legend without
being obliged to glorify a Peter Aubry. However, other lands, other
customs!

Of Velasquez's work there should be mentioned, in the first place, his
paintings of Philip IV. and the Duke of Olivarez, both of striking
characterization in their grotesque ugliness--the master will survive
even the one-sided and exclusive cult of which he has been made the
victim. We will not set our minds against Velasquez's or Leonardo's
"Mona Lisa" just because they are to be found in all the exercises of
enraptured modern goslings.

I will not say anything about the "Madonna Conestabile," the "St.
George," and the wonderful "Madonna Alba" of Raphael, for I consider it
entirely superfluous to combat the affected underestimates of the master
of Urbino, which is insisted upon as a matter of party obligation by
every imitator of fashion. If Herr Muther prescribes the Botticelli cult
for the last years of one century, the rediscovery of the joyous Andrea
del Sarto for the first years of a new century, he will, if we live to
see the day, prescribe for the century noonday the return to the master
of perfection, Raffaelo Sanzio, as the inevitable requirement of
fashion, and his disciples will add here their solemn amen. But the
eternal masters are above the gossip of salons and fashions.

Sebastiano del Piombo is represented here by a most extraordinary
"Descent from the Cross," Correggio by the "Madonna del Latte,"
Leonardo da Vinci by the light blonde "Madonna Litta," which, like all
the works of this master, is questioned, but which bears his imprint as
much as any of his works. Of Botticelli there is a very well-preserved
"Adoration of the Magi," similar to the Florentine painting. Likewise,
here in all the minor figures of the kneeling kings and shepherds, and
even of the horses, there is a perfection in the mastery of drawing, the
Madonna archaically overslender, with the thin neck of the Primitivists,
which, out of respect for sacred tradition, the otherwise bold master
did not dare meddle with. Naturally, the modern art mockery sees in this
defect of Botticelli's, accounted for by respect for tradition, his
chief superiority, and goes into affected raptures at the sensitive
figures of his "Primavera," and imitates the studied gestures of those
foolish airs which our higher bourgeoisie affect in order to resemble
the decadent nobility. But Botticelli really deserves a better fate than
to be the fashion painter of the snobs.

Bronzino's picture of a young woman, with quite modern bronze-
hair and exceptionally small hands, might well be substituted, if
fashion chose, for "Mona Lisa" in the modern feuilletons. A Renaissance
could easily dedicate a piquant novel to her dreamy, roguish eyes, her
soft chin, and her sensual mouth, which would not be contradicted by the
rich pearl ornaments in her hair and ears. There is a Judith by the
highly beloved master Giorgione, which is far superior in the majesty
of her bearing and the beauty of her head to her sisters of earlier and
later times. By the side of this noble and historical figure the other
Judith, the creation of the wanton and diseased fancy of Klimt--the
otherwise prominent but misguided master--appears absolutely odious.




VIII

THE HERMITAGE--_CONTINUED_


A crown of shining jewels is the Titian room, with the Christ, the
Cardinal Pallavicini, the Danaë, the Venus, Magdalene, and the Duchess
of Urbino. It is a small cabinet, scarcely measuring five square metres,
in which is gathered more shining beauty than in many an entire museum.
Prominent, however, is the fair daughter of Parma, forerunner of the
"Mona Vanna," as Venus dressed, or rather undressed, naked, in a velvet
cloak that kindly fulfils its duty only from the hips downward. The
goddess gazes at herself in a mirror held by a cupid, while another
chubby little fellow is trying to place a crown on her head. She
deserves it, this prize of beauty. There radiates from her eyes, her
mouth, her shoulders, arms, and hands a splendor such as even this
prince but seldom gave to his creations. The curves of the breast, only
half covered by the left hand, the navel, and the hips are as soft as if
painted with a caressing brush. The heavy velvet cloak intensifies even
the remarkable brightness of the body. The Danaë, languidly outstretched
on the cushions of her luxurious couch, shuddering under the golden
harvest that falls into her lap, is much superior to her rivals in
Naples and Vienna. It is the only original that does not disappoint the
expectations created by the widely distributed reproductions, for it
also is perfectly preserved. The line of the back from the shoulder to
the bent knee of the resting young body is of a unique softness; the
transition from the thigh to hip is like velvet in the softness of the
body; the feet and toes are of classic beauty. The Magdalene again is
all feeling. The tears flowing from her eyes, reddened by sorrow, are as
real as her contrition; the heavy braids, pressed with the right hand to
the full bosom, enable us to understand her sins; but the penitential
garment and the desert, where we find her alone with a human skull,
compel us to believe in her repentance. The artist's model was, as in
the similar work in Florence, his daughter Lavinia.

The school of Leonardo da Vinci is not as well represented; but mention
should be made here of "St. Catherine of Luini," if only for the sake of
the saint herself, that is fashioned after the same model as "St. Anne,"
by Leonardo. Somewhat better represented is the Venetian school with a
few Tintorettos and Paolo Veroneses. Of the later Italians, we find
especially of note, "Mary in the Sewing-School," "St. Joseph with the
Christ-Child," and "Cleopatra," by Guido Reni.

But the pride of the collection is the Rembrandt gallery. The so-called
"Mother of Rembrandt" is somewhat inferior to the incomparable Vienna
painting. But, on the other hand, there are among the thirty-nine
authentic works of the master such gems as the "Descent from the Cross,"
with its singular lights and shadows, and "David and Absalom," with
astonishing boldness of sketching and wonderful softness of coloring.
But far beyond the technique we are struck in this picture by the almost
tragic power of expression. It is the moment of conciliation between
father and son. How the young prince with luxurious hair hides his
trembling hand on his father's breast; how the father, who very
strangely has the features of the master himself, draws to his breast
the newly found son, and breathes to Jehovah a prayer for blessing. It
is treated with such overpowering mastery as dwells only in the greatest
scenes of fatherly passion in all literature and art. The second
treatment of the same theme, "The Prodigal Son," is transplanted from
the princely to the common. The returning son is not a prince; the
father is not a be-turbaned sultan; but the intensity of the embrace is
the same; the same thrill comes to us out of this as out of the
brilliant "Absalom" picture, the two songs of the forgiving father's
love. The counterpart of these two is the painting of the great father's
sorrow that seizes the old Jacob when his sons bring to him the bloody
garment of his beloved Joseph. The terror and amazement of the
patriarch, distinctly marked in the hands of the sage uplifted as if
warding off a blow, are strongly impressed on the mind of the beholder.
The famous "Sacrifice of Isaac" is to me of slighter value than the
preceding, notwithstanding all the dramatic force of the moment
depicted. It is really too difficult for us to look into the soul of an
old fanatic who is ready to slay his own son at the command of God; yet
the foreshortening of the recumbent Isaac, and the angel sweeping down
on him like a tempest, to seize just at the right moment the hand of the
old man, are brought out again with really wanton mastery. The so-called
Danaë is not to every one's taste, its universal fame notwithstanding.
Bode takes it as Sarah, the daughter of Raguel, awaiting her betrothed.
Its meaning might well be a subject of discussion. The old woman who
draws back the heavy drapery over the couch, with the honest
match-maker's joy on her face and the purse in her hand, indicates a
mythological incident and not the legitimate joys of Sarah. On the other
hand, there is lacking here the indispensable golden shower by which the
Danaë pictures are really characterized. Besides, the profile of the
joyously surprised naked dame is not all antique. I take the liberty
humbly to suggest that the young woman with the rather mature body is,
to judge by the ornaments on her arms and in her hair, as well as by the
attributes of her luxurious bed and the unceremoniousness with which she
allows the light to play on her naked body through the open portières
without making use of the cover lying near by, to be considered a
professional beauty, who is receiving with more than open arms some very
welcome and generous guest. When once freed from the not exactly
pleasing impression which the fidgety impatience produces on the none
too pretty face, we cannot but admire the play of light on the nude
body. Nothing is flattered in this painting, and that makes more
striking the indelible impression of the shimmering light in all the
depressions and curves of the not especially attractive figure.

It would be much beyond the limits of the present sketch to mention even
by name the works of the first rank in the Rembrandt gallery. Suffice it
to state that there are among them a so-called Sobieski, the portrait of
the calligrapher Coppenol, almost breathing before one's eyes, the
"Parable of the Workmen in the Vineyard," "Abraham's Entertainment of
the Angels," a "Holy Family" of such loveliness as can scarcely be
accredited to the forceful realist, the "Workshop of Joseph," the
"Incredulity of St. Thomas," full of restless movement, a splendid
heroic "Pallas," portraits of men and women, all of them works of the
first rank, gems in the art of all time. To say anything of the master
himself is, thank Heaven, unnecessary. He has thus far escaped untouched
from the constant revolution of values, the propelling force of which is
usually unknown to its satellites. Of him alone can it be said, that
even an approximate conception of the range of his mastery is
impossible without familiarity with his paintings in the Hermitage.

Rubens, too, is represented here in all his astonishing versatility. I
do not know what value is placed nowadays on this omniscience. Yet even
the termagant tongue of impotency must become dumb before this splendid
collection. Mythological and Biblical themes, portraits and landscapes,
are almost throughout of equal perfection and beauty. His exuberant
fancy is nowhere revealed to better advantage than in the fascinating
sketches in which the Hermitage is so rich. They must be termed
veritable orgies of the draughtsman and the colorist, and bear to a
certain extent the imprint of perennial genius and happy inspiration,
which the painting, often completed by his pupils, cannot quite show.
But where the master's own hand has worked it has given life to the
imperishable. If a prize were to be awarded to any one of the
forty-seven masterpieces it would surely belong to the portrait of
Helene Fourment, on which the artist worked with undivided love. The
roguish beauty is painted life-size. She is standing in a
flower-bedecked meadow, and in the background heavy clouds pass over the
landscape. But they serve only to bring out in greater relief the
delicate lace collar around the bare neck of the woman in a low-necked
gown. She has on her blond, curly head a black, soft, Rembrandt hat,
ornamented with feathers, and adorned with a violet-blue ribbon. Her
heavy, black satin dress with the airy white lace sleeves shows the
still youthful, slender figure in a swaying, graceful pose. The delicate
hands are crossed over the waist. The right is holding, fanlike and with
refined ease, a long, white heron's feather. The dress and ornaments,
the ear-rings and the bejewelled brooch and chain, are treated with such
care as was seldom shown by the busy master. The main charm of the
painting lies, however, in the roguish, spirited face with the large,
clever eyes and the smiling little mouth. The neck and bosom show,
however, that the name Helene is not inappropriate.

Of the mythological pictures the "Drunken Silence," variations on which
in the Munich Pinakothek are well enough known to make a more detailed
description superfluous, is to my taste the most wonderful. But the St.
Petersburg original is, if possible, even richer in its coloring, and
the grotesque humor of the fine company is altogether irresistible. We
also find an excellent variation in "The Pert Lover's Happy Moments,"
the brown shepherd attacking a young woman with the features of Helene
Fourment. The liberation of Andromeda by the victorious Perseus is a
work with all conceivable merits. The dead monster that had guarded the
brilliantly beautiful maid lies outstretched with gaping jaws; the
white-winged steed that had carried the victor is stamping the ground,
but easily held in check by a little cupid. The victor, still in his
glittering armor, with the gorgon shield in his left hand approaches
the fair maid and softly touches her. Another little cupid has removed
his helmet so that the emerging Fame may place the wreath on his locks.
But the youth sees only the glorious beauty at whose draperies three or
four little rogues are busily tugging to pull away from the white body
even the last vestige of covering. Of the splendid composition, "Venus
and Adonis," only the wonderful heads were drawn by the master; the rest
was done in his studio, but it is quite respectable.

Of the religious works, the "Descent from the Cross" is akin to the
famous painting in the Dome of Antwerp. The large painting, "Christ
Visiting Simon the Pharisee," was completed with the aid of his pupils.
The figures of Christ and of Magdalene, who is drying the feet of the
Saviour with her hair, were drawn by the master himself. The head of the
penitent is particularly striking. It has something leonine in it, and
the fervor with which she seizes the foot and draws it to herself has
also something of the passion that may have led to her sin.

Of Van Dyck, the cleverest and most prominent of Rubens's pupils, who
aspired to aristocratic refinement--perhaps only to free himself from
the overpowering influence of the robust genius of his teacher, perhaps
also because of his inherently more tenacious nature--the Hermitage
possesses the largest and most valuable collection. The "Holy Family" is
still influenced by Rubens, although it is somewhat softer. It is a
charming composition, full of peace and cheerfulness. Mary is sitting
under a shady tree holding the Christ-Child, who is standing on her lap
so that he may bend over to look at the dancing ring of little angels.
St. Joseph is comfortably seated in the background. The play of the
angels is unmistakably conceived after Rubens's festoon, and yet
possesses great beauty of its own. In its color effects the picture is
among the best. The artist is seen in complete self-dependence in the
numerous portraits of his English period as well as in the cabinet piece
of "The Snyder Family." The English impress us especially by the
expression of self-conscious gentility, aristocratic exclusiveness,
peculiar to themselves as well as to the master. We cannot escape the
charm of these somewhat decadent faces, just as we would enjoy equally a
Beethoven sonata and a Chopin nocturne. Without the exuberant
imagination and the universality of his teacher, Van Dyck possesses,
none the less, a personality of his own, shining with a light of its
own; he is one of the psychologists among the painters.

Another psychologist, though not with delicate hands, but sturdy and
creative, with exuberant genius, is Franz Hals, who is represented here
by four strikingly lifelike portraits. Of him, too, nothing more need be
said, though one may add he is a splendid fellow.

The Dutch miniature painters have here some dainty pieces. Of Van der
Helst's we see his renowned "Introduction of the Bride," a scene from
Dutch patrician life, with somewhat strongly exaggerated respectability
and affluence. The bridegroom's parents, themselves still young, are
seated on a garden terrace clad in their holiday attire, and with gloves
in their hands; the youngest son, stylishly dressed, with a parrot in
his hand, is looking with strained attention towards the bridal couple,
who are ceremoniously ascending the terrace; two greyhounds by the side
of the parents, a lap-dog by the bride's side, take part in the
performance; and loudest of all is the parrot, whom the master is
obliged to call to order by an indignant "Keep still!" Notwithstanding
its size (it has a width of more than three metres), the picture is
painted with a minuteness of detail, from the frills of the mother to
the rustling silk of the bride's dress and the thin foliage of the
poplars in the background of the garden, that would do honor to any
miniature painter. To be sure, our impressionist creed of the present
day does not allow the recognition of such painstaking elegance and
neatness in the execution of details. However, doctrines pass away, but,
thank Heaven, the pictures remain.

The numerous domestic genre pictures, Terborch's famous "Glass of
Lemonade," Jan Steen's "Drunken Woman," held up to derision by her
husband, and the "Visits of the Physician," who is feeling the pulse of
a young woman, evidently embarrassed, while the doctor, with a
significant smile, is exchanging remarks with an old woman, by Metzu,
as well as certain physicians' examinations, by Gerhard Dou, that cannot
further be described, are all notable, not only for the execution of the
velvet and silk fabrics, of the glasses and the interiors, but even more
for the unfailing firmness of characterization in movement and
physiognomy. Certainly these are great painters, and their works are
true cabinet-pieces. Composition must always swing between painstaking
accuracy and bold impressionism. Yet nothing could be more foolish than
the contempt for miniaturists in a period of impressionism and the
contempt for impressionists in a period of painful detail. "In my
Father's house are many mansions."

What shall we say of the works of Ostade, Teniers, Wouwerman, Pottes,
and Ruysdael? The Hermitage not only contains an inexhaustible abundance
of their productions, but includes their very best works. Potter has a
wolf-hound and dairy farm, an animal group of the highest plasticity,
and a quite modern transparency of atmosphere. Tenier has pieces that
show him to have been not only a grotesque humorist but also a great
landscape-painter; and of Ruysdael there are true pearls like the "Sand
Road" and the "Bay Lake."

Rarities, valuable as such not alone to the art-lover, are the "Healing
of the Blind," by Lucas van Leyden, the "Maid under the Apple-Tree," by
Lucas Cranach, a triumphant Madonna, by Quentin Massys--faithful,
honest works which the pious masters laid with devotion on the golden
ground. No sensible person will deride them, for they are still governed
in their conceptions by the carefully obeyed rules of symmetry. In the
_attachement_ there is such depth of characterization, such affection
and warmth, that many a masterpiece must be placed much below them. For
enthusiasm of conception and conscientious execution are, after all, of
deciding moment in every unbiased judgment. But the technique belongs to
the time and not to the individual.

The French of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries conclude the
group. The Germans have never succeeded in placing themselves in a true
relation to this art that is rhetorical and theatrical rather than
really poetical. Yet we shall never be wanting in respect to others,
especially to the masters Poussin and Claude Lorrain. The landscapes of
a heroic-mythological character that represent them in the Hermitage are
monuments of respectable ability.

Of real charm, however, are the piquant genre masters Fragonard and
Watteau, who were held in such deep contempt in the virtuous years of
the Revolution, that no one dared to pay even fifty francs for their
frivolous paintings. They are represented by excellent pieces, as well
as the more serious master Greuze, whose "Death of an Old Man" would do
honor even to our good Knaus. Boucher and Lancret justly deserve our
attention. But Marguerite Gerard, the sister-in law of Fragonard, and
Jean B. Chardin, have quite inconspicuously realized a goodly portion of
the impressionist programme without devoting themselves merely to
problems of light and shade. The "Mother's Happiness" of the former does
full justice to the charming scene and easily solves a problem in
interiors. The same is true of Chardin's "Washerwomen." There is
positively nothing new under the sun. It is only the one or the other
side of the universal knowledge of the great masters acclaimed as an
entirely new discovery. Then follow actions and reactions, and thus the
so-called art history is formed, the rise and fall among a few high
peaks and nothing more.

One day we found a whole row of rooms closed, just those that contained
our favorites of the Rembrandt gallery. What was the cause of it?
Preparations were being made for the Czar's dinner. A great court dinner
is given every Friday in the splendid halls of the Hermitage, and
suitable preparations are made on the previous day. Flowers are placed
everywhere, dishes and silver are brought and kept under special watch.
The Czar's table is placed in the large Italian hall; the courtier's
tables in the adjoining halls. The conservatories and prominent artists
have already petitioned for the abolition of this barbaric custom, for
the vapors from the viands do not in any wise contribute to the
preservation of the costly paintings. But how are exhortations of
warning to reach the Czar's ear? They are derided by the servile
courtiers, and held up to scorn as professional fancies of but little
significance when compared with the wish of princes to dine among the
finest works of art in the world. The consciousness that great works of
art are merely kept in trust by their passing owners, kept for their
true owner, progress-making humanity, has perhaps reached the better
class, but has not been awakened in the autocracy, where even the
conception of humanity has not yet been attained. They own pictures as
they own crown jewels, and consider themselves at liberty to treat them
as they please. But on such a matter the subject must remain silent; and
he does. It is the environment that influences princes, whether for good
or for evil. But the injury to a few paintings, however expensive, is
not the worst that rests on the conscience of the ring in the Czar's
court, just as the Hermitage is not the most objectionable feature of
St. Petersburg. When the Russian empire shall have overcome the phase of
barbarian mistrust for strangers and of oppressive police management,
when it shall have really opened its gates, the Hermitage will become a
true centre of attraction with few equals in the universe. Then will
become common property those wonder works that to-day are still beyond
the reach of common knowledge. In the Russia of to-day a treasury of
culture like the Hermitage is almost an anachronism.




IX

THE CAMORRA--A TALK WITH A RUSSIAN PRINCE


Before I report here a significant conversation I had with a prince, the
friend and former confidant of the Czar, I would make an earnest appeal
to the public opinion of Europe, for which these lines are intended. I
have conversed with many men of the highest rank in Russia; I am
indebted to them for most valuable information about the land of
riddles, yet not a single interview was concluded without my informant
asking me to withhold his name. Only the prince whose views I report
here said to me, "If you need my name to prove the credibility of the
most incredible things I had to tell you, you may use it without
compunction. Possible suffering that may befall me because of this use
of my name is of no consideration where the enlightenment of Europe is
concerned." On mature deliberation I have preferred, however, not to
mention his name here. I thus renounce the weight of a name of European
repute and of unparalleled authority. Notwithstanding this, I still
consider it necessary to ask public opinion of Europe to watch with
redoubled care the fate of the few persons who have been my informants.
It would not be right for me to suppress this report, for I should thus
act in direct opposition to the wishes of the noble-minded prince.
Neither could I disguise him entirely, since there are, after all, but
few persons that could have made to me these disclosures on the
helplessness of even the eminent patriots. And so I must resort to an
appeal to the public opinion of Europe with proper caution. It can
protect the prince. For with all their wickedness the Russian rulers
still fear foreign public opinion. This and this alone has a certain
influence on the Czar. Let it be exerted in behalf of a man of the
greatest heroism, who makes appeal to it out of pure patriotism.

"Does your highness think," I asked, in the interview I am about to
report here, "that the discontent everywhere noticeable in all classes
of society is real and of political significance?"

"We must make distinctions," answered the prince; "of its reality there
is no doubt. But if you ask whether I consider it politically fruitful,
in the same sense that we may gain through this discontent some
necessary change in the present régime, I must answer, unfortunately,
no."

"Is this, then, only the chronic discontent present in western Europe as
well as in Russia, or is it now acute?"

"It is acute. As you have justly observed, the West has its discontented
element also; yet your Western discontent with all work of man may best
be compared with that frame of mind prevalent in our country, even under
a régime that is normal and well-intentioned, lacking only efficiency.
The restlessness that you, as a stranger, have noted here is quite
abnormal, and is due to the decided wickedness, not to say infamy, of
the existing system."

"Then it is stronger than usual?"

"Incomparably stronger. No entertainment however harmless, no scientific
congress, no meeting of any corporation can take place that will not end
in a political demonstration. All the prisons are filled with most
worthy people, deportations and banishments increase, yet other men and
women press onward to martyrdom."

"I admire this spirit of sacrifice in your intelligent classes."

"That is the difference between to-day and a few years ago. Ten years
ago our public opinion was weakened, resigned, crushed by the heavy hand
of Alexander III. and the serpent wiles of Pobydonostzev. With the
accession to the throne of the present Czar new hopes were awakened; but
now, thanks to the executioners Sipyagin and Plehve, disappointment and
exasperation have grown to such a vast extent that expression of them
can no longer be repressed, and thousands risk life and liberty unable
longer to bear this condition of grinding inward revolt."

"I witnessed the funeral of Mikhailovski. I must say that my ear
detected revolutionary tones, and such a procession of five or six
thousand men and women from among the highest classes, surrounded by
Cossacks, among a listening police, singing songs, making fiery,
freedom-breathing speeches, impressed me of all things as a foreboding
of revolution.

"Arrests in plenty were made among the participants in the funeral
celebration. But do not deceive yourself. There is no revolution with
us. Our country is too thinly populated. Let us say that ten, fifty, or
one hundred thousand inspired intellectuals would willingly sacrifice
themselves if they could help us thereby; how many Cossacks and
gendarmes would there be for each revolutionist, when we are spending
millions to maintain an army against the nation? There is only one
revolution that can be really dangerous, and I will not assert that such
a revolution could not break out if the present war should end
disastrously. That would be a peasant revolution, directed, not against
the régime itself, but against all property-owning and educated persons;
it would begin by all of us being killed and thrown into the river. And
the odds would be a hundred to one then that the police would not be
actively against this revolution, but secretly would be for it, in order
to rid themselves quickly and surely of their real antagonist, the
educated classes. A Kishinef may be arranged here at any day, not only
against the Jews, but against every one with whom the police wish to get
even."

"Then your highness believes that the Kishinef massacres were arranged
by the police?"

"This is not a mere belief; it is a proved fact. Their real authors,
Krushevan and Pronin, are the special protégés of Plehve; and Baron
Levendahl received a direct order from the higher authorities to refrain
from any intervention."

"And what was the purpose of it?"

"To intimidate the Jews, who, by their temperament, bring a little more
life to the radical parties, and to create the impression in the higher
circles that there is discontent in the country, not against the
government, but against the usurious Jews."

"And is not that true?"

"Usury with us is carried on by good, orthodox Christians much more
successfully than by the Jews, who are comparatively few in number, and,
besides, do not enjoy the protection of the authorities. No; the mob
massacres the Jews because in the name of the Czar they are proclaimed
outlaws. It is a kind of annual picnic. The Kishinef massacres are
condemned by the whole country, not only by the philo-Semites--to whom,
by-the-way, I do not belong. It has showed to all of us what may be done
in our land when an assumed purpose requires it. And for this reason the
entire public opinion takes sides with the Jews, who were merely
intended to serve as scapegoats for the educated and the discontented."

"But in what respect is the present régime so essentially different from
the preceding ones that such a fermentation could arise? Surely the
people have not been spoiled by anything better?"

"Now it is worse than ever before. There is perhaps an explanation for
this. Czar Nicholas is inspired by the best of motives. He is the first
of the malcontents. He would give his heart's blood to help his people.
The clique knows that, and is, therefore, risking everything on one
card, to prevent the Czar from drawing nearer to the people or creating
institutions that would put an end to bureaucratic omnipotence. The
terrors of revolution are painted on the wall, and the daily arrests are
intended to prove that it is only the mailed fist of the present
government that can curb a popular uprising."

"I know from sources near the Czar's family that the Czar is again
finding threatening letters in his coat-pockets, under his pillow, and
elsewhere."

"This is an old police trick. It was used to frighten Alexander III.,
and it almost drove him insane. Naturally, it is only the police that
can carry out such devices, for others could not reach the Czar's room.
But Plehve retains his ascendency through the illusion that his
dismissal would mean the way to the scaffold for the Czar's family."

"Has the Czar really anything to fear should the police relax its
vigilance?"

"Heaven forbid! The Czar is a sort of deity to the people, and the
educated classes know only too well that no man is less responsible for
existing conditions than he, in whose name these conditions are
inflicted upon us. But the Czar is made to believe that every attempt to
free public opinion from its fetters would lead to popular
representation, to a constitution, and finally to the scaffold."

"And all that is done by Plehve?"

"By him alone. His predecessor, Sipyagin, was an honest, narrow
reactionary, who regarded the state as the private property of the
dynasty, something like a great estate with property in souls as well as
in inanimate things. The nation has no more right to complain against
the impositions of the master than the cattle on the estate to complain
about the methods of feeding. Plehve is of an entirely different
caliber. A political cheat, an intriguer, an unscrupulous cynic, the
playing on the key-board of power tickles his blunted nerves. He has as
much conscience, sympathy, and humanity as my tiger here. His talent
consists of cunning and the art of dealing with men. There is no one
with whom he has exchanged three words that he has not lied to. His
patriotic overzeal, however, as a non-Russian--he naturally overdoes his
patriotism--commends him to the 'camarilla,' and so he becomes
omnipotent."

"You say that Plehve is not Russian?"

"He is partly Lettish, partly Polish, partly Jewish. Men like this are
always the worst here; they must see that their non-Russian names are
forgotten."

"And what do you mean by 'camarilla'?"

"The servile courtiers, the high officials, but above all, the entire
system. Do not forget that we are being ruled by a Camorra of
bureaucrats, that have no interest at all in the real welfare of the
country, but have their primary interest in the uncurtailed maintenance
of their power. If the Czar wished to hear, to-day, the truth about the
condition and sentiments of the country, he would never succeed, because
they do not expose one another in the Camorra; for there is only one
god--the career with all its chances of legitimate and illegitimate
gain."

"Your highness, I must allow myself an indiscreet question. It is said
that you are a friend of the Czar. You are surely not the only one. You
must have colleagues among the nobility, statesmen, and patriots who
cannot be prevented from being heard by the Emperor. Are you not in a
position to break through the iron ring of the bureaucrats, and to tell
the Czar the truth about the men who possess his confidence?"

"I appreciate your question. But what could single individuals do
against the abuses of centuries? Something is being done in the
direction indicated by you. The Czar receives, often enough, honest and
unreserved statements. But a lasting effect from such occasional
impulses is out of the question. Moreover, one must know the spirit of
the antechamber, the slanders and suspicions, the burden of routine. It
would require the power of a Hercules to escape from the net of these
forces, and the Czar is of a timid, modest, kindly nature. And how
quickly is every suggestion or initiative paralyzed! And what influences
cross one another at such a court! Who is strong enough to oppose a
grand vizier who works with unscrupulous falsification, and weaves about
the sovereign an impenetrable fabric of false dangers by means of
documentary calumnies and misstatements?"

"And so your highness can see no deliverance?"

"Only when God in heaven shall decree it, not otherwise. We live between
the anarchists in office and the anarchists with dagger and revolver.
These are only active forces, the latter as the logical sequence of the
former, and more than once their tools as well. All else is inactive,
limited to dissipating demonstration. The fountain of public opinion is
not tolerated; the organization of a progressive party is prevented; the
system anxiously guards the people from any contact with the educated
classes. There is no room for sentimentality in repelling every attempt
to render the Camorra harmless. An unguarded word, a simple
denunciation, are sufficient to send honorable and respected men where
they lose all desire for criticism. Whence, then, can help come? And we
need it, for the war places before us entirely new problems, that may be
solved only by unshackling intelligence. But now our bankruptcy will
become evident to all the world."

"And Witte! Has he no longer any influence?"

"None whatever. He is not a convenient and acceptable minister, for he
has a statesman's ambition and political ideas. He could, perhaps,
inaugurate a new system, but this is not allowed. In this country there
rules only the ministry of the interior--that is, the secret police; the
other departments are merely figure-heads."

"And a constitution would change nothing of this?"

"The Liberals and Radicals believe so, but I do not. I am of a different
opinion. 'Men and not measures,' is my motto, especially in an
autocracy. You know my views on the war. I am convinced that our brave
army will win. That will only mean a greater strengthening of the
system, till the complete financial and economic, social and moral
collapse, or till the first collision with a real power like the United
States of America. I see no relief and no salvation, especially since
foreign public opinion also forsakes us. We are fawned upon for
political or commercial reasons. Tell them abroad that we deserve
something better than this contemptible, statesman-like reserve and
these affected expressions of respect before a régime that we ourselves
denounce without exception. We deserve honest sympathy, for no other
nation has yet been made to struggle for its civilization against so
pitiless an adversary. Europe must further distinguish between the
Russian nation and this adversary. Russian society is full of noble
impulses; it is generous, warm-hearted, capable of inspiration, and free
from odious prejudices. Our common oppressor, the danger to the world's
peace as well as the author of this unhappy war, I repeat it again, is
the Camorra of the officials, a thoroughly anarchistic class. I do not
know, I must admit, when and how our release will come. I fear that we
shall, ere that, pass through sad trials, and even more terrible misery
of our flayed and hunger-enfeebled people, before Heaven shall take pity
on us."

I left the noble-minded prince with feelings that are usually awakened
in us only by tragedy.




X

SÄNGER'S FALL


The sudden dismissal of the minister of public instruction, the former
university professor Sänger, led me to discuss it more exhaustively with
several high dignitaries who willingly gave me information during my
sojourn in St. Petersburg. I had the opportunity of conversing with
persons exceptionally well-informed, but, for reasons easily
conceivable, I am not permitted to mention their names. I report here,
from my notes, an interview with a person standing near to the retired
minister, and still in active government service, because it seems
interesting to me even now.

"In the first place," said my informant, "you must not believe that
Sänger was dismissed. He himself insisted that his resignation,
repeatedly offered, be finally accepted. Scarcely two days ago the Czar
asked a general, highly esteemed by him, who came here from Warsaw,
where Sänger had formerly acted as curator of the university, as to his
opinion of Sänger, and the general answered that he considered Sänger a
very honest and learned man. 'I have just that opinion of him myself,'
said the Czar, complainingly, 'but he positively would not remain.'"

"Why does your excellency believe that Sänger had become so tired of his
position?"

"There are permanent and special reasons. The permanent ones are harder
to explain than the special ones. I therefore begin with the more
difficult. A minister of public instruction--'lucus a non lucendo'--has
here a very difficult post when he is an honest man and really desires
to live up to his duties. For what he is really asked to do is, that he
do _not_ enlighten the people, that he do _nothing_ for education, that
he merely pretend activity. We need no education; we need obedience.
That, of course, is not said to the Czar, who really believes that he is
being served honestly. But in the end it amounts to this, that only one
man rules here, the minister of the interior and chief of the secret
police, and that all the other ministers must dance to his music. I make
exception here, to a certain extent, of the ministers of war and of
finance. But if in any case there be a possibility of conflict between
any other department and the omnipotent police ministry, that other
department must subordinate itself to the rule of the latter. For von
Plehve stands guard over the security of the empire. You understand that
all other considerations are silenced here. The third division (the
secret police) and the Holy Synod are the pillars of our empire. Of what
importance is here an inoffensive minister of instruction, or culture,
as he is called in your country?"

"I should be obliged to your excellency for concrete examples."

"Here they are. There was, for instance, General Wannowski, a really
competent and influential man. While he was at the head of the
department of instruction he could not be so easily turned down at the
court as our ordinary university professor. Wannowski even effected some
reforms in our universities, but finally he, too, found it desirable to
retire from the field. Do you think it possible for a minister to remain
in office when a regulation prepared by him, approved by the Czar, and
made public, must next day be withdrawn because the minister of the
interior states in a special report that this regulation is in
opposition to the general government policy and is a danger to the
security of the country?"

"And has that occurred?"

"Something of that kind was a secondary cause also of Sänger's
resignation. As former curator of the University of Warsaw, he knew
Poland well. With the Czar's approval, he framed a regulation for
instruction in Poland that was pedagogically wise and politically
conciliating. Instantly Plehve made objection--for a relief of the
tension everywhere prevailing does not suit his system--and secured the
withdrawal of the regulation."

"But could not Sänger defend his measures?"

"His position was already weakened. Above all, his enemies succeeded in
placing him under suspicion as guilty of philo-Semitism. You know, or
perhaps do not know, that it is also a part of the system here to keep
the Jews--particularly the Jews--from higher education; and this higher
education in itself runs contrary to the desire of the dictator-general
of the Holy Synod and to that of the police. A minister of public
instruction, particularly when he hails from the learned professions,
may easily commit the error of making science readily accessible to all
properly qualified. Sänger granted some alleviation to the Jews, so that
the most gifted among them, especially when their academy professor had
already taken a warm interest in them, could enter the university
without great difficulty. He was reproached with that, and that would
have been sufficient to weaken the position of a stronger man."

"I am not familiar with the disabilities of Jewish students."

"A detailed description of these disabilities would carry you too far
afield. Suffice it to state that we possess a very complicated system,
particularly developed in Moscow, for the exclusion of Jewish children
from the schools. The ratio of three to one hundred must, however, be
conveniently tolerated. Now it happens quite frequently that, no matter
how strict the director at admission, on promotion from the lower to the
higher class this relation is shifted in favor of the Jews, because of
their diligence and sobriety in contrast to the characteristics of the
sons of the Russian officials. Then the trouble begins anew. Splendidly
qualified candidates cannot enter the university, since the prescribed
percentage has already been reached. The professors, however, who are
not pronounced anti-Semites really like these Jewish students who have
survived this process of selection, for they are really studious. But
that again is opposed to the principles of the accepted policy. And
whoever is inclined to take sides with the professors rather than with
the bulwarks of this general policy may easily find himself in the
toils, as it happened, for instance, in Sänger's case."

"Who are these bulwarks of this general policy?" An involuntary glance
towards the door, as if to see whether some uninvited listener was not
accidentally near--a glance I have frequently seen only in Russia--was
the first answer. Then, even in lower tones than before, he proceeded.

"That is still a portion of the legacy of Alexander III., rigidly
guarded by the dowager-empress, and particularly by the Grand-Duke
Sergius in Moscow. When in the Russo-Turkish war enormous peculations of
the military stores were discovered, the heir to the throne, then
commander of a corps in the reserve, was persuaded that the Jewish
contractors had defrauded the army, and the officer of the secret
police, Zhikharev, exerted himself to prove that two-thirds of all the
revolutionaries were Jews. That belief remained, just as a great portion
of the French still cling to the belief that Dreyfus is a traitor
because he is used as a scapegoat for the information-mongers of high
rank on the general staff. Something similar happened here. I really
have no desire to defend any Jewish contractor; but when there was in
our stores lime-dust instead of flour in the sacks, quite other people
than the Jews pocketed the difference. However, that is another story.
Grand-Duke Sergius, of Moscow, has among his other passions bigotry and
a fanatical hatred of Jews. And he is the uncle and brother-in-law of
the Czar."

"Then Sänger found himself in a rather dubious position mainly as a
philo-Semite?"

"At least as a man of not sufficiently pronounced anti-Semitism. But
also because he was not really the man to hold his own with the generals
and talents of the career-maker von Plehve. Finally, he was blamed for
adverse criticism of the general principles of the government expressed
at various conventions."

"At what conventions?"

"There was lately a convention of public-school teachers that presumed
to criticise by speaking the truth about an intimate of Plehve's,
Pronin, of Kishinef. I must emphasize here, by-the-way, that there was
only an insignificant minority of Jews at that convention. Then there
was a medical congress whose hygienic resolutions hid under a very thin
hygienic disguise an arraignment of the system of stupefying the
populace. The Lord knows Sänger had surely no premonition of these
occurrences. But they concerned his department; the spirit of his staff
was not right, and he alone was to blame for it, especially since von
Plehve knew very well what Sänger thought of him."

"Always Plehve, and only Plehve!"

"He is our little Metternich. A representative man, to quote Emerson.
The régime cannot be discussed without the mention of his name. Here is
another little sample of Plehve. There is a Professor Kuzmin-Karavayev
at the academy of military and international law. He was elected member
of the St. Petersburg city council, and is a member of the zemstvo of
Tver, a highly respected, upright man, interested in popular education.
But now he has been forbidden any public activity by the following
letter of von Plehve. Plehve wrote to Kuropatkin, the minister of war:
'By virtue of the authority vested in me by the Emperor on January 8,
1904, I would simply dismiss Professor Kuzmin-Karavayev as politically
inconvenient. But since he is in the government service I ask you to
insist that the aforesaid professor renounce all public activity.' This
is literally true. You see how the omnipotent Plehve treats even a
favorite like Kuropatkin, to say nothing of a timid, good professor like
our Sänger! You may rest assured that, with all his upright views, we
lost little in his resignation; he was without influence and too weak."

"And who will succeed him?"

"That is quite immaterial. Major-General Shilder, superintendent of the
cadet corps, has already been offered the position, but he declined it.
As long as Plehve's spirit and that of his minions is sweeping over the
waters nothing will happen save what favors the suppression of public
enlightenment and the prevention of revolution. The name is but an empty
sound."

"Your excellency, should I commit an indiscretion by publishing our
conversation just as it took place?"

"With the necessary precaution of leaving out my name, for I naturally
have no inclination to attract the especial anger of our
dictator-general. For the rest, I do not believe I have told you
anything that could not be said in almost the same words by any one at
all familiar with conditions as they are."

"That, your excellency, I must confirm. One of the greatest riddles for
me is the formation of a public opinion in St. Petersburg, where the
papers dare not even hint of what is spoken in the circles of the
intelligent classes."

"Russia also has its constitution," said he, rising, and smiling
significantly. "That constitution consists of the dissensions among the
ministers. And when among ourselves, a certain discretion assumed, we
do not stand on ceremony. Here you have the sources of public
opinion"--again the significant smile--"you will perhaps understand why
no minister fares well."

"Hence also Plehve?"

(A motion of despairing defence.) "He? No! speaking seriously. It is the
curse of our country. May the Lord save us!"




XI

THE PEOPLE'S PALACE OF ST. PETERSBURG (NARODNI DOM)


In Potemkin's fatherland the art of government consists principally in
hiding the truth not only from the people, but also from the Czar, who
must be made to believe that he really strives for the welfare of the
people, and not only for that of the all-powerful bureaucracy.
Potemkin's art, as is well known, consisted in deceitfully showing to
his beloved Empress, in a long journey, prosperous peasant farms, where
in reality wretchedness and misery had established their permanent home.
What the all-powerful favorite had accomplished by means of pasteboard
and bushes, costs the modern Potemkins somewhat more comfort; but like
their predecessor, they are in a position to supply it from the richly
filled imperial treasury. The "Narodni Dom," the people's institute on
the St. Petersburg fortress, is utilized to persuade the philanthropic
Nicholas that in his paternally governed empire more ample provision is
made for the common people and their welfare than in the heartless,
civilized Western countries.

To the eye of a well-meaning ruler or of a well-disposed globe-trotter
this is really a pleasant sight. Framed in alleys of tall trees, there
rises in the park a far-stretching stone structure, of St. Petersburg
dimensions, surmounted by a great cupola. On the payment of ten kopeks
at the entrance we walk into the well-heated central portion under the
dome, brightly illuminated by arc-lamps. Furs and overshoes are removed.
And now an exclamation of admiration escapes our lips. A well-dressed
crowd strolls naturally, without crowding and elbowing, towards a
platform rising at the farther end, on which, to judge at a distance,
Neapolitan folk-singers are performing. We join the procession, and when
scarcely in the middle of the immense hall supported by iron girders,
there resound behind us thundering notes that cause us to look upward.
An orchestra stationed on a one-story-high cross-gallery has begun a
Russian popular song. The singers before us stop for a while. The crowd
moves forward. A <DW64> dandy with high, white standing collar and
patent-leather boots, proudly leads by the arm a voluptuous blonde of
the Orpheum type. He grimly shows his teeth and fists to the scoffers
who make fun of the unequal pair; but this does not end in a race
conflict, for it is not yet certain whether a <DW64> boy is more in
sympathy with the Japanese or the Russians. We finally reach the
interesting side of the hall, and there opens before us a still more
enchanting picture. Behind long buffet-tables, kept scrupulously clean,
and laden with all the delicacies of Russian cookery, from caviar
sandwiches to the splendid mayonnaise of salmon, there bustle neat
waitresses in white caps and broad, white aprons. The prices are
maintained low throughout. The same is true of the warm dishes, the
preparation of which we could watch in the large, open kitchen.
Spirituous liquors are not sold, but in their place kvass, and tea from
the immense copper samovar blinking in the kitchen. The glasses are
continually washed by sparkling water on an automatically turning high
stand. The bright nickel, the reddish shimmer of the copper, the bluish
white tiles of the floor and walls, the snow-white garments of the
cooks, the white light of the arc-lamps could induce a Dutchman to
produce a very effective painting of neatness. We allow ourselves to be
crowded forward, and after a fruitful pilgrimage, pass the folk-singers,
where a part of the crowd is gathered, back towards the central hall,
which we now observe at our leisure. We are struck here, in the first
place, by the colossal portraits of the Emperor and Empress. They are
the hosts here; for the millions for the imposing structure came from
the Emperor's private purse. Then there is an immense map of the Russian
empire for stimulating patriotic sentiments. But there await us still
other pleasures. The entire left wing of the building is occupied by an
enormous popular theatre. To-night Tschaikowski's "Maid of Orleans" is
being played. We purchase tickets at the popular price of one ruble per
seat, whereby we secure a place at about the middle of the extensive
parterre, and are enabled to look over the public in front and at back
of us; and this is not less interesting than the play on the stage. The
seats in the rows ahead of us cost up to two rubles; in the rows at the
back of us up to sixty kopeks. On either side are galleries and standing
room that cost "only" from thirty to seventy kopeks. In comparison with
the prices in the other St. Petersburg theatres those of the "Narodni
Dom" must be considered decidedly popular, even though it is a peculiar
class of people that can spare thirty kopeks to two rubles for an
evening at the theatre, quite aside from the incidental expenses of an
evening drive, of admission, and of wardrobe. But of that later.

We follow the play. The performance is decidedly respectable, from the
leader to the chorus. The setting is quite brilliant, and true to style,
the orchestra well trained, with some very excellent performers among
the soloists. We forget, for the time being, that we are in Russia,
notwithstanding the Russian language and the Russian music. It is
Schiller's heroic composition which has inspired the composer. Dunoi's
Lahire, Lionel, Raymond, Bertram, Agnes Sorel, Charles, the cardinal
appear before us in familiar scenes, and we experience at times quite
peculiar sensations when we again come across this northern night, the
images, the glowing rhetoric of which in the dear tongue of our own poet
had given us the first intoxication of patriotic enthusiasm. The
passionately warm music of Tschaikowski, and the swing of his choruses
intensify the effect of those reminiscences.

But let us return to Russian reality. A thin, black-bearded young man
paces busily through the rows during one of the entr'actes. He exchanges
remarks here and there with the officers and officials, whom he leaves
with a smile. And in the second entr'acte it becomes evident what
preparations had been made here. War had just been declared; the
password had just been given out to arouse patriotic enthusiasm, or, at
least, to make the attempt. Already in one or another of the theatres
the public had thunderingly called for the national hymn. What is proper
in the Imperial Theatre must be acceptable in the popular theatre. The
curtain had fallen after the second act, when suddenly, from one of the
boxlike recesses on the left gallery was heard the call "Hymn! Hymn!"
Everybody looked curiously up. There were there a few uniformed young
men, as we found later, student-members of that patriotic secret
association organized under the patronage of the reactionaries--a stroke
of Suvorin--to watch the progressive students. The orchestra replied to
the call with remarkable alacrity, and the public rose dutifully smiling
and stood to the beautiful hymn. But new shouts were heard. The choir
must join in. The curtain rose obediently, and the entire cast of "The
Maid of Orleans," Charles, Agnes, Jean d'Arc, and Lionel, Burgundy and
England; the people and knights were already properly grouped and joined
in the hymn with the orchestra accompaniment. The public again arose
politely and listened standing. The demonstration was not yet at an end.
It was reported that the hymn was sung three times in the other
theatres, hence that should occur also here. And the public patiently
rises for the third time, and lets the song float over it. The thin,
black-bearded young man, however, rubs his hands with which he joined in
the applause but shortly before, throws a significant glance to his
neighbors, and hastens out. I do not know to this day whether he was an
entrepreneur of the public resort, or a penny-a-liner who had arranged
an interesting piece of local news.

Thus I came to see the birth of one of those patriotic demonstrations of
which the papers were full in the following days. The impression was
anything but striking. The fine hand of the police could be detected in
the arrangement as well as in the audience. It was a forced
demonstration that no one could avoid. I remember from my boyhood the
explosive enthusiasm after the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war, and
the evening after the battle of Sedan. In man's estate I was a
non-participating observer of patriotic demonstrations in Hungary; my
heart beat fast at home as well as in Hungary under the stress of
sympathy. That was a real storm of feeling. Here--wet straw that would
not burn. Worse. An obedient participation--woe to him who did not
participate! and then a sarcastic wink felt as a compensation for the
coercion just experienced.

The difference was never clearer to me between free citizens and Russian
subjects, between national sentiment and obedience, as at these
patriotic demonstrations under police supervision and inspiration.

And now I looked at the public more carefully. Where was the "people"
among the thousands sitting in the theatre, or eddying up and down the
colossal halls? not one hundred, not fifty men or women in the dress of
the common people. All of it what is known in St. Petersburg as the
"gray public," officials, business-men, the class with an income of two
or three thousand rubles. I saw high-school instructors, students with
their girls, modistes, the good, small bourgeois, that often stand
morally and mentally high above the fashionable world; but the people,
in our sense of the term, the workingman, the peasant, for whom the
popular house was really built, in whose name the Czar was made to
contribute, and to whom the building is dedicated, these were absent,
and had to be absent, because they do not possess the schooling that
would enable them at all to enjoy the offerings of the "Narodni Dom."
The court may be persuaded that with such an institution they are
marching in the vanguard of civilization, and that something of the
future state has been realized with an institution that even the
republics of the West do not possess; but the Russian patriots who are
indeed living for their nation, and who would free it from the fetters
of ignorance and superstition, only shake their heads sadly at this
Potemkinism. Sand for the eyes of the philanthropic Czar, another winter
resort for the St. Petersburg middle class; for the people neither
"panem" nor "circenses," but for the paid eulogists a theme at which
enthusiasm may be kindled--that is the "Narodni Dom," the pride of St.
Petersburg. In Zurich, in Frankfort, in any place with real popular
education, this "Narodni Dom" would be an ideal people's house, adapted
to inspire sentiment of citizenship and patriotism, and to elevate the
general culture level. In St. Petersburg it only shows the good
intentions of the Czar and his consort, and the fundamental corruption
of the régime. A sober, enlightened, culture-loving people would not
submit to the autocracy of bureaucratic dictation shown above. It makes
ideal "people's houses," but takes care that as far as possible, this
house be kept free from the people.




XII

RUSSIA'S FINANCIAL FUTURE


I had a long and exhaustive conversation about the material welfare of
the Russian people with a statesman to whose identity I am not at
liberty to furnish even the slightest clew, if I am faithfully to carry
out my promise to guard against his recognition as my informant. They
were several hours of searching criticism, such as I had never listened
to, from a man who through long years had himself been active in a
prominent position, an outpouring quite permeated by the most hopeless
pessimism, and stated with a passion that contrasted oddly with the gray
hair and deeply furrowed face of the speaker. My references to him were
of such a nature that he felt it safe to allow himself the most
uncompromising plainness of statement. But I carried away the impression
that it would be sufficient to give the Russian statesmen the
possibility to speak freely, and there would be left no stone unturned
in that wicked structure that is called "the Russian government," so
great is already the accumulation of bitter anger even among those of
whom it would be supposed that they are the real leaders of the state.
The autocracy cannot even utilize the forces that are at its disposal.

"Yes, fate is cruelly upsetting all our calculations with this war,"
said the statesman, in answer to my question as to the probable effect
of the war on the Russian economy. "No one even suspects what
catastrophe we are facing, thanks to the policy that is just now
celebrating its greatest triumph."

"Is not that a paradox, your excellency?"

"No, not at all. The triumph of our policy is the money reserve at our
disposal, which enables us to mobilize without borrowing. But only
nearsightedness can find therein additional justification of this
economic policy, which, on the contrary, receives with its triumph also
its death-blow."

"May I have a fuller explanation?"

"It may be easily given. Financial and fiscal considerations have
destroyed our economy. You are surprised at this statement. But one must
understand this system. The creation of a gold-reserve, the formation of
a fiscal balance even at the expense of the internal forces of the
nation, are, under certain conditions a necessity. For a backward
agrarian state it is necessary, before all else, to join the more
advanced countries in fiscal economy and guaranteed values, and if that
requires sacrifices, it pays, in the end, in the greater credit
facilities, I might say by the greater financial defense of the state."

"And your excellency believes that the internal development of the
nation was thereby neglected, just as an athlete develops the muscles of
his limbs at the expense of his heart muscles?"

"Certainly; I accept the analogy. We have increased our fighting
efficiency, and have paid for it by internal weakening. I repeat that
there was no other way, if we ever were to pass from the natural to the
money system. This would be the right time to employ the credit thus
secured for internal strengthening. But the war has upset our
calculations and not only has it consumed our cash reserves, but will
also compel us to make new sacrifices. We are in the position of a man
who is still out of breath from running, but must begin running anew in
order to save his life, and may only too easily get a stroke of
apoplexy."

"Has not the industrial development in the western part of the country
strengthened the national finances?"

"No; on the contrary, it has involved sacrifices. And we cannot expect
salvation from these either. We have a yearly increase of two million
souls, and our entire industry does not employ more than two million
workmen. Our national existence must still depend for a long time on our
agriculture, and this, so far from advancing, is becoming poorer from
year to year."

"On account of the industrial policy?"

"No; but you should not forget that this industrial policy has by no
means mastered the system. Nay, had the spirit whence our industrial
policy originated been the ruling spirit, our agriculture would also
have been in a better position; for that is the spirit of enlightenment.
But now the strength of the soil is decreasing; and the peasant has no
manure, nor is he acquainted with any system of cropping under changed
conditions of fertility."

"And why is nothing done for the uplifting of his economic insight?"

"You must ask that of the gentlemen of the almighty police and not of
me. I am of the humble opinion that hunger is beneficial neither to the
soul nor to the body; but in that department where there is more power
than in ours, it is believed that knowledge is under all conditions
injurious to the soul. Also, that too many people should not come
together and take counsel of one another; in the opinion of our
government, no good can come of it. We had appointed commissions for the
uplifting of the peasantry, for road-construction, for the regulation of
questions of credit; but always the results were only conflicts between
the provincial corporations, the zemstvos, and the government."

"What was the cause of these conflicts?"

"The tradition and the guiding principle of the present system, which I
can only designate as the principle of gagging. An administration that
does not oppress the peasantry is not yet to be thought of. Our peasant
needs nothing so much as travelling agricultural teachers. But what
would be the end of such teaching? To Siberia direct. Fear of the
intelligent classes has already become a mania. Intelligence, if it
pleases you, is revolution; only no contact with Liberal elements. The
salvation of our people lies in its isolation."

"But that is the régime of a conquered country! Are not the rulers
themselves Russians? How can they be so cruel to their own flesh?"

"The police official is no Russian. He is quite free from national
sentiment; he is only an oppressor, a detective. Our ministry of the
interior is merely a great detective bureau, a monstrous and costly
surveillance institution. When the notorious 'third division' was
abolished and subordinated to the ministry of the interior it was
considered a step in advance. But it was not the ministry of the
interior that absorbed the 'third division,' but the reverse. We no
longer have administration, but only surveillance, arrest, deportation.
Shall I tell you? Our commission worked honestly. It consisted of
noblemen, high-minded patriots, who took part in working out a project
for the improvement of economic conditions. Only three hundred copies of
the report were printed; it was not meant for general circulation. But
the result of the labors undertaken at our instance was the arrest of
the outspoken, upright critics. Do you consider that an encouragement
for patriotic endeavor? Our merchants and our zemstvos have opened, in
the last six years, one hundred and thirty-six schools without one kopek
of state aid, and with a yearly expenditure of four million rubles. The
instinct for what is necessary is therefore present. Our society should
only be let alone and we also might go through the same development,
perhaps in a slower measure, which Germany has passed through with such
momentous success in the last thirty years--from an agricultural state
dependent on the weather to a mighty industrial country. But Germany is
a constitutional state and we are a police state. Germany has a middle
class; we have none, and the formation of such a class is prevented by
every possible means. The commercial schools are subjected to annoying
conditions because they are under the jurisdiction of the ministry of
finance, where, naturally, a different spirit prevails. The commercial
guilds are making enormous material sacrifices, spending annually,
besides the four millions for maintenance, five additional millions on
buildings, only to retain their autonomy, to keep in their own hands the
staffs of instruction and inspection, and to possess a greater
elasticity of adaptation to local conditions. This sacrifice is
overlooked, and the slightest exhibition of free initiative is jealously
suppressed."

"Your excellency, I find that one cannot discuss the least question of
pedagogy or economics in Russia without touching high politics."

"Very true. You may see from that to what a pass we have come. We have
been going backward uninterruptedly for the last twenty years. The
nobility is losing its estates because it has not learned to manage
them, and has not recovered to this very day from the abolition of
serfdom. But the land does not fall into the hands of the peasants, who
need it, but into those of the merchants. The agricultural proletariat
remains unprovided for. The peasant cannot raise the taxes. The soil
here gives fourfold returns; in Germany eightfold returns. It pays at
the same time, this side of the Dnieper, ten to fifteen per cent.
annually for tenure; in England two to three per cent.; in France and
Germany four to five per cent.; and on the other side of the Dnieper,
where long tenures are in vogue, five to six per cent. Remember that
this is a yearly tenure. It is a premium on soil robbery. Sixty rubles
for the tenure of one desyatin. The peasant cannot raise that amount,
and yet he is compelled at the same time to pay taxes. Year after year
hunger visits entire governments, for the peasants are utterly
impoverished and have not even seed. With an empty stomach and a dark
mind the peasant must bear family, communal, and government burdens."

"I read something similar two years ago in a book by an Englishman."

"You mean _The Russian Conditions_, by Lanin, from the _Fortnightly
Review_."

"Quite right, your excellency. But I considered the description
overdrawn. Moreover, I cannot conceive how abuses could be so clearly
painted as in that book, the statements of which your excellency now
confirms, without any prospects of redress."

"Who is to give redress?"

"The Czar."

"The Czar is living behind a Wall of China. He has never visited a
'duma' (city council), never a zemstvo (district council), never a
village, never an industrial centre. He is kept by the camarilla in
constant dread, and is so closely watched that he sees not a
finger's-breadth of heaven, much less of earth. He rejoices when an
occasional quarrel breaks out among the ministers, for he then has the
opportunity to learn here and there a fragment of truth."

"And does no one succeed in representing to him conditions as they are?"

"I will make a confession to you. Not very long ago I myself prepared a
paper, not bearing my name--that would have offered certain
difficulties--but anonymous, and had it transmitted to the Czar by a
trustworthy person. For eight days there was great joy at the court. The
Emperor and the Empress were delighted to know where the trouble lay and
how it was to be remedied. Then the whole matter, as it were, vanished
and was forgotten."

"Then that already is pathological."

A shrug of the shoulders was his answer. "Above all things there is the
great anxiety and fear at the responsibility. There is also a weakness
on account of conscientious scruples. The Emperor knows nothing
thoroughly enough to enable him to overcome the arguments of a skilled
sophist, and he is too indulgent to say to one of his counsellors, 'Sir,
you are a cheat.' He hears in the reports only praise of somebody, never
any censure. For he has a great dread of intrigue, and not without good
reason. The atmosphere is a fearful one in the vicinity of every
autocrat. The Czar is pathetically well-meaning, and is modesty itself,
but he is not the autocrat for an autocracy, who must be equal to his
task."

"And what, in your excellency's opinion, should be done to help the
country?"

"No more than the rest of the world has already accomplished. Abolition
of the police system, security of personal freedom, abolition of the
censorship, discontinuance of the persecution of sectarians, who are our
best subjects, and--I say the word quietly--a constitution."

"And would the country really be helped thereby?"

"Unconditionally. With these little concessions to-day any political
convulsion could be avoided, and the intelligent class freed from its
fetters. No one knows what will be offered ten years from now."

"Are there prospects of this concession?"

"Not the slightest. On the contrary, whoever falls under the suspicion
of unconditional approval of the present system may be morally destroyed
at any time."

"What will then be the end?"

"That the terror from above will awaken the terror from below, that
peasant revolts will break out--even now the police must be augmented in
the interior--and assassination will increase."

"And is there no possibility of organizing the revolution so that it
shall not rage senselessly?"

"Impossible. Our rural nobleman is, to be sure, not a junker; but the
strength of the régime consists in the exclusion of any understanding
between the land-owners and the peasants because of the social and
intellectual chasm between them."

"Your excellency, I remember a saying of Strousberg's, who was a good
business man, 'There is nowhere a hole where there once was land.' One
learns to doubt that here in Russia. There is not one with whom I have
spoken who would fail to paint the future of this country in the darkest
colors. Can there be no change of the fatal policy that is ruining the
country?"

"Not before a great general catastrophe. When we shall be compelled, for
the first time, partly to repudiate our debts--and that may happen
sooner than we now believe--on that day, being no longer able to pay our
old debts with new ones--for we shall no longer be able to conceal our
internal bankruptcy from foreign countries and from the Emperor--steps
will be taken, perhaps, towards a general convention. No sooner."

"Is there no mistake possible here?"

"Martin Luther hesitated as long as he had not seen the pope, no longer
after that. Whoever, like myself, has known the state kitchen for the
last twenty-five years, doubts no longer. The autocracy is not equal to
the problems of a modern great power, and it would be against all
historical precedents to assume that it would voluntarily yield without
external pressure to a constitutional form of government."

"We must wish, then, for Russia's sake, that the catastrophe come as
quickly as possible?"

"I repeat to you that it is perhaps nearer than we all think or are
willing to admit. That is the hope; that is our secret consolation."

Such was the substance of my long interview with one of the best judges
of present-day Russia, from which I have omitted only those places and
versions which would render their author easily recognizable. For the
rest, I must say here that, with slight variations, the statements of
all the other competent persons whom I had the opportunity to meet
agreed with those of my present informant. The unwritten public opinion
of Russia is absolutely of the same mind in its judgment of existing
conditions; it differs only as to the remedies.

"We are near to collapse--an athlete with great muscles and perhaps
incurable heart weakness," repeated the statesman at parting. "We still
maintain ourselves upright by stimulants, by loans, which, like all
stimulants, only help to ruin the system more quickly. With that we are
a rich country with all conceivable natural resources, simply
ill-governed and prevented from unlocking its resources. But is this the
first time that quacks have ruined a Hercules that has fallen into their
hands? Whoever shall free us from these quacks will be our benefactor.
We need light and air, and we shall then surprise the world by our
abilities and achievements."




XIII

THE RUSSIAN FINANCES


It was shortly after the Port Arthur naval catastrophe that I sought out
a bank director, with whom I had become acquainted, to talk with him
upon the financial effects of the war, that had had such noteworthy
results on the floors of European exchanges. To my astonishment, I found
the comfortable bank director very calm.

"The system will still help us out," said he, evasively, to my question
whether Russia would have to face a financial crisis after the war.

"What system?" said I.

The bank director adjusted his eye-glasses and, with round eyes, gazed
at me for a while. Then, with that burst of candor which so often
surprises us in the Russians, he began:

"We are not children, after all, and neither you nor I is dancing to the
government music to which others are keeping time. We may, therefore,
talk it over calmly. Well, we have a great drum, with which there can be
no marching out of line. It drums. We have never as yet stopped our
payments, like France, Austria, or Turkey. We are, therefore, punctual
payers, hence we shall again secure money."

"Is this a serious argument?" I asked.

"God forbid!" was the answer. "We have paid to secure future credit. But
it seems that this policy of honest debtor is wiser than the occasional
discontinuance of payment, which allows some advance but involves the
loss of credit. We can always repeat to the public that wishes to buy
our bonds, 'Russia is honest; Russia pays; you need have no fear here of
shrinkage.' And so the public buys."

"But the banker must know that the liberality is not real," I rejoined.

"And if he does know it? Is it the banker's business to initiate the
public into the secret sciences? Do not forget that no government pays
to the world such commissions for loans as we do. Prussia pays one-half
per cent., Austria one and a half per cent., we pay three per cent.;
and, confidentially, it does not end with that, but the issuing banks
also get their six per cent., especially when they appear reluctant at
first. For what reason should a commission of three to six per cent. be
paid where the business is as bad as it is? It was Offenheim who said,
'You don't build railroads by moral maxims.' And high finance says that
dividends and bonuses are not paid with moral maxims."

"According to my perhaps unbusiness-like opinion, this is not much
better than stealing."

"Very unbusiness-like, indeed, my friend. The banking world needs no
Nietzsche to stand on the other side of good and evil. Ethics, like
religion, is only for the masses. Just calculate what a commission of
three to six per cent. means on a loan of five hundred to a thousand
million rubles that we shall surely need in this war. Let us say only
three per cent., officially. That means thirty millions--more than sixty
million marks. Do you then think that the banks belong to the Salvation
Army, to imagine that they should renounce such a transaction?"

"Slowly, slowly. You said at first that Russia will need in this war
about a milliard rubles. That would be contrary to what I have heard
from other very reliable sources--namely, that the cash reserve is
supposedly equal to about a milliard rubles."

"I will bet you that in three months we shall not have left a single
kopek of this milliard, assuming that it exists. In agreement with
military experts, who, between ourselves, are not at all optimistic, I
estimate the duration of this war at twelve to eighteen months at least.
With our management, every month costs us at least a hundred million
rubles. Thus you see that a milliard will not be sufficient."

"Well, let us say that the banks cannot reject the business, still they
must, in the first place, dispose of the securities, which will not be
so easy, since the French are thoroughly satiated with the bonds, and,
as the fall in the rate of exchange has recently shown, confidence in
these bonds is no longer any too great."

"They may drop still further," said the banker, smiling. "The fall in
the rate of exchange would have been still worse had not our banks
received a strict order not to turn over the deposited bonds to their
owners during these days of convulsion."

"How? I do not understand this. The issue of the deposited securities to
their owners is delayed?"

"Yes, my friend, that is being done. You again do me the honor to forget
in my office that we are in Russia. Even worse things are done here. At
the order of the minister of finance, the owners of the bonds who wish
to withdraw their deposits are given only a few hundreds or thousands of
rubles for the most pressing needs, but they do not get their bonds.
This is in order to prevent, by all means, the bonds being thrown on the
market and thus increasing the panic."

"But that can be done only here. You have no such power abroad."

"Well, the first alarm did cost a respectable sum. Then the foreign
bondholders came to the rescue and intervened for their own interest.
The price of the bonds was maintained, especially in Germany."

"Why particularly in Germany?"

"Because it fluctuates less in France. There it is in the hands of small
investors who do not run to the treasury at the first opportunity. It is
not as strongly intrenched in Germany, and must be supported there."

"Very well, then, you support my reasoning, and you say that the bond
values are maintained artificially alone. How can you say, then, that
they may be augmented at will by new issues?"

"I say that, because the buyers are an amorphous mass that crystallizes
just as little as a combination of producers is met by a combination of
consumers. The masses may be frightened for a while, but in the long run
they are irresistibly led to spoliation by the great combinations of
capital, and the act of creating current opinion is well known in high
financial circles."

"You forget the independent press."

The banker made a very peculiar grimace. Then he said: "That is not nice
of you. I am speaking to you as if to a member of the profession--like
one augur to another. And when we come to speak of your own profession,
you turn out to be a simpleton. How can you speak of an independent
press, when under the pressure of the high finance of the Russian and
German governments?"

"You will pardon me. I honor your uprightness equally with that of the
greatest of my profession. But I must stop at that. Newspapers are still
guided by morality. And I am willing to bet anything that among our
German papers only a vanishing fraction is susceptible to the arguments
of Witte and his associates."

"And what becomes, then, of the millions that our ministry of finance
is spending to secure good will in the papers towards our finances?"

"I do not want to suspect any one; but the German papers that I know
well are incorruptible."

"Well, let us say that the radical or socialistic press is inaccessible,
and cannot be bought either by our ministry of finance or by the German
bank combinations. There still remains the influence of the German
government, that has its reasons for not allowing the weakening of
Russia to too great an extent. For this is still the keystone of the
conservative system in Europe, and this influence suffices to keep the
unfriendly critics of our financial conditions from all the leading
German papers. That is not even an official favor. I consider it quite
logical for serious papers not to play mean tricks on their foreign
office. But as to the other, the extremely radical writings, they have
no significance for the financial world; and you will not doubt, at this
day, that Germany is doing her best to keep us in good humor."

"Yes, I see with shame and resentment how the German government has been
transformed into something akin to a Russian police ally, with the
blessing of Count Bülow."

"Who surely knows what he is doing."

"Perhaps I myself do not believe that Germany has reason to seek Russian
security, even though there be certain limits even for friendly
services; which limits have long been passed, to the detriment of the
dignity of the German empire."

"I am also willing to believe all that you have told me about the
influence of the high finance, the Russian noble, and German diplomacy.
Yet I cannot conceive how the mass of investors--and after all it is
they who are to be considered--will permanently pay a much higher price
for securities than corresponds to their intrinsic value, as is the case
with the Russian securities, according to the information given me by
Russian statesmen."

"Permanently? Some day it will stop. But when? Even the autocracy or the
social structure will not maintain itself permanently. But meanwhile
there is no power on earth to prevent the great banking institutions
from earning thirty million rubles or more, when there is a chance.
There will be a great bargaining, especially since the French government
will exert itself strenuously to prevent future issue of Russian bonds;
for every new issue depresses the value of former issues, and in these a
great portion of the French national wealth is invested. In the end,
however, German influence will prevail. Germany will advance us the new
funds, because Germany wishes to render us a service; for Germany feels
itself from day to day more and more isolated in Europe, and we are
still not to be despised, either as friends or enemies, in spite of Port
Arthur. Hence the German investor must help out; and, after all, he is
not making a bad transaction when he buys a four-per-cent. bond at let
us say ninety."

"How so?"

"Well, the bank interest is now three per cent. When four rubles are
paid on an investment of ninety rubles having a par value of one hundred
rubles, then the valuation of Russian government securities is not quite
seventy. And that may continue for a long time."

"Do you consider that the real, intrinsic value?"

"The stock exchange knows no intrinsic value. It only knows tendencies.
One hundred rubles' worth of Russian government securities can always be
disposed of at seventy, if all the strings do not break."

"You are evading me. I asked for your personal opinion on the intrinsic
value of the Russian bonds."

"I will give you an answer. As long as our Russian peasant is able to
starve and to sell his grain, as long as there are gendarmes to aid the
tax-collector, and people who are willing to make further loans to us,
so long is the payment of coupons assured. Beyond that the foreign
bondholder has no right to inquire."

"Please tell me whether in your opinion there is a hidden deficit in the
Russian budget, or whether there is none."

"I am telling you that as long as there are people who are willing to
make further loans to us we shall pay the interest. Were our budget a
real one, we should not need to contract new debts in order to pay the
interest on the old ones."

"That is what I wanted to know. And do you consider Russia a really
insolvent country, that cannot really pay its debts, and cannot bear the
burdens of modern national life?"

"On the contrary, Russia is intrinsically so rich a land in uncovered
treasures that it only needs another and a just régime to pay its debts
and to assume still further burdens."

"And this other régime?"

The banker pointed to the east. "Our future is being decided there. If
it goes hard with us there, it may become better here more quickly than
is suspected."

"Hence, worse for the bankers," said I, jokingly.

"People accustom themselves to honesty when there is no other way,"
answered the banker, also jokingly. "And when universal honesty comes
into vogue, it will no longer be a shame to be honest."

With this I parted from the banker, whose pleasing cynicism always
amused me, the more so since I recognized in him the essence of
sterling, honorable views. Later interviews with other members of the
financial world showed me that my first informant conveyed the generally
accepted opinion. Isolated Germany will, for political reasons, and as a
favor to the Russian régime, support Russian credit; the great German
banks will not renounce the splendid loan-issuing business; and the
German investor will permit the imposition upon him of the Russian
bonds. "Sheep must be shorn," coolly said one of the brokers to me, when
I expressed a doubt that the German imperial government would pay for
its political business with the hard-earned pennies of its investors.
Your Bismarck did not hesitate for a moment to throw Russian values into
the street, and to destroy thereby milliards of German property, when it
suited his political convenience. Your present government will not be at
all embarrassed in sacrificing again milliards of German property to
place us under obligation. And, finally, no one is compelled to it.
Whoever is not able to figure sufficiently to see how Wishnegradski
prepared the balances to deceive the eye had better keep his money in
his stocking and not buy securities. If he does buy them, let him bleed.
Another explained, however: "The Germans will buy our bonds. When no
other bait is attractive there is still one left to us. When the
landowner sells his crops, and is thinking of investing his proceeds,
the banker will say to him, 'How about a little of the Russian
securities?' 'But those are supposed to be insecure,' answers the good
fellow. 'The idea! This is only a Jewish trick. Probably on account of
Kishinef.' And the good fellow will hand over his shekels, for he cannot
be fooled about Kishinef."




XIV

A FUNERAL


"You are here at an opportune moment," said one of my St. Petersburg
friends, who had rendered me important services in my studies.
"Mikhailovski died suddenly, and will be buried to-morrow."

"Mikhailovski?" I was almost ashamed to admit that I was entirely
ignorant of the services of this man, and did not understand what
interest his funeral could have for me. My friend had pronounced the
name as if no tolerably well-educated person in all the wide world could
have the least doubt as to its significance. I had to acknowledge again
how little we, in the West, know of Russian life. I am not of the people
who have read least about Russia, but Mikhailovski's name was as
unfamiliar to me as that of Julius Rodenberg to a Chinaman.

My friend enlightened me. Mikhailovski was the editor of the most widely
read Russian monthly, _Ruskoye Bogatstvo_ (Russian Wealth), a
sociologist, and the recognized intellectual leader of radical young
Russia. Nowhere in the world do the weekly and monthly magazines play
such a rôle in the intellectual life of a nation as in the great Slavic
empire. This may be accounted for, on the one hand, by the meagre
development of the daily press, existing under strict censorship, and on
the other by the high degree of scientific and practical development.
The nation is still in a state of nature, and for such a nation there is
really but one vocation--that of general education. This need of general
culture is in accordance with the general modelling of Russian social
life. There is very extensive and fruitful social intercourse; visitors
on estates remain for weeks. This requires a periodically renewed supply
of topics for conversation. And, finally, the nation is in a state of
high political tension. Parliamentary debates wherein this political
tension may be discharged are entirely lacking. Thus there remains only
the home-bred discussions, which, again, are fed only by the reviews.
Thus it happens that the weekly and monthly publications serve at once
as books, newspapers, and parliaments, and that the greatest writers are
enrolled either as contributors or editors on the staffs of the reviews.
Mikhailovski, however, was jointly with the writer Korolenko the editor
of the greatest radical monthly; a man who was the object of a reverence
such as is only accorded in the West to a great orator or party leader.

"Plehve is a lucky dog," continued my friend. "The outbreak of the war
has forced the entire Russian opposition camp into an armistice. It
would be considered unpatriotic to create internal difficulties for the
government, that needs all its power for an external conflict. It is at
least intended to see whether there would be any new provocations on
Plehve's part before further steps are taken in the organization of the
opposition. At any other time an occasion like Mikhailovski's funeral
would lead to great demonstrations and collisions with the Cossacks. Now
it will only amount to expressions of devotion; and it is quite probable
also that the police will avoid a collision. Hence, you may take part
without danger in a demonstration by intellectual St. Petersburg, where,
at any other time, you would be exposed at least to a few blows of the
knout or a temporary arrest at the police station."

"Why do you speak of the knout and the Cossacks?" I asked. "Are not the
police sufficient to maintain order?"

"They are not sufficient in mass-demonstrations, especially where these
are participated in by the student body. Formerly use was made of the
"dvorniks" (janitors) and butchers' clerks to bring the students to
reason. But that is no longer practicable. The "dvorniks" and butchers'
clerks have hesitated of late to come out against the students. They
have discovered that these persons really take their lives in their
hands for the people's sake, and, therefore, are no longer willing to do
the jailer's work. And so the Cossacks must hold forth; and they know no
pity."

We therefore agreed to meet in front of the deceased publicist's house.
Such a Russian funeral is a full day's work. It begins early in the
forenoon, and it is dark when you return home. In front of
Mikhailovski's house I saw Korolenko--a still robust man, with very
curly gray hair and beard--and almost all the master-minds of the
intellectual life of St. Petersburg. Even the recently retired minister,
Sänger, showed himself. Many a man was named to me with great reverence.
The foreign public knows not one of them, and so I may forego the
repetition of their names. It should be mentioned here, however, that in
Russia a distinguished man tries to show his distinction by his dress
and appearance, as far as possible. Here an original way of dressing the
hair is one of the marks of distinction, and so one sees many striking
heads. There is no getting along without some posing. I noticed, too,
that scarcely one of the forty or fifty men I had become acquainted with
was absent from the funeral. Now, these forty or fifty persons belong to
most widely different social and political groups, so that the radical
publicist could not have possibly had the same significance for each of
them. But every one was present and was noticed. In fact, every new
appearance was noted by the crowd. Most of them knew one another. The
loose but yet effective organization of opposition in Russia had never
been so clear to me as now. The unwritten public opinion, I had
frequently noted, orders every intellectual to take part in this mute
demonstration against the régime; and this dictation is more readily
submitted to than the legitimate one. I do not believe our newspapers in
the West could even approximately replace this intimate contact
established day by day among these thousands in a manner mysterious to
me. It is as if St. Petersburg were fermented by some medium in which
every impulse is propagated with furious speed. And people have an
incredible amount of time for politics in St. Petersburg. People in
Russia have in general more time than we hurrying Westerners can
conceive.

The coffin was carried from the house, where a religious service had
already taken place, to the church across the street, and there a new
service was begun. The church was so quickly filled that hundreds had to
remain outside. But I was advised by my companion to go to the cemetery;
for the funeral proper takes place only there, and it is of importance
to secure a good place. We attended to various matters in the city, and
reached, after more than a half-hour's ride in the sleigh, the cemetery
where rest the city's celebrities. Names are again mentioned to me with
respect and reverence. What an unsubstantial thing is fame, after all.
The few sounds that fill one with awe fall on the unheeding ear of
another. Another sphere, and nothing remains of the words that are
esteemed in the first.

We stamp through the snow along the narrow paths between the
gravestones towards the spot where the deceased is to find his last
resting-place. A densely packed multitude is already pushing towards the
newly dug grave. Near-by a mausoleum, with open portico, is already
entirely occupied by women. We attempt to find a place there. We are met
by hostile glances. Then one of the ladies approaches me and says
something in Russian, which, of course, I do not understand. I express
my regrets in German and French. She now excuses herself, declaring that
she had made a mistake. A word from my companion, and the excitement is
at once allayed.

"It was nothing," he explained to me. "They did not know whether you
were a spy or a foreigner. They know it now, and are no longer uneasy.
People know one another in this circle. But you are an entirely new
person that must first be classified." Evidently my companion played a
prominent part in this society without statutes, for a place was made
for me with the greatest readiness; so that I found myself among none
but celebrities, whose names were mentioned by the young ladies standing
near in respectful whispers. They were mostly writers, scholars, and
professors; among them was also the author of a work on Siberia, which I
had read with horror years ago. He had already spent twelve years of his
life in exile, and now he was again exposing himself to oppression by
the authorities. Although the police were still out of sight, it would
have hardly been advisable for a spy to appear here. Among the thousands
of men, women, and girls who were already densely crowded about the
grave, there was not a single person that was not acquainted with at
least a part of those present. Suddenly there was a commotion in the
crowd. A name is mentioned and repeated resentfully. Suvorin. Who is
Suvorin? The editor of the _Novoye Vremya_. He was supposedly seen by
some one. What impudence! Where is he? He shall at once leave the
cemetery! But it was only a false alarm. Suvorin would not dare to come
here; and why not? I inquire about the nature of his paper. Is it a
_Libre Parole_ or _Intransigeant_? Is it nationalistic or clerical? An
old gentleman who hears my question replies, turning towards me:
"No-ism, scoundrelism." I see how the word is winged and is approvingly
repeated in a widening circle. Yes, the most widely circulated sheet in
Russia, which enjoys government patronage and the best and most
authentic news from all the departments, is branded here with the
deepest contempt by the flower of Russian intelligence as a
well-poisoner, a worthless cynic. Russia is surely a remarkable land, it
does not grant a license for baseness even to anti-Semitism. The hours
follow one another. The snow under our feet had turned to water, and
then again to ice, but it is no longer possible to leave one's place. We
are ranged shoulder to shoulder, the men scarcely able to make room
enough for the women to keep them from being crushed against the trees
and gravestones. An elderly woman, with remarkably delicate features,
and wrapped in a thin cloak, is standing quite near me. She has been
here since ten o'clock this morning--that is, more than four hours. I
feel almost ashamed of my fur coat and my felt overshoes when I see that
bit of intelligent poverty standing near me. My neighbor and myself
succeed, without her noticing it, in placing her between our coats, so
that she might feel somewhat warmer. And thus thousands of women and
girls are standing, old and young, down to the unsophisticated
school-girl, pretty and homely, all of them patient and orderly; and
what impressed me especially was the absence of the least trace of
flirting between the men and women students. All of them were possessed
by one sentiment--by political passion and the yearning for freedom. I
am not foolish enough to think that in Russia erotic tendencies are
eliminated in the intercourse between the youth of the opposite sexes,
but nothing of it is noticeable here, and I must assume from this that
frivolity and cynicism have no abode in this generation. All those who
are standing here run the gantlet of imprisonment and deportation, and
frivolous thoughts have no room here.

We hear, at last, the indistinct noise that heralds the approach of a
great crowd of people. Then the noise becomes more differentiated--it
changes into song. It is the student body following the coffin with
songs of mourning over the miles of road. They sing beautifully, in
wonderful polyphonic choirs, do the Russians; even envy must follow the
song. They have a perfect ear. After the long waiting the final
deliverance through its solemn notes affects the heart strangely. And
now a new wave of approaching humanity. The impossible becomes possible,
the students crowd past us and gather about the grave. The coffin is
lifted over our heads and into the noose of the dull gravedigger. A
moment of silence. Then the pope reads a short prayer and gives a short
funeral sermon on the departed brother in Christ. Then only does the
funeral ceremony proper begin. The pope steps aside. A white-haired man,
a university professor, whose name passes from mouth to mouth, extols
the departed champion of freedom. He is followed by a poet speaking in
swinging verse. Then a woman. Then a student. Then a woman again, in
irregular, improvised order. Then my neighbor, the man from Siberia,
calls out to the students. Then begins a song full of fervor and
passion. Then a woman speaks again, and after her a young girl. The
police, hundreds of them, with many officers, are crowded quite into the
background. It is better so. For of all the speeches I distinguished but
one word, spoken in passionate tones, "Svoboda! Svoboda!" (Liberty!
Liberty!). And, as if that word were a signal, it calls forth sighs and
weeping and the gnashing of teeth. It is an indescribable drama, a
terribly exciting scene. I cannot control myself, and cry out to my
neighbor, "Make the poor girl keep still," and I point towards the
police, but I am not understood. They have all been seized by a
religious fanaticism that makes martyrdom bliss. How truly lovable they
are, these educated people that still have an ideal and are strange to
the base satiety that so sadly deforms our Western youth! And how the
heart contracts at the thought that all this beautiful enthusiasm must
vanish without result; that the longing and inspiration are helplessly
shivered against the brutality of the Cossacks and gendarmes!

We left the consecrated ground in a strange intoxication after a tiring
struggle with the densely packed crowd that would move neither forward
nor backward. "It is not the business of the police to maintain order,
but only to keep people under surveillance." I have been astonished to
this very day that no one was trampled to death in the crowd.

I heard a few days later that the statistician Annenski, an old man of
sixty-five, was arrested for having delivered one of those impassioned
speeches at the grave. A number of men of irreproachable character,
among them the historian who was the first speaker there, testified that
Annenski was not one of the speakers. I could have testified to that
myself, for I stood among the speakers, and each one was named to me.
But the police would not give up its victim. Annenski was still in
confinement when I left Russia. Now he is banished to Reval for four
years, because they had found in his house a few numbers of Struve's
periodical.

I, however, carried away with me from Mikhailovski's grave the certainty
that the coming generation is lost to the reaction. Young Russia, in so
far as it possesses an academic education, is liberal, both the men and
the women. And thus that funeral day was for me the most hopeful day
that I had lived in Russia.




XV

THE CHINOVNIK (THE RUSSIAN OFFICIAL)


Czar Nicholas I. is known to have been a great admirer of Gogol's
"Revizor." Yet a more bitter satire on Russian officialdom than this
realistic comedy does not exist. Plenty of utterances of the czars who
have followed Nicholas are quoted to show that none of the supposedly
unlimited monarchs of Russia has been in the least hazy as to the
qualities of his most trustworthy servants. When, nevertheless, fifty
years after the death of Nicholas I., the camorra of officials makes
more havoc than ever, and obstructs all development of the Russian
nation with the close meshes of its organization, as with a net of steel
wire, this strange phenomenon is to be explained only in two ways.
Either the czars who so clearly recognized the evil must have been
unscrupulous cynics, who only laughed at corruption and had no feeling
for the sufferings of their people, or else their power was not
sufficient to break that of their servants. The omnipotence of autocracy
must have found its limits in the omnipotence of the oligarchy of
functionaries. The first of the possible explanations may be set aside
without further consideration. The autocrats, without exception, have
desired the good of their people, and have been personally upright men
and lovers of justice. If they had been strong enough to create a
trustworthy and industrious official service, instead of their idle and
corrupt one, they would certainly have done so. Only the second
explanation, then, is possible. The power of the czardom has had to
capitulate to that of the oligarchy of officials.

This explanation, however, requires a further one. What wrecked the
attempts of well-intentioned autocrats at reform? These men did not
understand joking; and open opposition to orders of the Czar is
absolutely unthinkable, when punishments such as exile to Siberia are
given for much slighter offences. Is it possible that the Russian nation
stands morally so much lower than all others that honest and industrious
servants of the state are not to be found at all? That would be hard to
believe. For if men are approximately alike in any one particular it is
in average morality. The Russian is not more immoral or dishonorable
than the German or the Frenchman. Fifty years ago the officials in
Austria and Hungary also were still very corrupt, and Frederick William
I. was obliged, even in morally strict Prussia, to use all his energy in
taking steps against the state officials, who acted on the principle of
the proverb, "Give me the sausage, and I'll quench your thirst" (Gibst
du mich die Wurscht, lösch ich dich den Durscht). Besides, the
experiment of regenerating the official service with foreigners has
also been tried in Russia, especially by Alexander II. In the imperial
library at St. Petersburg I came upon a little French pamphlet in which
a Russian patriot laments in the most passionate terms because Czar
Alexander II. was surrounded by an impenetrable wall of officials from
the Baltic provinces, who let no one but their congeners rise on the
rounds of the official ladder. The complaints made of the dictatorship
of officials were, however, the same, although it was not denied that in
industry and honesty the Germans from the Baltic provinces surpassed the
native Russians. Under Alexander III. unmistakable orthodox opinions and
the purest possible Russian descent were necessary in order to gain the
good-will of the omnipotent Pobydonostzev and of the Slavophils. The
misery, however, remained the same, except that it was in some degree
relieved by the greater corruptibility of the native Russians. For--to
show the utter preposterousness of the whole system--the Russian people
find it much pleasanter to deal with bribe-taking officials than with
honest ones. You may hear it said often enough in Russia, "The Russian
autocracy is alleviated by the ruble; without the ruble life would not
be at all endurable." There must, therefore, exist some fatal cause
which prevents any improvement of conditions. Even evils do not grow old
without some necessary reason for their existence.

In order to explain this it must be clearly understood what the
Russians really complain of in their officials. They thought themselves
no better off under the system of Alexander II., with the infusion into
the service of more honest and industrious elements. Hence it appears
not to be primarily the dishonesty or idleness of the bureaucracy which
provokes the most complaints. This is, indeed, the fact. What drives the
Russians to despair, and what they feel to be the grossest evil of the
country, much more than the domination of the Czar alone, is the tyranny
of the official caste, which forms a state within the state, and has set
up a special code of official morality quite peculiar to itself. As to
how far the possibility of such a class development is consistent with
the autocracy as such will be inquired into below. A ring of officials
is not absolutely excluded even in republics, as is shown by Tammany
Hall in New York. Only in constitutional states it rests with the people
to put an end to evil once recognized, but in an autocracy it does not.
Before going further, however, it is necessary to make clear to the
foreign reader what is meant in general by such a tyranny.

Therefore, let us say, for example, that you have been seen on the
street with a person who, for some reason, and naturally without knowing
it himself, is under police surveillance. Of course you yourself are
from this moment under suspicion, and therewith delivered up to the
official zeal of the whole, widely ramified organization, for the
protection of the holy order. From that time forth letters directed to
you do not reach you, or else bear a mark showing that by a remarkable
accident they were found open in the letter-box and had to be officially
sealed. You are surprised some night by the visit of an officer and of a
dozen sturdy police officials, who rouse your children from their beds
and search through your house from garret to cellar. If there should
happen to be found in your possession a German translation of a novel of
Tolstoï's, or any book or newspaper which stands on the police index,
with which you naturally are not acquainted, off you go to prison with
the agents of the law. Here you remain, well taken care of, pending a
thorough-going investigation of the facts of the case. This lasts from
three days to six months, as the case may be, according to your
popularity or to the influence which your friends are able to bring to
bear. It is not the slightest protection for you that you are a
well-known householder, a busy physician or lawyer, of whom it might be
assumed that even without imprisonment he would not immediately turn his
back on the place of his profession. To prevent the danger of collusion,
so that you may not hide the traces of your crime, you remain to the end
under lock and key, with the invaluable right to maintain yourself
meanwhile at your own expense. You will endure this little inconvenience
calmly, as becomes a man, hoping that your friends will take care of
your wife and children during this time and not let them actually
starve. It is certainly unpleasant if your pretty daughter, who is
studying history or art or philology, attracts the eye of the sacred
"hermandad" and is carried off some night as a political suspect, and
you can find by no pleading in what prison she is kept pending
investigation. It is still more vexatious for you to know that your
young son, a student, is in the hands of the police, since this young
man has not yet learned self-control, and may possibly come to blows
with his tormentors, who drive him so far that, finally, in order to put
an end to his sufferings, he sets himself on fire with his own kerosene
lamp and ends his life. I cite here only facts which came to my
knowledge from the circle of highly respected families which I met
during my stay of barely seven weeks. You yourself are, according to the
degree of your offence, expelled for several years from the place of
your profession or, at the worst, exiled to Archangel or Siberia.
Finally, a crime on your part is not necessary. It is sufficient that
you are not found loyal and respectful to the police.

These evidently are little unpleasantnesses which do not sweeten life
for the citizen or greatly increase his loyal sentiments. They exert,
however, a much more injurious effect on those who are in a position to
inflict such torments on people who are to any extent in their disfavor.
Travellers tell of tropical madness which seizes Europeans in the
torrid zone. Since my experiences in Russia I am no longer inclined to
regard this phenomenon as climatic. There is only one madness, that is
the frenzy of domination to which every morally weak person is exposed
when his lust for power meets with little or no opposition. This
phenomenon is not less well known in our barrack-rooms, where discipline
breaks down all opposition, than in prisons. Non-commissioned officers,
and also many officers and prison officials, are easily seized with this
madness, which is nothing but the spirit of the Prætorian Guard on a
small scale. The German abroad, especially the young German noble, is
most easily susceptible to it. He even likes to make up to himself a
little in the primitive East for the strict provincial training to which
he was subjected among the loyal and more moral ideas of his home. Hence
the preference of Alexander II. for German officials caused no
improvement in this respect.

In addition to the madness of power, which in itself is bad enough,
there is, however, still another thing. The best elements in Russia do
not select the political or police services. The pay is wretched, and
can only be supplemented by illicit revenues. These illicit revenues
arise from prompt releases from formalities, for which the interested
persons show themselves grateful, and from carrying into effect orders
against the Jews, who, for this very reason indeed, cannot be better
established legally, because if they were a great part of the official
service would lose a principal source of revenue from toleration-money.
Men of the better class turn away as a matter of course from a career
which depends upon such revenues. Hence it is not exactly the best who
serve as executives of the power of the state. In official service there
is also another aim--namely, to rise constantly to higher and more
lucrative positions. For this there is only one rule, that of
maintaining absolute good conduct in the eyes of the higher authorities.
The higher authorities, however, consist of chinovniks, who have only
one interest, that of the supremacy of their class and the prevention of
anything that could injure its omnipotence. So it goes on up to the
highest oracle; to the man to whom primarily is intrusted the protection
of the Czar and of the autocracy; to the minister of the interior.
Imagine this office held by a man like Plehve, and you will understand
what spirit rules under the pashas of sleepy villages down to the last
provincial hamlet. Cæsarian madness, aspiration for higher positions,
class interest, all work together to produce entirely conscienceless
libertines and barbarians, against whom there is no protection whatever.
In a land without a parliament or a free press every complaint has only
the effect of a denunciation of the devil to his grandmother. The
complainant can by no means reckon the consequences, even if, indeed,
the culprit is not especially rewarded for his official zeal. It is
much better to stand in with the authorities, not to kick against the
pricks, but to pay.

And the Czar? Either he hears nothing of all these things or they are
represented to him as indispensable for the preservation of order. If it
is hard to make a successful stand even in constitutional states with
parliament and press, in the rare enough cases of despotic justice, it
is immensely harder where the protection of authority is the highest
principle of government, and where no institution whatever exists for
the protection of the subject. It should not be at all surprising, then,
that the reign of terror from above tries to countermine the terror from
below. Indeed, it is only a proof of the patience and gentleness of the
Russian people that attempts upon official criminals are so rare. I was
the more ashamed when, during my stay in Russia, I read that German
statesmen were hurling words of condemnation against Russian patriots
who, careless of their own lives, had declared war against the brutal
officials. However far the desire to preserve a good-neighborly
relationship may go, a German politician does not need to ingratiate
himself with the Russian régime. In doing so he exposes himself to the
condemnation which that régime invariably calls forth when people know
its administrative methods. German authorities ought not to lend their
assistance to a body which a patriot and strong monarchist like Prince
Ukhtomsky, the friend of the Czar, called a Camorra, a band of
anarchists in office. Our sympathies ought rather to go out to those who
strive to gain for Russia also a court where the shackled nation can
bring its cry for help to a hearing--a parliament, however modest; a
press not subjugated by the tyranny of the police. Only by these means
can a nation full of good qualities be freed from the reign of terror of
the chinovniks, from the Camorra of officials.




XVI

THE SUFFERINGS OF THE JEWS


The brutal persecutions of the Jews under Plehve have involved
unspeakable misery; but a beneficial effect also, not to be
underestimated. The entire public sentiment of Russian society has
become friendly to the Jews. In numerous conversations with inhabitants
of the Russian capitals, including people from all strata of society,
only once have I heard a word expressing ill-feeling towards the Jews.
The speaker in this instance was a colonel of Cossacks, on his way to
the front, who assured me in all sincerity that the English are a "vile
Jew-nation"! With this exception, all protested against regarding the
Russians as enemies of the Jews. The Jews are victims of the murderous
Russian politics, like the Poles, the Ruthenians, and the Liberals. This
appeared to be the generally accepted idea. The natural consequence of
this idea is that the Jews have the sympathy of all parties opposed to
the government. While the officials are bringing deliberately false
accusations against the Jews, unofficial Russia sides with the latter.
The situation is similar to that which existed in the West before the
emancipation of the Jews, when Liberal political doctrine was directly
inculcating philo-Semitism; the only difference being that among the
people of Russia no anti-Semitic feeling whatever exists. Therefore,
during any crisis of assimilation consequent upon emancipation, there
would be little fear of an anti-Semitic reaction such as that
experienced in the West.

There is one class which is pleased by the perpetual hunting-down of the
Jews by the _Novoye Vremya_ and its offshoots in anti-Semitism. This is
the class of small tradesmen, notorious for their dishonesty, who are
thankful that they are protected from Jewish competition. For the rest,
all Russia wishes the repeal of the laws enacted in restriction of the
Jews.

The government, of course, endeavors to persuade foreigners that to
permit the Jews to settle beyond the pale would mean the Judaization,
and the consequent ruin, of all Russia. This assertion is made in spite
of their knowledge that the contrary is true. A memorial in regard to
the Jews, written in 1884 by Ivan Blioch, and published by the ministry
of the interior--_The Jewish Question in Russia_--shows by statistics
that the greatest percentage of pauper peasants is found in the Jewless
governments of Moscow, Tula, Orel, and Kursk; that the prosperity of the
peasantry in the governments within the pale is incomparably higher than
in the territory from which the Jews are excluded. The arrears of
revenue in districts in which there are no Jews are three times as great
as in the pale. As a result, the land purchased by peasants by means of
the peasants' banks is much greater in extent in the latter than in the
former districts. The usurers who advance money to the peasants at from
three hundred to two thousand per cent. are without exception
Christians. The assertion that the Jews tempt the people to drunkenness
stands morally upon about the same level as the statement that the Jews
are never found engaged in agriculture. The latter statement is true,
but only because the Jews are not allowed to live in the open country.
The government has now monopolized the retail sale of spirits, thus
driving out of the business thousands of Jewish tavern-keepers. This
measure, however severe, is viewed with satisfaction by intelligent Jews
as tending to improve the morals of the Jewish masses.

All these are only idle excuses in justification of the policy of
extermination of the Jews, which policy has in reality a quite different
cause. Three conditions have already been cited, any one of which is
alone sufficient to place the unhappy Jews of the great prison state in
an especially bad situation, and also to expose the régime in all its
depravity--a depravity almost incomprehensible to western Europeans.

The first is the great influence which the rich Russian usurers possess
with the authorities. If Shylock is angry with the merchant prince of
Venice because the latter lends money without interest, in Russia the
rôles of the contestants are reversed. The Jew also exacts usury where
he can--no one in seriousness pretends to be surprised at this, in view
of the deliberate demoralization of the pale--but in comparison with his
Russian colleague he keeps within modest limits, being indeed compelled
to do so by his circumstances. He necessarily prefers to keep the debtor
solvent rather than to drive him out of house and home, which he, the
Jew, moreover, cannot buy in. The Russian usurer, on the other hand, is
accustomed to show no mercy, because he calmly seizes the land of his
victim, and either leases it or sells it at a profit or adds it to his
own property. For a great part of the Russian usurers belong to the
guild of village usurers. These people influence the under authorities
with bribes, while the great speculators, the millionaire usurers of
Moscow and St. Petersburg, who likewise would have to fear the milder
methods of their Jewish competitors, are powerful enough to influence
senators and ministers according to their wishes. The Russian usurer,
therefore, is the first complainant and enemy of the Jews.

The second and more powerful cause is the spirit of Pobydonostzev, the
fanatic of uniformity. Combining in himself the qualities of jurist,
theologian, and scholastic, he is too barren in mental powers to master
the conception of a state which should take into account any diversity
of creed or race. Above all, however, any toleration would undermine the
three pillars upon which alone his conception of the Russian empire can
rest--autocracy, orthodoxy, and Russianism. For the preservation of this
Asiatic, uniform, absolutist régime, or, better, of the omnipotence of
hierarchy, it is above all necessary to keep the people in absolute
subjection. This, again, is possible only when every chance of learning
anything else than their own condition is closed to them. A prisoner who
endangered the spirit of blind obedience by a tendency to dispute orders
could not be tolerated in a prison. As little can the great Russian
prison state endure men who might lead the prisoner to think whether he
must be absolutely a prisoner. Of such thoughts, however, the Jews, who
are subject to special taxation, are suspected above all others. Their
criminality is certainly of the smallest; they are the most punctilious
of tax-payers, and, moreover, the best-conducted citizens in the world.
But they are--Heaven knows why--perhaps because of their
Talmudic-dialectic occupation, perhaps also because as pariahs they have
little cause to be enthusiastic over the ruling order--they are
inexorably subtle critics of all existing things, and so could easily
upset the simple minds of the Russian lower classes. That is the chief
reason why they are surrounded by a cordon of plagues. The paternal
precaution of the Russian government is of course not much wiser than
the conviction so many mothers entertain of the unshaken faith of their
children in the story that the stork brought the baby. Quite without
Jewish criticism the Russian peasant, under the never-resting lash of
hunger, begins to think and to grumble; and although his unruly
sentiments express themselves chiefly in the specifically Russian form
of the organization of religious sects, nevertheless each new sectarian
shows a new desertion from Pobyedonostzev's ideal of a Russian subject.
Upon the organization of sects, however, the Jews have of course no
direct influence whatever.

The third cause of the persecution of the Jews is to be found in the
Satanic brain of Plehve, who wishes to furnish to the humane Czar, and
perhaps still more to the Czaritza, who has western European ways of
thinking, an indication that without the Jews there would be no
opposition whatever in Russia. For this purpose he not only has the Jews
entered more strictly on the police-registers, if they are guilty of any
political offence, such as being present in a forbidden assemblage, but
he also directly provokes them, in order to drive them into the ranks of
the revolutionaries and thereby to compromise the latter. In Hungary and
Bohemia ritual murder cases were incited in order to give the Jews a
lesson to remember, and to make them national--_i. e._, more Magyar or
Czechic--in feeling, since they stubbornly persisted in remaining
German. In Russia, however, they are driven into the camp of the
revolutionaries, in order to extirpate the former and to cast suspicion
upon the latter. Nevertheless, some governors, who in other respects
readily comply with the directions given from above, yet dare to step in
in behalf of the Jews, contrary to the measures appointed by higher
authorities, as for example, Prince Urussoff, governor of Bessarabia,
who is to be thanked that in spite of all the efforts of Krushevan, the
creature of Plehve, no outbreaks of the mob against the Jews took place
in Kishinef recently.

As personal but nevertheless effectual causes of the persecution of the
Jews, the anti-Semitism of the dowager Empress and of the Grand-Duke
Sergius, governor-general of Moscow, must be mentioned. Respectively
brother and wife of Alexander III., they conservatively hold to his
opinions. This unfortunate and narrow-minded man had been persuaded by
conscience-smitten persons that Jewish army-contractors were the cause
of the defeat of the Russians in the Turkish war; and it was as hard to
get an idea out of his head as to get one in. The inclination of the
Grand-Duke Sergius to torture human beings amounts to a disease. He can
satisfy it most easily upon the defenceless Jews.

The final cause of the persecution of the Jews, and one which is
regarded by many people as the weightiest, is the certain income which
legislation against the Jews means for every unscrupulous official.
Most of the laws passed against the Jews are quite impossible of
execution, or are executed only in a very imperfect way, thanks to the
corruptibility of the Russian officials. "Absolutism palliated by
corruption"--this bitter saying fits the case of the Jews best. Yet what
relieves the situation for them in a certain way renders it worse for
them in another. It certainly is a question whether the ransom-money of
one generation will not become the purchase-money of the next. The
Russian bureaucracy will not be willing to renounce its income from
bribes and extortions. Thus it prevents all legislative decrees in favor
of the Jews. These poorly paid, much feared, but still despised
officials are, in the inclined plane of their evil consciences, quite as
much victims of the system as the Jews, but in a different way. We are
all human, whether Christian or Jew, and in the long run, under the
operation of the most depraved of all rules, neither the one nor the
other can keep himself pure. The worst thing that has happened to the
Jews, however, is not, as can well be understood, an occasional "pogrom"
(riot), in which, to the indignation of all civilized mankind,
defenceless people are slain and plundered by command of the
authorities. The worst is the restriction to particular zones and to
particular callings. That is systematic massacre, a deliberate policy of
destruction and extirpation. Even if the misery of the ghetto has,
thanks to the strict abstemiousness of the Jews, failed as yet to kill
them in the way that the peasantry, weakened by alcoholism, are killed
in the famine provinces, nevertheless the moral result is frightful.
Even the iron family morality of the Jews is shaken in the western
governments. A deplorable percentage of prostitutes is made up of
Jewesses. Experience shows that sexual deprivation is the beginning of
every other form of degeneration. Moreover, the matter does not
generally end with the individual who sinks into prostitution. The
ethical ideas of such a morally defective person spread contagion in a
wide circle. Families are broken up, or unchastity makes its way into
them. The whole conception of life becomes different when the chastity
of women becomes an article of trade or an object of ironical
scepticism. Still, in comparison with their environment even these Jews
may be called chaste, for they are merely stained by the barbarism of
the Orient. But it is, nevertheless, monstrous that in a Christian
country the hard-won sexual morality of a part of the population, once
gained, must be endangered only because malevolent politics will have it
so. The moral purity of the Jews and of the Teutonic races has redeemed
the world from the deep depravity of the Roman decadence. Now a
Christian state policy destroys a part of the iron stability of this
moral acquisition of humanity.

It is self-evident that whoever can tries to free himself from the
misery of the ghetto. Even Russian legislation has left some small
gates open, and through these the struggling Jews squeeze themselves
with every exertion of strength and cunning. Then there ensues a battle
between brutality and artfulness--one not lacking in elements of humor.
The authorities, hostile to the Jews, try of course to prevent too many
of them from escaping from the ghetto and from settling in cities which
it is desired to keep as free from Jews as possible. The Jews, however,
try again and again to evade the prohibitions and the illegally
interpreted ordinances and to settle where there is a possibility of a
means of livelihood. Such cities are, for example, St. Petersburg and
Moscow. The martyrdom which Jews and Jewesses undergo in order to gain
the right to stay in these cities borders on the tragic. A non-resident
Jewess is not allowed to study in these places, but may live there as a
prostitute. An innocent young girl wished to have herself registered as
a prostitute, so that she might attend the university, never suspecting
what formalities she would have to undergo in consequence. In course of
the medical examination, however, the circumstances of the case were
immediately discovered, and the young girl was punished for the
attempted deception and sent away.

A well-known Orientalist, a man of seventy years, had business to
execute in Moscow which he did not succeed in finishing before night. No
hotel would have taken him in; and he could not endanger any of his
friends, for if in the frequent nocturnal rangings of the police in
Jewish dwellings a Jewish guest without a passport should be taken, the
host would lose his right of residence. In his difficulty the old man
asked a railroad official how he could pass the icy-cold night. The man
gave him the good advice that he should seek out the only place where a
man is permitted to take a room and spend the night without a
passport--a brothel. Accordingly, this man of seventy, in order not to
freeze, was obliged to pass the night in a room with a drunken
prostitute, and sat until morning in a chair, praying. The man who
related these facts to me was a Russian author widely known and honored.

A Jew who for five years has paid the taxes of the first guild in a
municipality of the pale receives permission to leave the pale and
settle elsewhere. He must, however, gain permission for each member of
his family through the strictest formalities. Woe to him if a child has
been born to him during that time! It cannot qualify, and it may easily
happen that the father must return to the pale. A Jewish merchant of the
first guild in Moscow tried to obtain permission to send such a child to
school. Admission was refused, because he did not possess the necessary
papers. The father appealed to the senate in St. Petersburg, and asked
for provisional permission for attendance of his child at school until
the passing of a judgment in that place. The minister of justice,
Muraviev, however, entered a protest against this. Therefore the father
was obliged either to employ private tutors or to let the child grow up
without instruction.

Whoever works as assistant to a dentist, and has obtained a certificate,
may open an office for himself. The only requirement for this is that it
shall be well fitted up and that nobody shall sleep in it. This
facilitation is granted because of the fact that in Russia there is a
great lack of dentists. Yet a Jewish dentist went to a lawyer and
complained that he had fitted up his office and had handed in to the
police his request for leave to practise. The police waited three
months, then came and explained that, since he had not practised his
profession for three months, he must immediately leave Moscow. He was
obliged to leave his house immediately, and wander about all night,
because he could nowhere find lodging.

Another Jewish dentist, a woman, wished to take her examination. A
certificate was demanded testifying to her political blamelessness. When
she tried to obtain this it was refused her, since she had no right of
residence there, and therefore could not demand a certificate!

The Jews meet these tricks of the authorities with tricks of their own.
They pay for a dentist's certificate, fit up an office, and then go into
trade in bed-feathers or calico. The police official who wishes to prove
whether the dentist's profession is really practised has some ruble
notes slipped into his hand. Very recently the Jews have found a means
to become known as Christians without baptism, which they shun.
Good-natured priests, who receive nothing at all for a baptism but a
large price for a written declaration that X. Y. is an orthodox
Christian, draw up such declarations. The unbaptized Hebrew comes as an
orthodox Christian to Great Russia and carries on business, while the
helpful priest receives a little income from him.

In general, the Jew must be able to pay; in that case life is not hard
for him in Russia, where, as I have said, no anti-Semitic feeling
whatever exists among the people, and the national characteristics of
good-nature, of heartiness, helpfulness, and politeness make life easy
and pleasant. But woe to the poor wretch who cannot pay at every step!
Woe to the struggler who wishes to better his lot! Woe to the lover of
justice who dares to fight for his rights or even for the public
welfare! One of the special laws for the Jews is that any one may
trample him and injure him unpunished. Of all the unfortunate subjects
of the Czar, he is the most unfortunate. His intelligence, his sense of
justice are offences against the sacred order of things, which demands
stupidity and obedience. Thus exists the entirely incomprehensible
condition that a great realm steers towards inevitable economic ruin for
lack of economic intelligence, while it possesses five million born
financiers, who in the lifetime of a man could change Russia into an
economic world-power.




XVII

THE JEWISH QUESTION


A visit to Russia offers opportunity for an extremely interesting study.
One may become acquainted with a rapid succession of towns where the
population is almost entirely Jewish, or half Jewish, or to a large
extent Jewish, and also with others in which residence is practically
prohibited to Jews, which, therefore, to speak in anti-Semitic jargon,
are almost "clean of Jews." In western Europe there is neither the one
nor the other. It would be strange, indeed, if such ethnologically
unique conditions offered to the observant spectator no disclosures
which he seeks elsewhere in vain. In fact, I made in the cities free of
Jews an observation which seems to me well worth imparting. The Jewish
problem is nothing but a problem of relative overpopulation. The Jews
are unendurable only where they are forced to compete with each other.

I made this observation in the following way: The Jewish proletarians of
Poland impressed me as extremely repulsive. Their laziness, their filth,
their craftiness, their perpetual readiness to cheat cannot help but
fill the western European with very painful feelings and unedifying
thoughts, in spite of all the teachings of history and all desire to be
just. The evil wish arises that in some painless way the world might be
rid of these disagreeable objects, or the equally inhuman thought that
it would really be no great pity if this part of the Polish population
did not exist at all. One is ashamed of such thoughts; nevertheless,
that does not rid one's mind of them. Either we must renounce our ideas
of cleanliness and honesty or find a great part of the Eastern Hebrews
altogether unpleasant. Since the former is impossible, the latter will
always be the case. Comparison with the still dirtier, still more
immoral, still more neglected Polish proletariat does not drive away
these thoughts. The Jew has, besides his filth and his craftiness in
business, something else which calls to mind a nobility of civilization,
so that he cannot be confused with any chance "lazzarone" or vagabond.
He is not himself, but the caricature of a man of culture, and as such
he produces an irritating effect.

In the cities free of Jews all this suddenly disappears. The Jews whom
one has opportunity to meet there, well educated merchants of the first
guild, incorporated artisans, and descendants of the Jewish soldiers of
Nicholas I., are of quite another caliber from their Polish brothers.
They are in no way to be distinguished from the Russians. One is
continually prone to take the bearded Russian driver or merchant for a
Jew and the intelligently keen Jew for a European. Then one learns that
these Jewish lawyers, physicians, merchants, and artisans are treated by
the Russians themselves as their equals in every respect; indeed, that
the Jews enjoy a certain priority as being relatively more honest in
their dealings. On the contrary, the Russians, when large numbers of
them follow a single calling, as, say, in the great mercantile houses or
the ranks of trade, show all the qualities which, to our Western minds,
are stamped as specifically Jewish. They are outrageously obtrusive, and
unreliable to the point of open deception. The German Hanse towns
strictly forbade their merchants to give Russian Jews goods on credit,
to lend them money, or to borrow from them, under penalty of immediate
punishment.[1] In making the smallest purchase one finds that there is
no question of a mercantile reality; that there is no fixed price, no
keeping one's word, nothing that to us in the West has long seemed a
matter of course. Just as in the Orient the Spanish Jews seem much more
reliable and sterling than the rascally Greeks and Armenians, the Jews,
when thinly scattered, gain by comparison with the native Russians. Now
the Russian Jew is no Spaniard, with a proud Western past. He is
altogether identical with the Polish Jew. His higher development cannot
be accounted for by any ethnological difference. It is simply that under
quite different economic conditions of existence he has become a quite
different person. Dr. Polyakoff, of Moscow, is, in fact, another man
from, say, his grandfather, Pollak, of Poland.

With these facts we now approach the real problem. The overcrowding of a
calling engenders a competition in squalor among Christians as well as
Jews, Aryans as well as Semites. The Jews, however, live in overcrowded
callings all over the world, obeying historic laws of adaptation even
where other callings, not overcrowded, are not closed to them. Hence we
have the disagreeable phenomenon of the handing over of certain
vocations to the Jews, which means nothing else than the injury of these
callings by the trickery of the competition of squalor. Where no fetters
are placed on the economic life, the healthy organism, in time,
overcomes these local inflammations, as we may designate, by an
expression taken from pathology, the influx of an abnormal number of
cells of a certain sort to a place not intended for them. The crowding
of the callings until self-support is impossible, the sinking of
endurance in the overcrowded vocation, lead to a flowing off of the
superfluous elements, and finally the whole organism has overcome the
crisis of assimilation by forcing each particle where it is economically
most valuable. In Germany the adjustment cannot be far away. The fact
of the unheard-of economic growth during the past fifteen years, and the
unusual increase of prosperity in all branches, show at least that
Germany in its bare fifty years of Jewish emancipation has been in no
way injured economically.

In Russia, also, the most expedient thing would evidently be simply to
declare the removal of all restrictive laws, and to open to the Jews the
interior of the country, as well as all occupations which they might
wish to enter. The blessing to Russia would be immense, for the Jews, as
thinking men and members of a race of ancient civilization, would bring
to the Russian nation just what it lacks, an intelligent middle class
capable of culture. The percentage of Jews would not be at all too high
for Russia to carry without danger to the national character of society.
To about one hundred and thirty million Russians there are about five
million Jews--that is, barely four per cent. The "Jew-free" cities of
Moscow and St. Petersburg show approximately this proportion, without
the Jews being perceptible there. (It must be admitted that one of the
comforts of these cities is that they are not, like Warsaw, for
instance, overwhelmed with greasy, caftaned Jews.) If it could be
brought about, therefore, that the Jews could be scattered throughout
the whole kingdom in the ratio of four per cent., it would be an
incalculable gain for all parties, and mankind would be rid of a problem
which threatens the condition of our ethics and humanity the more the
longer it exists.

Nevertheless, this is not to be thought of as an immediate possibility.
The Russian government is not in the least gifted with magnanimity and
farsighted patience, though the contrary is true of the Russian people,
who are entirely free from anti-Semitic prejudice. For this reason any
enlargement of Jewish rights of residence and vocation is prevented by
the pointing out of the infection which would then threaten all cities
and all lucrative occupations. The Jewish question will long remain
unsolved, for whom could the Russian officials bleed if not the
tormented, worried, defenceless Jews?

FOOTNOTE:

[1] _Book of Documents of Esthonia, Livonia, and Courland_, Reval,
1852-64, Nos. 576-588, and _Documentary Business of the Origin of the
German Hanse_, Hamburg, 1830, ii., No. ix., p. 27; both cited in Lanin
_Russian Characteristics_, German edition, i., 142.




XVIII

PLEHVE


In the winter of 1881 there took place in Cracow one of those great
socialistic trials with which in those days it was hoped in Austria to
smother the socialistic movements which were imported by unscrupulous
agitators. The trial is known in the annals of social-democracy as the
proceedings against Warnynski and his accomplices. Thirty-five men were
indicted, among them twenty Russians from Volhynia, mostly students of
the Polytechnic Institute in St. Petersburg, who had been arrested in
the work of agitation in Galicia. The prisoners noticed during the
proceedings that they were conducted one at a time, under one pretext or
another, out through a special door of the courtroom, and they could
discover no explanation of this queer course of action. Finally, one of
them, in passing through the door, found the reason. It was a double
door provided with a deep niche. In this niche was a Russian functionary
acting as a voluntary menial to the Austrian police, and at the same
time as a spy in the Russian service, who took this opportunity of
taking cognizance of his own people among those who were led by. Of
course the matter was not closed without the gravest insults to those
caught, who could only be protected against further abuse by the court
constabulary. And this police devotee, who showed such zeal in putting
down international revolution, was no one else than the present
all-powerful figure in Russia, his excellency the minister of the
interior, M. von Plehve, at that time states-attorney in Warsaw. With
this bit of sleuthing, which the Poles very well remember to this day,
this fortune-favored statesman made his début in the world outside of
Russia. He has remained true to his character. He is to-day, at the head
of the greatest state in the world, nothing else but the greatest police
spy in the world. His politics are stamped with all the characteristics
of a police origin, police in the Machiavellian sense--_i. e._, crime in
the service of order. In all Russia I spoke to no one who would have
chosen for the description of Plehve's character any other expressions
than those which serve for the delineation of the lowest level of moral
existence. I shall here try to make a sketch of Plehve in accordance
with the statements about him which were made to me with perfectly
astonishing unanimity.

Justice must be done even the basest. It should be mentioned at the
outset that in a land of universal venality the reputation of Plehve had
this considerable advantage, he was said to be absolutely unbribable.
That is a great deal, a very great deal, when one considers that in
Russia certain legislative acts are quite openly traceable to the
payment of this or that high functionary. Suspicion, which as a rule
does not even spare princes, never once tainted him. But little account
do the Russians take of this characteristic. Probably they would prefer
it if his other evil traits were a bit softened by the vice of venality.
For Plehve passes for something far worse than a spendthrift or a
wasteling. He is a rascal without scruples, a political Sadist, a
bloodhound, an accomplished deceiver; at the same time, a cynic entirely
without heart, a "va banque,"[2] a swindler to whom a political career
or the playing with human lives means nothing more than a pleasant nerve
stimulant--in short, a tiger clothed in a human form. At the same time,
he has the most charming manners, is delightful and entertaining, and
possesses the most true-hearted face possible. His unbelievable
falseness is the next thing about which all complain who have had doings
with him. "Every word that he speaks is a lie," is the assertion which
one oftenest hears about him. The criminal element in his tactics
consists not only in the fact that he persuades the Czar that revolution
is at hand, and keeps him in continual, nerve-killing anxiety by means
of threatening letters, proclamations, and so forth, which he causes to
be smuggled into the Emperor's pockets, but still more in the fact that
he actually provokes disorders, in order to be able to use them as
arguments and to strengthen his position, and in the further fact that
he is continually discovering conspiracies and handling the supposed
members in the most fearful way in order to prove his indispensability.
The whole store of police tricks which have been played on despots in
order to turn autocrats into willing tools of their Prætorians has been
pillaged by Plehve in order to bring his system to a state of
perfection. In particular the Jews and the Poles must suffer in order to
contribute to the danger of the situation--_i. e._, the indispensability
of Plehve. Not a soul in Russia doubts that the Kishinef massacres were
the direct result of his commands; the cynicism with which he rewarded
Krushevan, the leading agitator from Bessarabia, with which he took
under his protection the agitator Pronin, who had been insulted by a
congress of teachers, is a shameless acknowledgment of his deed, which,
to say more, he only repudiates before foreign countries, not, however,
before his confidants. He seizes upon every little thing in order to
make some big affair out of it. In Warsaw the widows of the members of a
committee which had collected money for a Polish hospital corps were
stoned by students. Immediately was sent the telegraphic order to
investigate the thing most thoroughly, and if those who were the
sufferers had not refused all assistance to the police another couple of
dozen would-be rioters would have been sent to Siberia, in order that
the existence of a Polish revolution might be proved. A Russian editor,
whose paper had been suppressed because of the publication of a
revolutionary poem, sought audience of the head of the censorship at the
ministry of the interior, in order to obtain permission for the
reappearance of the paper. The chief of the department explained to the
editor, according to a Russian nobleman, that if he should simply
declare to the minister that the revolutionary poem had been smuggled
into the paper by Jews, he would immediately obtain permission to
publish his paper again! From a source whence I never should have
expected such a statement, from a highly conservative aristocrat, an
"excellency" in the service of the state, I received in all seriousness
the information that only Plehve, in league with Alexeyev, had conjured
up the war by holding off the Japanese, simply because in this way he
would become so much the more indispensable. Nay, more, it was even
indicated to me that the nihilists, who killed Alexander II. at the very
moment when the proclamation of a constitution lay upon the table
awaiting his signature, could not have found their way to the imperial
carriage without help from the police. And the ally of Loris-Melikov,
the man who had drawn up the plan, and who best of all knew how near its
signature, which must be avoided, the proclamation was, was none other
than Plehve! His instinct drove him to the ranks of the reactionaries,
for there is little use for people of his caliber in a constitutional
state. His anti-Semitic tendencies, which he naturally disavows to every
Jewish visitor, are only assumed because people high in position and
influence, like the empress dowager, Prince Sergius, and others of the
generation of Alexander III., are fanatically anti-Semitic. So even this
is not genuine in him. Nothing is but his theatrical ambition to assert
himself as long as possible, and to have the nerve-tickling of a
tight-rope walker who balances on his wire rope over fixed bayonets.

That is the picture of the minister of the interior as public opinion in
Russia paints it. I must confess that the picture is as little to my
taste as is the man. While the great Russian novelists are, above all,
masters in the use of shades, political public opinion likes to work
with the strongest colors, with bloody superlatives. Suspicious as the
circumstances may be that not a soul in the broad Russian empire is
inclined to say a friendly word for the ruling power of the time, yet
the unprejudiced observer must reckon with the circumstance that even
without a free press in Russia there is a certain uniformity of
political opinion which can only be explained on the hypothesis of a
certain uniform centre of opinion, many of whose statements are taken on
faith by every one. I imagine that this centre is situated pretty high,
perhaps in the immediate neighborhood of the Czar, and that the picture
of each minister is sketched by his rivals, but, like every article for
the masses, only in poster style, in striking words, very white or,
oftener, very black. He, not a Russian and not a rival, who has not the
same burning interest in getting rid of Plehve, will therefore do well
to transpose this rascal from his supernatural atmosphere into an
every-day one, and a somewhat different picture will result.

I think of it in this light: Plehve comes from a states-attorney and a
police career. Some traces of this origin cleave to every one of like
training. Judges who have been states-attorney are the terror of
lawyers, because of their inquisitorial manner, and because of their
inclination to see in every defendant a person already condemned.
Furthermore, dealings with police agents are least of all fitted to
cultivate scrupulousness. Let only Puttkammer's words be recalled,
"Gentlemen do not volunteer for such services."[3] The continual fear of
assassination, which is well founded in the case of the head of the
Russian police--Plehve allows his expenditures for the guarding of his
person to amount as high as eight hundred thousand rubles a year--does
not conduce to making a man human; and, finally, all bearers of honors
in Russia are cynics, because their existence is founded only on the
mood of a single person, and their whole career is a game of hazard. In
the case of Plehve and others there is this additional evil influence,
that not being Russians--Plehve is a Pole, of Lettish-Jewish
origin--they must distinguish themselves by special Russian Chauvinism
in order to avoid suspicion. Plehve is not a great man, his whole
ministerial career being devoid of a single noteworthy act. He is a
successful official, who intends by every means to make himself felt in
high circles, and who considers himself justified in countering the
intriguing of his rivals by any or all the means customary in the land,
and "Voilà tout." But, in general, love of truth is not a characteristic
of so-called public life in Russia. Hence it would be unjust to count as
a special crime Plehve's special falseness.

It must be conceded that even this picture is far from being a pleasing
one. If to these features the proved fact is added that Plehve denounced
to the governor-general, Count Muraviev, his own Polish foster-parents,
who picked him up, so to speak, in the very street and raised him
(Plehve was originally a Catholic), so that they were sent to Siberia in
return for their kindness; that Plehve, therefore, began his career with
a deed of infamous ingratitude and treachery,[4] then the black will be
black enough to allow of passing over the remaining smirches in the
picture of a monster.

But the most pitiful of all that I heard about Plehve's régime was the
answer I received when I asked a man in a very responsible position
whether better things might be expected when Plehve should be overtaken
by his inevitable fate.

"No," the answer was; "deserved as such a fate will be, for us it will
bring no help. Another man, that is all. Plehve is only the ideal
required by the régime. A police state needs police natures, and always
finds them. He has all the vices save that of corruptibility, but is by
no means unique in the hierarchy of Russian officials. And it is far
from probable that anything better would succeed him. If all Russia
hopes [_sic_] that he will soon be annihilated, it is not because an
amelioration of things is hoped for, but because some satisfaction is
felt when one of these beasts meets his due. But a philanthropist and a
friend of justice will be just as unlikely to be minister of the
interior under an absolutism as he is to desire to be an executioner.
Only another system can bring us other men. A reign of terror tolerates
only hangmen."

FOOTNOTES:

[2] One who risks everything on one card.

[3] "Gentlemen geben sich für diese Dienste nicht her."

[4] See Struve's _Oswobozhdenie_.




XIX

THE ADMINISTRATION OF JUSTICE


It was perhaps not altogether accidental that one evening at a social
gathering I was introduced to one of the foremost lawyers of St.
Petersburg, whose biting sarcasm in discussing the events of the day
immediately struck me, and aroused in me the desire to have a more
serious talk with him. This was immediately granted with that amiability
which is never wanting in the intercourse of Russians with foreigners.
Subsequently I learned that I might congratulate myself, for that
particular lawyer was said to be not only one of the keenest minds in
Russia, but one of the men best acquainted with his country. Moreover,
he was so overwhelmed with work that even greater men were often obliged
to wait by the hour in his antechamber before they were able to gain
admission. Indeed, the time fixed for our interview, near midnight,
showed this to be the case. The conversation lasted until long after
that hour, but I had no cause to regret the loss of several hours of
sleep.

My host rose immediately and gave the inevitable order to bring tea and
cigarettes. In a few minutes we were discussing the question which
interested me most, as being the key to an understanding of all the
other economic conditions of the country--namely, the question of the
administration of justice in Russia.

"One circumstance makes it uncommonly difficult here to obtain justice,"
began the lawyer. "I refer to the strained relations between the bench
and the bar. Here the judge is more hostile to counsel than is the case
in other countries, and often enough he is inclined to make them feel
his power. This is less serious in civil suits--in which the judge,
after all, merely has to do with the parties in the case--than in
criminal cases, in which the judge represents the authority of the realm
towards the accused and his advocate. In such cases the defendant may
easily pay the penalty of the animosity which the judge feels towards
his counsel."

"What is the cause of this?"

"It has only too human a cause. It is not unheard of for a busy lawyer
of reputation and good connections to earn thirty or forty thousand
rubles a year, or more. Compare with that the wretched salaries of the
judges; consider how costly living is here; imagine the continuous
over-burden of work of the bench and the lack of public appreciation,
and you will comprehend why our judges do not look at the world in
general through rose- glasses, and particularly at the
prosperous, well-situated lawyer."

"You say lack of public appreciation. Is the position of judge not an
honorable one?"

"On the whole, no official in Russia is much respected. At the most he
is feared. The most lucrative positions, however, are those of the
administrative department and the police. In these branches are to be
found the most rapid and brilliant careers, and therefore the sons of
great families, in so far as they become officials, prefer them. The
judge must work hard, and has small thanks."

"Does not this evil have a moral effect on the impartial administration
of justice also?"

"You mean, in plain speech, are not our judges to be bought? Well, I
must say, to the honor of these functionaries, that relatively speaking
they constitute the most honorable class of all our officials, and that
the majority of them are superior to bribery. To be frank, there is
professional ambition enough; and the effort to please superiors is
almost a matter of course, since the independence of the judges, which
had brought us extraordinary improvement in the candidates for the
office, has been set aside again."

"Your judges are not, then, independent and irremovable?"

"What are you thinking of--under our present régime? We do not wish
independent judges. A minister of justice like Muraviev, who certainly
constitutes the supreme type of all that is meant by the expression, 'A
man of no honor,' is the strongest hinderance to justice. Therefore, a
monetary acknowledgment to the whole senate is expected for each
satisfactory judgment. We have such a case just now. Here you have a
list of names of seven judges who were promoted out of turn by Minister
Muraviev on consideration of the kind support which they gave to the
Ryaboushinskys, the Moscow millionaires, against the Bank of Kharkov,
which was their debtor."

"Will you permit me to make a note of this list?"

"Certainly. I am not the only man who has it."

I noted down the names Davidov, Sokalski, Vishnevsky, Laiming, Delyanov,
Dublyavski, Podgurski. They were entered on a type-written sheet with
the distinction and encouragement they had respectively received after a
suit which brought a considerable profit to a Moscow millionaire firm.

"But you said," I objected, "that the judges are not open to bribery.
Yet they performed an illegitimate service to millionaires."

"Certainly I said the judges are not open to bribery; but I did not say
that of the minister of justice. On the contrary, I called him a man
without honor in a place of the highest power."

"You mean, then, that he was paid for the judgment that was given in the
interest of the millionaires?"

"Your astonishment only betrays the foreigner. Only the little debts of
the honorable minister were paid off--good Heavens!"

"It is incomprehensible."

"On the other hand, the judge has everything to fear when he is not
compliant. Do you suppose that a comedy of justice like that of Kishinef
can be played with independent judges? And yet there are always heroes
to be found who fear no measures, but administer justice according to
their convictions. That is the astonishing thing, not the opposite,
under a Muraviev-Plehve régime."

"Was it better, then, formerly?"

"It was, and would have become better still if our authorities had
remained true to their mission of uplifting the altogether immoral
people instead of corrupting them still further. In the system of
Pobydonostzev, in which politics take the place of morality, no
improvement is to be expected. You might as well expect fair play from
the Spaniards of the Inquisition as here, where premiums are set upon
all sorts of unwise actions, if only they seem to lead to the levelling
of the masses, who are to be kept unthinking."

"You say the people are immoral?"

"They lack--above all things, the sense of justice. No one here has
rights. No one thinks he has. The natural state of things is that
everything is forbidden. A privilege is a favor to which no one has any
claim. To win a lawsuit is a matter of luck, not the result of a
definite state of justice. One has no right to gain his cause simply
because he is in the right. As a consequence of this, it is neither
discreditable nor disgraceful to be in the wrong. You win or lose
according as the die falls. I will illustrate from your own experience.
You were to-day in the Hermitage. At a certain door, before which stood
a servant, you asked whether people were permitted to enter. The answer
was not 'yes' or 'no,' but 'Admittance is commanded,' or 'Admittance is
not commanded.' This spirit extends to the smallest things. That you
keep your child with you and bring it up is not a matter of course, but
you are permitted to have children and to bring them up--the latter, be
it noted, only in so far as the police allow. If you should to-day
suffer heavy loss by robbery or burglary, what should you do?"

"I should report the matter, of course."

"You say of course, because it is a matter of course to you that a crime
reported should become characterized as a crime, because in a certain
way you feel the duty of personally upholding law and order. When the
same thing happens to me, a Russian, I must first conquer my natural
tendency, and then after a long struggle I, too, will report the matter,
because--well, because I, as a lawyer and a representative of justice,
am no longer a naïve Russian, but am infused with the usual ideas of
justice. The normal Russian exceedingly seldom reports a case to the
police, because he absolutely lacks the conviction of the necessity of
justice. When he says of anybody that he is a clever rascal, his
emphasis is laid on the word clever, which expresses unlimited
appreciation."

"That must make general intercourse exceedingly difficult."

"Certainly. To live in Russia means to use a thousand arts in keeping
one's head above water. One never has a sure ground of law under his
feet. Property both public and private is perhaps not less safe in
Turkey than here. Have you heard of the great steel affair?"

"No."

"It is no wonder, for we do not make much ado about a little mischance
of this sort. In that affair a capital of eight million rubles
disappeared without a trace. It was invested in the coal and steel
works. A grand-duke, moreover, was interested in the enterprise,
Grand-Duke Peter Nikolaievitch. A license to mine iron ore on a certain
territory for ninety-nine years had been obtained. A company was formed
with a capital of ten million rubles. The grand-duke took shares to the
amount of a million rubles. The enormously rich Chludoff put eight
million rubles into the concern. French and Belgian experts were brought
on special steamers; champagne flowed in streams. Of course the reports
of the experts were glowing ones. But after three years there was of the
eight million rubles, barely paid in, not a kopek more to be found. It
had all been stolen. Likewise there was no ore or coal on the territory,
nor had there ever been. No one went to law about the affair, so little
sensation did it cause."

"When did this affair take place?"

"Between 1898 and 1901."

"And can your press do nothing to better this general corruption?"

"We have a saying, 'It is hard to dig with a broken shovel.' Talented
people like ourselves soon learned from abroad the little art of
corrupting the press. With a fettered press like ours, this is less
difficult here than in other countries, where a paper respecting public
opinion might under some circumstances be unreservedly outspoken. But
why should a press with Suvorin and the _Novoye Vremya_ at the head,
surpassing absolutely all records of baseness--why should such a press
run the risk of bankruptcy? Moreover, you must always keep one thing in
mind: a press may exert tremendous power by publishing a man's
worthlessness, until he is made powerless in society; but since here
notorious sharpers are readily accepted in the highest ranks of society,
and even grand-dukes do not escape the suspicion of corruption, it does
no one any harm to be reported as having dexterously spirited away a few
hundred thousands."

"You say even grand-dukes?"

"--Are not safe from suspicion. I can personally testify that not one of
them takes a ruble himself. But the persons who live by obtaining
concessions for joint-stock companies, etc., know how to represent that
they need considerable sums for the purpose of influencing the highest
persons, the minister and grand-dukes. Hence arises this idea."

"And intelligent business men believe that?"

"Believe it? No one would understand the opposite. Imagine a scene in my
office. A business man comes to me with a case. He inquires my fee. I
say five hundred rubles. He asks what will be the expenses. I say a few
rubles for stamp duties, etc. Then he becomes more definite. He means
the _charges_. 'There are none,' I answer. The man of business rises,
disappointed. 'Ah! so you have no influential connections?' I will not
say that this happens very often with me; for the men who come to me
once know what I can do, and what not, and what my practice is. The case
is, however, characteristic. Outside the legal profession, which still
lives on the tradition of the time of its independence, every one is
open to bribery; and every one reckons with the fact."

"And no one is angry at open injustice?"

"What is injustice? Despotism of the great. We have been used to that
for thousands of years and accept it like the caprices of fortune. The
peasant makes no distinction between a hail-storm which ruins his crop
and an authority who oppresses or injures him. There is no way of
resisting either; for when one curses God, He sends greater misfortune;
and when one disputes with the authorities, one is absolutely lost.
'Duck, little brother; everything passes'; that is the final conclusion
of our wisdom. We are educated to it by inhuman despots and by an
official service of thieves and debauchees. We lack, too, the sharply
defined idea of ownership, in which the sense of justice, considered
psychologically, has its root. You know that here the peasants own their
own land only to an extremely small extent. The individual is merged and
lost in the 'mir' (village community), where the trustee, the 'zemski
nachnalnik,'[5] the village elder, and liquor rule. This _obshtchina_,
communism, is the strongest fortress of reaction. No ray of
enlightenment penetrates it. At the utmost, misery and ever-returning
hunger produce finally a condition of despair in which the peasant is
capable of anything except an action which might advance him in
civilization. In the census of 1898 there were found villages where no
one had any idea what paper is, and peasants who did not know the name
of the Emperor. The 'mir,' moreover, is in its nature opposed to private
ownership, and every discussion between the member of the village
communism and the property-holder is artfully prevented by the
scattering about of compulsory peasants. For property-owners are at
present for the most part Liberal. The régime, however, stands or falls
with the isolation of the peasantry from Liberal influences. For the
peasant is not unintelligent by nature, and, if he is not prevented, he
learns very quickly."

"That is also, then, one of the causes of the ill-treatment of the
Jews?"

"It is _the_ cause. Do not suppose that the Holy Synod alone has power
to influence legislation in favor of orthodoxy. Sectarians and Jews are
demonstrably the only people who have a moral code of their own, and,
therefore, know how to distinguish justice from injustice. They are also
the only ones who criticise the actions of the authorities. They were,
therefore, a dangerous leaven in the community, otherwise slipping off
to sleep in a body. Therefore, it was a matter of self-preservation for
the autocracy to isolate the Jews and make them harmless. Do not suppose
that any anti-Semitic feeling is prevalent among us. The autocrats are
trying artfully to implant it by means of such people as Plehve's
intimate, Krushevan, of the 'Bessarabetz.' But the effect does not go
deep, thanks to the same circumstance which makes the progress of
civilization difficult; the peasant cannot read, and does not in the
least believe the priest. The massacres of Kishinef were directly
commanded. Every man was killed by order of the Czar. No anti-Semitism
exists among the people. Whatever anti-Semitism there is is sown by the
government for the purpose of isolating the peasants in order that 'the
urchins may grow up stupid.'"

"Ought not the Jews to take that into account and not meddle with
politics?"

"In the first place, I see no reason why the Jews should become
accomplices of this formidable and soul-killing régime of ours. They
will be oppressed all the same, whether meek or unruly. They will remain
under special legislation, simply because no one can stop the flow of
the official's unfailing spring of revenue--the ravaging of the Jews.
Moreover, the Jews have never received so much sympathy from us as since
they began to place themselves on the defensive and to make common cause
with our Radicals. Now for the first time they belong to us, and yet
really only those who actually fight with us and for us. This matter,
too, is misrepresented. Statistics, which show a percentage of
eighty-five Jews in every hundred revolutionaries, are falsified,
because gentiles are allowed to slip through in order to injure the
Radical--_i. e._, the constitutional--movement by representing it as
un-Russian and Jewish, and to mobilize foreign anti-Semitism against us.
But the Jews ought to be grateful to Plehve, for, thanks to his
machinations, all the intelligent opinion among us has become favorable
to the Jews, and recognizes the solidarity of its interest and those of
the Jews. The struggle conduces much, however, to the assimilation of
the Jews. They are our brothers; they suffer with us and for us, even if
also for themselves; for our whole Jewish legislation for twenty years
past has consisted only in the curtailing of the rights accorded them
under Alexander II. Why should they not become revolutionaries? But they
are enemies of the administration merely, not of the state; therefore,
we find ourselves on the same footing."

I closed my interview, as in all cases, with the question, "What hope is
there for the future?" and received the same answer as in all other
cases:

"Everything depends upon how this war ends. If God helps us and we lose
the war, improvement is possible; for then ruin, above all, the chronic
bankruptcy of the nation, can no longer be concealed. If a man should
enter my room now--at this hour only respectable persons enter my
room--and I should say to him, 'What do you hope and wish in regard to
the war?' his answer would be, 'Defeat; the only means to save us.' If
we calculate how many men are shot and exiled and how many families are
ruined every year by absolutism, the total equals the losses in war--a
more terrible one, however, for only a catastrophe can make an end of
this war, which has long been destroying us. Therefore, I say again, if
God helps us we shall lose the war in the East. Do not allow yourself to
be deceived by any official preparations. Every good Russian prays, 'God
help us and permit us to be beaten!'"

When I left the brilliant lawyer it was, as I have said, long after
midnight. It was "butter-week,"[6] and my sleigh had trouble in avoiding
the drunken men who staggered across our way, and the shrieking hussies,
who, with their companions with or without uniforms, carried on pastimes
suitable to the season.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Chief of the county council.--TRANSLATOR.

[6] "Butter-week" (maslyanitza) is in Russia the week preceding Lent.
Meat is forbidden, but milk, butter, and eggs are allowed as food. Like
the carnival, it is celebrated with popular amusements.--TRANSLATOR.




XX

THE IMPERIAL FAMILY AS THE PUBLIC SEES IT


"In no constitutional state is the practical influence of the head of
the government so slight as in the autocracy of Russia," was one of the
sayings I heard most often in St. Petersburg, when I endeavored to
inform myself in regard to the personality and the acts of the reigning
Czar. There are, to be sure, individual opinions to the contrary.
According to these it depends entirely upon the personality of the
autocrat whether he exerts a strong influence or not. The Conservatives
incline to the latter view. Prince Esper Ukhtomski held it; so did a
former high functionary in the department of finance, as well as a
conservative aristocrat in another department, all of whom I questioned
on this point. One of them said in so many words that the Czar needs
only to lift a finger to banish all the evil spirits which now rule the
land. The aristocrat believed the country might be delivered by an
emperor better trained for his functions. Prince Ukhtomski ascribes to
the leading statesmen, at least, influence enough to do good and to
prevent evil, and, therefore, to do the contrary, as has been done for
twenty years, especially under the régime of Plehve. The Liberals and
Radicals, however, who form the greater part of the so-called
"Intelligence," leave the personality of the ruler entirely out of the
question, perhaps from a premature comparison with their constitutional
model. They declare a change of conditions without a change of the
system to be impossible. To be sure, they say, if a suspicious,
inhumane, reactionary Czar like Alexander III. is on the throne, the
domination of the camorra of officials is made more oppressive. Yet the
present mild and benevolent autocrat cannot prevent the existence of
conditions which are more insupportable than ever. Only the press and a
parliament could amend matters, not the good intentions of a single man.

I do not undertake to judge which of the two parties is right. In any
case it seems worth while to sketch the Czar's personality, which is
certainly an element in the fate of Russia and of Europe. The portrait
is drawn from the reports of people who have had sufficient opportunity
to form a conception of him from their personal observation. It is, of
course, impossible for me to name my authorities, or to indicate them in
any but the most distant way. It must suffice to say that among them
were people who have known not only the present rulers, but also their
parents and grandparents, from intimate association. I myself have seen
the Czar only once. The current portraits of him are very good. The
only striking and noteworthy thing in the handsome and sympathetic face
is the expression of melancholy resignation. One authority alone--whose
statements on other matters I have found to be invariably careful and
accurate--expressed doubts of the good-nature of the Czar, and accused
him of designing and of rather petty malevolence. All others, including
Prince Ukhtomski, who had been the companion of the Czar for years,
agree in emphasizing the extraordinary, almost childlike lovableness and
kindliness of the Emperor, who is said to be actually fascinating in
personal intercourse. This agrees with the fact, which I know from one
unquestionably trustworthy source, that the Czar is intentionally deaf
to everything in the reports of his counsellors likely to disparage or
cast suspicion upon a colleague, while he immediately listens and asks
for details when he hears from one of his ministers a word favorable to
the action of another. It is an absolute necessity for him to do good,
and it is a constant source of fresh pain to him that he cannot prevent
the great amount of existing evil. Again, while the single authority
says he has found in the Czar indications of a subtle if not powerful
intellect, the others, while they praise his goodness of heart, do not
conceal the weakness of his judgment, which, according to them,
certainly has something pathological about it. Prince Ukhtomski alone
speaks of the Emperor with invariable respect and sympathy, without
limiting each hearty statement with an immediate "but." All others,
without exceptions, explain the Prætorian rule of Plehve by the mental
and moral helplessness of the Emperor, who is entirely uninformed, and
is treated by those about him in the most abominable way--under cover of
all outward signs of devotion. The things that people dare do to him,
presuming upon this helplessness, border upon the inconceivable. That
threatening letters can constantly be smuggled into the Czar's pockets,
and even into his bed, without his finally hitting upon the idea of
seizing his body-servant by the cravat, is a very strong proof of his
mental inactivity; the more so, incidentally, because he hears himself
ridiculed outside his own door. This police canard is told, moreover, of
Alexander III., who was a dreaded despot. The rôle, too, which Plehve
played, although the Czar did not esteem him in the least, shows how
successfully the latter has been intimidated and persuaded into the
entirely mistaken belief that Plehve alone could avert the threatening
revolution.

At the same time the Czar is said to be anything but confiding in regard
to his nearest counsellors. When a report is made to him he sits in the
shadow; the man who makes the report sits in the light. He tries to
decipher the man's expression and to control him, a thing which is, of
course, impossible, since a good Russian physiognomy is more
impenetrable than a Russian iron-clad. His lack of knowledge of affairs
is as marked as his lack of judgment. I will give an instance of this.
In the provinces a quarrel had broken out between the self-governing
corporation, the "zemstvos," and the governors. This difference between
self-government and autocracy was presented to the Czar as turning
merely on the question of centralization or decentralization, and as if
it were a matter for disagreement between the governors and the minister
of the interior, the governors striving against the same full authority
that is held by the ministers of the Czar. In this way the Czar was
successfully deceived in regard to the nature of the quarrel; he did not
learn at all that the provinces were making a demonstration against
autocracy. The result of the deception was, of course, that the Czar
declared himself for the ministry of the interior--that is, for Plehve,
the increase of whose power he by no means wished.

The rôle which certain adventurers like the hypnotist Philippe and the
promoter Bezobrazov are able to play at court is also certainly a
notable symptom. The former was to suggest to the Czaritza the birth of
a boy, while otherwise he carried through whatever he wished, since he
used the spirit of Alexander III. to secure a hearing for his
suggestions. His departure from court followed upon his impudently
having the spirits recommend a specific firm of contractors for the
building of a bridge. Bezobrazov, one of the agents who have the
Asiatic war on their consciences, is now living somewhere abroad, and
does not dare return, at least while the war lasts.

Still more significant, it seems to me, is the authenticated statement
that the Emperor has many times received publications upon the condition
of his empire, has carefully read them, and has praised them, without
taking the slightest step towards carrying out the reforms recommended
to him; indeed, after the lapse of a few days, he has ceased even to
refer in conversation to the suggestions. This would seem to indicate an
almost abnormal weakness of will, which makes it easy for a gifted,
inconsiderate, and self-confident reactionary like the Grand-Duke
Alexander Mikhailovitch to carry out his own ideas in everything.

According to these statements, which come directly in every case from
original sources, the Czar is to be regarded as a man upon the whole
good-natured and lovable, who is, perhaps, too modest and too conscious
of his insufficient knowledge to have the full courage of
responsibility, without which an autocrat is the least able of leaders
to endure his great burden. Inconsiderate and crafty people, who profit
by his weakness, govern him, and he may even be glad of this. In his
perplexity and helplessness, which are due to his human sympathy and
modesty, he is obliged to submit to others with whom he can at least
leave the responsibility for affairs, which in general, as in the
specific case of the war in eastern Asia, go contrary to his wishes.

His timid temperament is shown especially in his relations with his
mother, the dowager empress, who even now, supported by the reactionary
members of the family, plays the part of the actual empress, and cruelly
mortifies the young consort of the Czar. It is an open secret that the
relations between the two women are anything but untroubled, a condition
which reacts upon the relations of the imperial pair themselves. The
dowager empress has renounced none of her prerogatives in favor of her
daughter-in-law, who consequently feels herself in a very false
position, and complains bitterly of it. People assured me, moreover,
that according to Russian ideas none of the rights claimed by the young
Czaritza belong to her so long as the empress-mother lives. Hence it
vexes the Czaritza that she cannot curb her so-called ambition. The
empress-mother, however, is not at all popular, at least in Liberal
circles, where she is held responsible for the fact that her son cannot
free himself from the evil traditions of his father, who was a strictly
upright, but relentless and brutal despot. The young Czaritza was blamed
among the common people because she had borne no prince in spite of the
prayers of the archbishop John; she is blamed at court also because she
does not conceal her English sympathies.

One old friend of the imperial family, however, assured me that there
is no more charming, upright, and affectionate woman living than this
young Hessian princess. She is, he said, completely intimidated by the
enemies who surround her and shows them a lowering face. Where she feels
herself secure, however, her merry South-German nature comes to the top,
and she can even now romp like a little child. It speaks for the
innocence of her nature that she is prouder of nothing than of her
potato-salad. For the rest, the same authority asserts, she has a mind
of her own, and may be not always the most comfortable companion for a
husband.

Among the other members of the family the Grand-Duke Constantine is
called the poet. His interest in art and science is said to be sincere.
He has also great personal attractiveness. In sharp contrast with him
stands the Grand-Duke Sergius, governor-general of Moscow, and
brother-in-law and uncle of the Czar. The things commonly reported of
his private life are unsuitable for repetition here, since in general I
avoid giving space to scandal in a chronicle of important matters. The
things worthy of publicity and important for the weal or woe of
population are the opinions and abilities of princes, not their
liaisons. It is difficult, however, not to speak of the passions of the
Grand-Duke Sergius, since they form such a violent contrast to his
former bigotry. He is unanimously pronounced an unprincipled man with a
black record--a man whose pleasure consists in the sufferings of
others. His influence at court is second only to that of the Grand-Duke
Alexander Mikhailovitch.

I found in all Russia no trace of a dynastic sentiment. The loyalty to
the House of the Hohenzollerns in Prussia, or to the House of the
Hapsburgs in Austria has no counterpart in Russia. If the personal
influence of the occupants of the throne may be estimated, the Czar
means to the masses of the people the essence of temporal and spiritual
power, to the intelligent class an element of fate. The grand-dukes are
people who can aid and harm, and who are therefore persons of importance
for all Russians. The bond of loyalty between dynasty and people,
however, which in the West has assured the safe existence of the royal
houses through all revolutionary convulsions, does not exist in Russia.
On the contrary, people speak freely in private of the "Saltikov
dynasty," in unmistakable allusion to the well-known first lover of the
Empress Catherine II. Thus the many murders in the imperial house are
received by the people without great excitement. Only the inhabitants of
the Baltic provinces are faithful to the dynasty; the spirit of feudal
loyalty runs in their German blood. Even there, however, it is being
slowly but resolutely destroyed by the ruling anarchists.

In contemporary opinion Alexander II. and Alexander III. still live,
while Nicholas I. is practically forgotten. Alexander II. is surrounded
with the martyr's halo, and is thought of only as the emancipating Czar
who was got out of the way before he could sign the liberty-giving bill
for a constitution. Public opinion will not be dissuaded from finding
the fact remarkable that the nihilists succeeded for the first time in
reaching the Czar at the moment when all the privileges of the reigning
oligarchy were threatened. Therefore people will not remember any traits
in him except good ones, a thing not altogether consistent with the
picture of him left by Kropotkin in his memoirs. Of Alexander III., on
the contrary, only evil is heard, which I, however, must doubt for many
reasons. For I have been told little incidents of his most private life,
incidents which I cannot repeat, out of consideration for the incognito
of my informant, but which show a certain knightliness and uprightness,
and a truly princely kindness to the weak. Another man is answerable for
the pitilessness of his fatal policy--Pobydonostzev, the Torquemada of
Russia. It is, however, inevitable that history should preserve only
that picture which expresses the sum total of the effect of a
personality. Therefore the memory of Alexander III. is certainly
overloaded with sins of omission.




XXI

PUBLIC OPINION AND THE PRESS


The fine imperial library in St. Petersburg, which I was permitted
through the kindness of our legation to use, possesses a specialty in a
particular class of works, the collection of so-called "Russica"--_i.
e._, everything that has been written in foreign languages about Russia.
Polite attendants, speaking various languages, assist the visitor. One
learns from them that it is the business of special agents abroad to
report on publications which relate to Russia, and to send them in. So
it happens that probably nowhere in the world is there such an
accumulation of revolutionary literature as in this imperial collection.
For patriotic writings are for the most part in Russian, so that they
may be appreciated and quickly rewarded. The semi-official literature in
foreign languages is not to be compared in quantity or importance with
that which true patriots are forced to their sorrow to write in foreign
languages. I looked through piles of this forbidden literature. The
impression I received was desperately disheartening. There is nothing
which has not been said about Russia. The severest and best-attested
attacks on the régime, on persons, on conditions, stand there quietly,
volume by volume, in the imperial library, and have had exactly as much
effect as whip-strokes on water. The Russian political writer who wishes
to war upon the present system with the weapon of reckless criticism
must lose all hope in face of this library. What more can be said than
has already been said by Milyukov, by Lanin, by Leroy-Beaulieu? The
voice of the prophets does not penetrate to the ears of the rulers, or,
if it does, it is drowned by the whispers of parasites who know how to
protect their own interests, or it finds no echo in the too weak or too
hardened hearts of the rulers.

I had the same sensation when, in the course of my conversations with
leading persons in the service of the state, and with members of the
"Intelligence," I was more and more struck with the fact that in Russia
there is an unusually strong public opinion, which in its criticisms far
transcends anything that can be said in foreign papers about Russian
conditions, and that this criticism makes no impression whatever upon
the authorities. I was, of course, interested next in the problem as to
how it could be possible without newspapers--the Russian press is under
the most barbarous censorship--to disseminate from St. Petersburg to
Odessa with a truly uncanny rapidity, an almost monotonously uniform
idea of all the events and personalities of the day. I confess I have
not yet solved the riddle. It is only a hypothesis of mine to suppose
that there are three or four centres for the formation of opinion in
Russia, one of which is undoubtedly to be found in the ministry itself,
and another, perhaps, in the Noblemen's Club, or in other clubs of the
intelligent classes in Moscow, and that through the abundance of time
which every Russian allows himself for recreation, every newly coined
saying or opinion is spread throughout the whole realm by letters or by
word of mouth. I have heard from the lips of statesmen high in office
literally the same words I have heard at the table of Leo Tolstoï, in
Yasnaya Polyana, or in the study of the lawyer who gave me an interview.
After I had come to terms with this fact of the absolute uniformity of
public opinion, a fact not altogether gratifying to the collector of
information, it was no longer possible to ignore the question as to how
it is possible that such a unison of wishes and opinions meets only deaf
ears in the highest circles, although it has already become a historic
legend that Alexander II. was forced into the war with Turkey against
his will by public opinion. If public opinion at that time had so much
power for evil, why does it not have power now, and power for good?

An annoying question sooner or later finds an answer--whether a correct
one or not remains to be seen--no doubt because the mind does not rest
until it has found something plausible wherewith to quiet itself. I
finally explained the matter to myself in the following way. The husband
is the last to hear of the shame that his consort brings upon him.
People point at him, the servants snicker, even anonymous letters
flutter on his table, and still he is unsuspecting, or, at the most, is
disturbed without definitely knowing why. There is, except in the case
of treachery, which is extremely rare, or the taking in the act, which
is still rarer, only one possibility of enlightenment for him--namely,
that a very intimate friend or a near relative shall play the part of
the ruthless physician, and supply evidences which are irrefutable. An
autocrat is hardly less interested in the credit of his system than a
husband in the reputation of his wife. This system is apparently
identical with his personality. He bears all the responsibility. He has
reason for the most far-reaching suspicion of all who approach him,
because he seldom sees any one who does not wish something of him. Who,
then, has the courage, the credit, and the means to approach the Czar,
and to tell him the truth concerning what goes on about him and is done
in his name? A near friend? That would have to be a foreign monarch. It
is well known how carefully kings avoid seeming to advise, especially
when the excessively proud Russian dynasty is in question. What other
monarch, moreover, must not consider his own interests, which cannot be
identical with those of Russia? the German Emperor perhaps least of
all. Unfortunately, however, the relations between William II. and
Nicholas II. are none of the most intimate. Indeed, Nicholas openly
shuns too frequent intercourse with Emperor William, and prefers when he
is in Germany to play tennis with his brother-in-law of Hesse. There
remains, then, only near relatives. They, indeed, are much in evidence,
and they have the Czar entirely under their influence. They are public
opinion for him; and as long as they have no interest in placing
themselves on the side of the opposition, so long, according to
physico-psychological laws, will the voice of the real public opinion
decrease in proportion to the square of the approach to the Czar; and
all anonymous or unauthorized enlightenments and memorials by patriots
who willingly make themselves victims will make no more than a momentary
impression. The public opinion which forced the Czar Alexander II. into
the war with Turkey was the opinion of the belligerent grand-dukes; the
public opinion which rules the present Czar and thereby prevents the
counsels of the opposition from having a hearing is again that of the
grand-dukes, who move only in the narrowest court circles and in those
of the reactionary bureaucracy. The Czar knows this, but he cannot help
himself. He has just now had a new experience of it, when those about
him made him firmly believe that the Japanese affair was well on the way
towards a peaceful settlement, while at the same time, by dilatory
tactics and constant preparations, they provoked the Japanese to declare
war.

There is only one possible position for an intelligent ruler who seeks
to secure veracious information. That is to institute a free press and
an independent parliament. To be sure, both press and parliament may be
led astray, and lead astray. It is unquestionably easier to find one's
way in a few reports of the highest counsellors than in the chaotic
confusion of voices of unmuzzled newspaper writers and members of
parliament, among whom, it cannot be denied, conscienceless demagogues
find place only too quickly. But he who bears such heavy responsibility
should not avoid difficulties; and there is absolutely no other means of
gaining a hearing for the truth than by the free utterance of every
criticism. Finally, one learns to read and to hear, and comes to
distinguish between real arguments and those of demagogues. No one
outside the country can form a conception of how the Russian press and
the elements of parliamentary institutions are oppressed by the camorra
of officials. The zemstvo of the province of Tver, which had the
effrontery to entertain wishes for a constitution, was dissolved; and
this is the least that happens in such cases. The persecution of the
persons who are under suspicion of exerting especial influence upon
their fellows--this is the evil. They are surprised by night, and in the
most fortunate cases are held in prison for months during
investigations. In other cases, when the search shows that the smallest
bit of forbidden literature was in the hands of the suspected man, his
exile to a distant province or to Siberia is a matter of course. These
things, however, are unfortunately only too well known. What is not so
well known is the way editors are treated who presume to wish to edit a
sheet or who draw upon themselves as editors the displeasure of the
police. The head censor in St. Petersburg, chief of the highest bureau
of the press, is a certain Zvyerev, a former Liberal professor in the
University of Moscow. Renegades are always the worst. Since Zvyerev has
been censor the restrictions of the Russian press have been severer than
ever. I became acquainted with the former editor-in-chief of a great
paper, who sketched for me the examination he underwent before
permission was granted him to edit a paper under censorship. There are,
I should explain, two sorts of papers in Russia. The first are those
which appear ostensibly without censorship, at their own risk, and at
the slightest slip are simply suppressed. It is easy to guess how ready
people are to invest in such enterprises. Those of the second sort are
papers under censorship, which are submitted to the censor before they
appear, and through his oversight receive a certain protection, not, to
be sure, of a very far-reaching kind. This, however, is the only method
by which any capital can be secured; and without capital to-day the
founding of a paper is an impossibility.

Ivan Mikhailitch Golitzyn, then, wishes to start a paper, has taken all
preparatory steps, has procured capital and valuable testimonials, and
appears now before the mighty Zvyerev to request the final license.

Zvyerev is a snob and bows to a great name. Therefore he cannot
immediately say no, for the candidate has taken care to obtain
testimonials from the most prominent people. Therefore the following
dialogue ensues:

"Ivan Mikhailitch, I know you and your family. You are a Russian noble,
and as such are called upon to protect the interests of our Emperor and
of the church. There is also nothing to be said against your patrons.
But you yourself, ever since your student days, have been under
suspicion of harboring Western ideas. Your associations also are not
entirely above suspicion. I am informed that you associate with Jews."

"Your excellency knows that my paper is to stand for progress, which
certainly is not forbidden, and if Jews are among my acquaintances, it
would be unchristian to insult them by turning my back on them."

"Yes, that is all very well. But I should like to know whether you will
oppose the impertinences of the Jews with the necessary vigor?"

"Your excellency will perceive that a paper which stands for progress
cannot attack the Jews without good reason. But, on the other hand, it
cannot be philo-Semitic, for our mercantile class would not advertise,
on account of their anti-Semitic feeling, and the paper could not
continue."

"Will your paper support the absurd efforts which are being made towards
the introduction of a constitution?"

"We will concern ourselves only with practical questions. The
introduction of a constitution does not belong to these."

"But if one of your editors should make an attempt to enter upon the
discussion of this question, would you permit it?"

"My editors know the programme and will not attempt any disloyalty to
it. But should the case occur, it would be my duty to protect the
integrity of the programme."

"Ivan Mikhailitch, you are a clever man and know how to make evasive
answers. I cannot refuse you a license. But I warn you! And beware of
the Jews. That is the first duty of a Russian nobleman to-day."

That is the conversation which has certainly been carried on more than
once in Zvyerev's office before the founding of a paper. In striking
agreement with it is the scene which Struve reports in his
_Osvobozhdenie_, when, after the suppression of a paper, the editor
presents himself because his license has been taken away unjustly.

Again, take the case of a Moscow paper which has published a poem
delivered at the time of a public festival, but in which the author had
afterwards made some changes. The paper--I do not remember its name--was
suppressed. The publisher or the editor, who is likewise said to have
been a Russian noble, went to St. Petersburg, and objected that, as his
paper appeared under censorship, if any one was to blame it was the
censor who had let this poem pass. Zvyerev, however, showed plainly that
latter-day tendencies did not please him, and that he only wanted an
excuse for taking measures against the paper. Of course such measures
mean, under some circumstances, financial ruin; in any case, severe
injury to all the contributors. Therefore suppression of the license is
an unusually effective means of pressure to bring to bear against the
convictions of editors. In this case pressure of such a monstrous kind
was attempted as it is to be hoped stands alone in the chapter of
censor-tyranny. The editor was told in plain words, by Zvyerev, that he
might permit it to be stated that the poem had been smuggled into the
paper behind his back by the Jews, and that the minister of the interior
would at once grant a license for the reappearance of the paper. The
editor, of course, refused the demand, and a new page was added to the
book of Russian infamy. Zvyerev is still in office as a worthy assistant
to his minister, Plehve.

The oppression of independent-minded organs is, however, not the only
expedient of Russian policy in regard to the press. Its antithesis is
not absent--official support of the revolutionary and provincial press.
Russia rejoices in one journal which has not its equal in untruthfulness
and diabolical baseness in the whole world, the _Novoye Vremya_. This
Panslavic sheet, which is ready to eat all Germans and Jews alive, and
which finds no lie too infamous, no invention too childish to serve up
to its readers, if only their prejudices are tickled, is openly
supported by the Russian government. It therefore contains an
incomparably greater amount of news than any other, has consequently the
most subscribers, and can pay its contributors and correspondents the
best, so that every one who wants to read a paper with plenty of news
has to take this noble organ. I found it everywhere in Russian houses,
and if I asked the master of the house his opinion of it, the answer was
everywhere the same: "Infamous, but indispensable."

It is, then, carefully seen that in Russia, as elsewhere, emperors--and
other people--do not hear the truth. The autocracy, or rather
bureaucracy, surrounds itself with bulwarks which nothing can penetrate.
It will need an earthquake to make a breach. This earthquake is, indeed,
according to the common opinion of all thinking Russians, nearer than is
generally supposed. It is the financial breaking-up of a system now held
together only by foreign loans.




XXII

SOME REALITIES OF THE LEGAL PROFESSION


At a social gathering which I must not describe because I do not wish to
make it recognizable, I had an unusual privilege. We were drinking tea
and talking--politics, of course, for no one any longer talks of
anything else in Russia--when the door opened and a tall and very
stately couple entered. A general exclamation hailed the new arrivals.
They were welcomed with striking heartiness and invited to the table, as
people who had returned from a long journey. When introduced to them I,
of course, did not understand their names, and contented myself with
enjoying the handsome appearance and elegance of the gentleman as well
as of the lady until I could ask my neighbor at table why these people
were welcomed with such surprising warmth.

"He has just come out of prison," was the hastily whispered reply.

The communication had such an effect that I was unable to finish the
meal. It is not a usual thing for a western European to sit among the
guests of a prominent family with people who have just been discharged
from prison. Moreover, among us, culprits do not look like this
uncommonly handsome pair. Finally, it is not customary with us to
receive with such heartiness people who have just discarded prison
shackles. I therefore asked for the name and crime of the new-comer. I
was told, and at once I understood everything.

This courtly gentleman was a Russian noble and a prominent lawyer. At my
request he related in German his prison experiences. He had, it seems,
been arrested at night and immediately incarcerated. His wife had taken
the children out of bed, because even the beds had to be searched for
forbidden literature, and the like. The pretext for this night visit of
the police had been that the lawyer had been informed against as having
given shelter to a political fugitive. For this reason search was made
even in the cradle of the smallest child, in order to make sure that the
criminal was not hidden there. The true ground, however, was that Mr.
von X----, as a lawyer, defended political criminals and must be dealt
with accordingly. Eleven days were spent in examining him. The search of
the house revealed nothing; for only the most reckless have a trace of
forbidden literature in their houses, although Struve's
_Osvobozhdenie_[7] is read almost everywhere. No other accusation could
be brought against a man so highly honored. He was also not altogether
without means of defence in his large clientage. His case had caused a
great sensation. The outbreak of the Russo-Japanese war had, however,
caused the authorities to content themselves with treating him to the
pleasures of a short residence in a police hole, and they refrained for
the time being from exiling or banishing him from the place of his
practice--an experience which might easily enough happen after a much
longer investigation to lawyers less noted or of lower rank.

After this little incident, noteworthy enough to a foreigner, I became
much interested in the troubles of lawyers, and obtained the amplest
information on the subject. I even incidentally made the acquaintance of
one of the officially disciplined lawyers of Kishinef, but was unable to
converse with him, as he spoke no language other than Russian. He was a
vigorous man, rather young, with heavy, dark hair and beard, and of a
distinctively Russian type. As the son of a priest, he ought to have
had, according to the ideas of people of discretion, something better to
do than to interfere with the programme of the government. But Dr.
Lokoloff, the lawyer in question, is a remarkable man. He believes it to
be an advocate's duty to uphold justice; and he absolutely refused to
admit that justice in Russia is a matter of politics. I managed to learn
more about the proceedings against Dr. Lokoloff from a well-informed
colleague of his whose name I, of course, may not disclose. Since the
simple recital of such a case is more instructive than whole volumes of
generalizations, I will give it in detail as related to me. I may,
however, promise that the case is by no means the worst I have heard of,
as the government takes much severer measures to terrorize lawyers and
to prevent them from defending "politically inconvenient" persons. The
case of Lokoloff, moreover, calls for more detailed treatment because
the massacre perpetrated at Kishinef, in the name of the Czar, has at
last drawn public attention to the conditions in his dominions.

The participation of the government organs in the "pogrom" of Kishinef
was exposed by another lawyer, Dr. Paul N. von Pereverseff, who expiated
his accusation with exile to Archangel, where he and his wife now live
in a village, while his children are being sheltered by relatives.
Pereverseff had gone to Kishinef after the disturbances, and had there
made the acquaintance of Pronin, Krushevan, Stefanoff, and Baron
Levendahl, at that time in command of the gendarmes at Kishinef. Since
he came as counsel for the accused, and was a Russian nobleman above
suspicion, he at once enjoyed the confidence of these honest men. Thus
he learned that Pronin, the colleague of Krushevan and the protégé of
Plehve, in his character of member of the committee for poor culprits,
gave exact instructions to the prisoners how they should speak in the
legal proceedings. Pereverseff soon became convinced that the chief
culprit--namely, Plehve, who had planned to administer punishment to the
Jews, and to present a new accusation against them to the Czar, would
not appear at the bar. Instead there would appear only the poor wretches
who had been directed to plunder and kill the Jews by order of the Czar.

Dr. Lokoloff arrived at Kishinef in May, 1903, as advocate for the
injured parties, and learned there from Pereverseff what the latter had
already discovered. He then made a personal investigation extending over
several months, in the course of which he discovered also that the
"pogrom" of the police and of Baron Levendahl had been instigated by
direct orders from higher authorities. He gave expression to this
conviction in the course of the proceedings, and was, in consequence,
imprisoned on an order telegraphed direct from the minister of the
interior to Prince Urussoff, the governor, on December 9, 1903.

On the day following the despatch of the telegram a letter from Plehve
reached Prince Urussoff, in which the former desired that the
proceedings of Lokoloff in Kishinef be immediately reported and his
exile to the north decreed. Prince Urussoff himself visited Lokoloff in
prison, and made him acquainted with Plehve's message, whereupon
Lokoloff wrote a protocol in answer to four charges based upon data
furnished by the gendarmes, as follows (the accusation is given first
and is followed by Lokoloff's answer):


     "I. It is asserted that you have come to Kishinef in a
     professional capacity, with the ostensible purpose of affording
     legal assistance to the injured parties, but in reality to carry
     on, in conjunction with other persons whose activity in opposition
     to the government is well known, a private investigation parallel
     with the legal one, to incite the Jews to make biased statements,
     serviceable to the purposes of the opposition, and to bring forward
     groundless complaints.

     "_Answer._ Yes, I have carried on an investigation, and in so doing
     have only discharged my duty. It is not forbidden in our country to
     conduct investigation openly or secretly. My course of action was
     dictated solely by the interests of my clients and the inadequate
     official investigation. Very rich men took part in the
     disturbances; but the official investigation detected only _poor_
     ones as the accused. The interests of the injured persons, however,
     demand that the _rich_ culprits also be brought to justice. The
     investigation made by me was no secret. The governor, the state
     attorney, the court of appeal, and the county court knew of it; and
     I received my information in regard to the disturbances from
     inhabitants of the city. In order to secure this information, I
     questioned many hundreds of people who had been witnesses of the
     disturbances. My offices were in special rooms, which were known to
     the police. The assertion that the testimony was biased and false
     is itself false.

     "II. You have deliberately spread false assertions in order to
     discredit the local authorities in the eyes of the government.

     "_Answer._ I have never deliberately spread false assertions in
     order to discredit the local authorities in the eyes of the
     government.

     "III. You have made use of your official position as counsel to
     publish information concerning proceedings in closed sessions,
     including the deliberately false assertion that in the legal
     process the connivance of the authorities in the organization of
     the disturbances, with the help of the authorities and of the
     troops, was proved.

     "_Answer._ I have never said that the disturbances were organized
     by the government. But from very exact statements of witnesses, I
     consider it proved that the disturbances were organized with the
     help of very many official persons--as, for instance, Baron
     Levendahl. [Here followed an exact statement of the details of the
     action of Levendahl, which space will not permit me to give.] The
     judge during the investigation, Freynat, himself acknowledged to me
     that the leaders of the incendiaries were agents of Levendahl. I
     myself demanded the attendance of Judge Freynat as a witness to
     this. He was called, but not until after all the lawyers had been
     excluded!

     "The agents of Levendahl, who were imprisoned with the murderers,
     were set free in the course of a few days, as is testified to by
     witnesses.

     "IV. You are in very intimate relations with persons who belong to
     the radical opposition. These persons are Dr. Doroshevsky and Miss
     Nemtzeva.

     "_Answer._ Relations are not forbidden. I made the acquaintance of
     Dr. Doroshevsky and Miss Nemtzeva only because they took part in
     the 'pogrom,' to the extent of saving many Jews. Miss Vera Nemtzeva
     is, moreover, the daughter of a respected proprietor."


Lokoloff wrote to the governor from prison to the effect that the
accusations were groundless, and that he was not guilty. On the receipt
of this letter Prince Urussoff visited him in his cell and admitted
that, in his judgment, Lokoloff was, in fact, wrongfully imprisoned. The
imprisonment, however, had been in obedience to an order from the
minister of the interior. The prince showed Lokoloff a copy of a letter
which he had sent to Plehve. This letter stated that according to
Prince Urussoff's interpretation of the law the action of Lokoloff did
not constitute a crime, and that therefore he could not order his
banishment to the north, but that Lokoloff was "fanatically convinced"
that the "pogrom" had been organized with the connivance of the
authorities, and that he had unconsciously imparted this conviction to
those with whom he came in contact. Therefore his residence in Kishinef
must be considered dangerous.

After some days Urussoff received a telegram from Plehve directing that
Lokoloff be liberated and that he be expelled from Kishinef.

Plehve's order was communicated by the governor to Lokoloff, who
expressed his astonishment that he should be expelled from Kishinef,
while Pronin, who in Urussoff's own opinion was one of the chief
offenders, was allowed to remain. This order, he added, would not tend
to a feeling of confidence in justice in Bessarabia.

As a matter of fact, the expulsion of Lokoloff was generally looked upon
as fresh evidence of the complicity of the government in the
disturbances.

No one in Kishinef now knows anything more about the affair.
Pereverseff, who had directly attacked the government, was severely
punished and banished; Lokoloff was expelled. "All quiet in Schepko
Street."

Of course the members of the legal profession in Russia do not regard
the matter with indifference. At a meeting of the Association of
Lawyers' Assistants the sympathy of those present was extended to
Lokoloff; and at the monthly banquet of the Literary Alliance at St.
Petersburg the members even went so far as to express its disapprobation
of the action of the government in the affair.

The minister of justice, Muraviev, however, the worthy colleague of
Plehve, explained to a deputation of lawyers which congratulated him on
his jubilee in January last, that he was favorably disposed towards the
profession, but that advocates would do well to _avoid "pleading
politically," since it was very prejudicial, indeed dangerous, to the
profession, which might easily suffer for its independence._ A word to
the wise, etc.

Such are the joys of the legal profession in Russia, and such is the
fate of those who speak in defence of the right. The people of other
countries will appreciate the services to truth and justice which, in
spite of all obstacles, the undaunted advocate performs.

Such are some of the stern realities of an advocate's life in Russia,
and such the possible, nay probable, fate of any one who "pleads
politically" in defence of the right. It will be apparent to the
citizens of other countries at what a cost the conscientious members of
the legal profession discharge, in spite of endless obstacles, their
duty to truth and justice.

FOOTNOTE:

[7] Liberation.




XXIII

THE STUDENT BODY IN RUSSIA


Not very long after the dismissal of the former minister of education,
Sänger, I sought out a certain university professor who had been
mentioned to me as being accurately informed about university affairs.
Of course, my visit to him had been carefully planned, for it is not
possible in Russia for a person--least of all if he be an official--to
express himself freely to strangers.

The information which I received from this authority on the general
political and economic position of Russia agreed with the discussions I
had heard on every side. Misery, despair, inevitable collapse, these
were the words which were most noticeable in his description, too, and
it would be almost superfluous for one to reproduce the conversation
unless certain additional details had been brought out which are
particularly characteristic of the intense ferment in which intellectual
Russia is at just this time involved.

Just previously several students had been arrested. I asked about the
cause of the arrest and the probable fate of the young folks. A
demonstration in favor of the Japanese had been held by the students,
and had been reported. This was the cause of the arrest. "As yet nothing
can be said about the fate of the incautious young men," the professor
answered.

"You say that the students held a demonstration for the Japanese? It is
scarcely credible!"

"And yet it is true. All enlightened people, and accordingly the
students, too, regard the Japanese as an unexpected ally in their fight
against the existing conditions, and so sympathy for them is not
concealed. And, besides, aversion to them as a nation does not exist."

"But it is the very brothers and fellow-countrymen of the students who
must pay for it with their own blood if the Japanese retain the upper
hand!"

"That is partially true. But, first of all, Poles, Jews, and Armenians
have been sent to the seat of war, so that the Russian families do not
as yet feel the war so keenly; and then the Russian is used to the idea
that there must be bloody sacrifices for the cause of freedom. At any
rate, those who were arrested are much nearer the other students than
the troops who have gone to the front."

"But they challenged their fate!"

"That is a part of the fight against the régime. They seek martyrdom,
since they have become convinced that nothing can be attained by bare
protests and petitions. Perhaps a trace of Asiatic fatalism, and a lower
valuation upon life than is given it in the West, plays a part in their
acts, but, more powerful than all else probably, their conviction that
public opinion appreciates their sacrifices and approves of their
conduct."

"Then ambition is also an influence?"

"If you care to call it so. There is a little ambition in every
martyrdom. But the strongest motive is that youthful self-sacrifice, and
the belief that something can be attained for the cause by their
offering themselves up--in short, fanaticism. In this way some of the
most incredible things occur; for example, a student in prison emptied
an oil lamp over his body and set fire to it only in order to protest
against absolutism."

"I have heard this horrible story."

"Those who are now under arrest," the professor continued, "will
probably most of them soon be let free, for I do not believe that the
authorities have at present any desire to raise much of a storm. But as
many of them as are Jews will in all probability be more severely
punished, if only for statistical reasons."

"I understand."

"Oh yes. You know that the police have their special code for the Jews,
so as to prove that the discontent is entirely due to them. Plehve
asserts that he has forty thousand political indictments, eighty per
cent. of the indicted being Jews. That is made up to suit themselves,
and has nothing to do with turbulence. On the other hand, I dare say,
that quite often just for this statistical reason, and because the Jews
are punished quite differently from the sons of distinguished families,
the Jews are urged by their congeners not to expose themselves; but
they, too, are of course infected by the general fanaticism of
self-sacrifice."

"But from what do the special student disturbances about which we hear
so much proceed? Are they not caused by troubles in the universities?"

"Only in the very rarest cases. It is occurrences of general politics
which find a particularly lively echo among the students; the reforms
which are demanded for the university by us, the professors, are even
repudiated by the students, because they do not wish to let the causes
of their discontent be removed."

"What is the nature of the reforms in question?"

"General Wannowski, former minister of education, was perhaps a man of
limited capacity, who considered the university a barracks, the
professors colonels and other officers, the students privates, and
explained that the only thing lacking was non-commissioned officers to
keep their respective squads in order. Still he showed us the
consideration of asking us eighteen questions which were to be answered
by the faculties. Look here"--the professor pointed to a heavy bundle of
printed matter--"here you have the results of our inquest."

"And what is the substance of your wishes, to put it into a very few
words?"

"One word is sufficient, 'Autonomy.' We want independence in teaching,
'Lehrfreiheit' as it is in Germany, independent regulation of our own
affairs, and liberation from the direction of another department which
has neither interest in us nor understanding of us. This demand was
unanimously expressed by all the universities; in Moscow only two
professors in the whole faculty declared themselves for the prevalent
system."

"Was anything accomplished by this inquest?"

"To a slight extent. We obtained a university court, constituted of
professors, and the permission to form scientific societies among the
students."

"That is not so bad. And you say that the students are not in sympathy
with that?"

"No, they are afraid that discontent may be lessened by these
concessions, and they wish to be discontented until they have
accomplished everything."

"What do you mean by 'everything'?"

"A constitution and freedom of the press. They do not even use the right
to form scientific societies. _At present there is no studying done at
our universities_; politics have swallowed up everything, and the
radical element has seized the leadership completely. They hope in a few
months, by means of demonstrations, and Heaven knows what fateful
resources, to attain a constitution, and after that there will always be
time enough for study. At present, study, too, would be treason against
the cause of freedom. The universities are only political camps
awaiting the call to arms and nothing more."

"But in this respect, at least, they must be glad of their independent
university courts--that is, that at any rate they punish their youthful
misdeeds more leniently than the police."

"No. In the first place, it is only disciplinary matters over which our
court has jurisdiction; and then, in the second place, you forget that
the students do not at all want to be mildly treated, but to be
sacrificed."

"Of course. It is hard to reckon with motives that one scarcely
understands. But one thing is still unintelligible to me. It cannot
exactly be said that Russia is a radical country in the sense that the
whole upper stratum is radical. How is it that the student body, which
comes principally from this upper stratum, is so laden with
revolutionary tendencies?"

"I might answer you in a French phrase, although it is not particularly
flattering to us, 'Le Russe est liberal jusqu'à trente ans, et
après--canaille.'[8] The Russian is absolutely _not_ conservative, not
even the official. He can mock conservatism while seeking office, but in
his own house he remains a free-thinker, and youth, which has not yet
learned to cringe and hedge, blushes at the two-facedness of its
parentage, and continually reveals the true attitude of the house. Then,
with the exception of the high nobility, our whole landowner class is
more than liberal. Moreover, from two to three hundred conservative
students are to be found at each of the great universities, and they
have formed a secret association for the protection of the _sacred
régime_--and it is characteristic that the _Novoye Vremya_ was allowed
to print the call to form this secret society, although here in Russia
all secret societies are illegal."

"And are not these conservative students dangerous to their fellows?"

"Up to the present they have confined themselves to patriotic
demonstrations. They might become dangerous if they once decided to go
to lectures--not even then to their fellow-students, but to the
professors, who have greater doctrinal freedom, and who also make use of
the right to express their opinions, of course within the limits of
their special subjects. [Shortly after this interview a professor in
Kharkov who had expressed sympathy for the Japanese was actually
informed against by the conservative students and disciplined by the
authorities, a thing which led to great student demonstrations.]
Moreover, there are special spies which keep watch over the professors
and students, but luckily they are too illiterate to understand the
import of what is said, and therefore can do little damage."

"Are the professors sufficiently in sympathy with each other for the
formation of a university esprit de corps?"

"Most certainly. The common suffering, the fact that they are forbidden
to take open part in politics draw them together. Where in other places
rivalries and differences of opinion occasion dissensions, here there is
to be found only one solid whole--oppression is the firm cement. And
only in this way is it possible to make some resistance to the
absolutism of the police. In _open_ resistance we are quite weak, yes,
even defenceless, against the brutality of the régime, but in _passive_
resistance we are almost unconquerable because of our close contact with
each other."

"Ah! And so here there is brought to my attention one of those
subterranean sources of public opinion in Russia, which I have so long
sought."

"Of course. The universities form at least one of the main channels."

"And you consider the next generation to be thoroughly impregnated with
ideas of independence?"

"Thoroughly."

To the question with which I always parted from my authorities--that is,
what he believed the immediate future contained for Russia--this
professor, whose department I am not at liberty to indicate, but of whom
I can say that he is particularly well informed, gave the following
answer:

"We are exhausted. The transition to the financing of railroads, tariff
legislation, the tightening of screws of taxation bring in money for a
while, but no real power. We are on the brink of a crisis. I believe
that the war will greatly accelerate and force us to discount our
coupons.[9] Then, in my opinion, it cannot be long before a sort of
national assembly is called. This is my belief and my hope. Conditions
of excitement like the present ones at our universities cannot be long
endured under any circumstances. In one way or another a change must
take place, and we must hold fast to the hope of better things."

FOOTNOTES:

[8] The Russian is liberal until his thirtieth year--and then he joins
the rabble.

[9] Den Coupon zu kürzen.




XXIV

BEFORE THE CATASTROPHE[10]


"If you wish to have a striking evidence of the worth of our government,
you need notice only one thing," said an entirely unprejudiced Russian
to me one day. "We have as many questions as we have classes of
population. We have a Finnish question, a Polish, a Jewish, a Ruthenian,
and a Caucasian question. We have, besides, a peasant question, a labor
question, and a sectarian question, and, moreover, a student question
also. Wherever you cut into the conglomerate of the Russian population,
lengthwise or crosswise, everywhere you strike conflicts, combustibles,
and tension. Not a single one of the problems which may exist in
organized states in general is solved, but every one has been made
burning and dangerous through unskilful, brutal, and even malicious
handling."

The man who spoke in this way was not a Liberal, but a Conservative
aristocrat in the state service. I had reserved him for the end in my
journey of research. After I had had conversations with high officials
in the departments of education and of finance, with men like Prince
Ukhtomski, with bankers and with lawyers, and had heard always the same
story of the instability of things and the worthlessness of the régime,
I turned to the friends who by their influence had smoothed the way for
me everywhere, and said to them: "This cannot go on. I did not come to
Russia merely to be shot, as it were, out of a pneumatic tube through a
collection of Liberal and Radical malcontents. I do not wish to hear
merely the opposition in Russia. You must gain access for me to some
prominent Conservative also, one who stands on the basis of the present
system, and who honestly and in good faith defends it. It need not be
Suvorin or any other man of questionable honor, for I myself can apply
Stahl's theories to Russian conditions. It must be a sincere, reputable,
and sensible man with whom I can discuss the most widely different
questions with or without an interpreter; either is the same to me."

My request was readily granted. A scholar admired almost to the point of
worship, in whose house I had been entertained, gave me a letter to the
Conservative aristocrat whose words I have quoted at the beginning of
this paper. This letter I forwarded to the honorable gentleman in
question, asking for an interview, and by return mail I received a reply
stating that he would expect me that same afternoon.

I must confess that I anticipated this interview with some qualms. It
was towards the end of my visit. The results hitherto obtained had the
disadvantage of a certain monotony of sombreness, with, however, the
advantage also that each succeeding interview only strengthened the
impression gained from previous ones. Thus by degrees I had formed a
very sharply defined image of Russian conditions--such an image as is
pictured in the mind of the thinking Russian. Was this clear and
distinct image now to be dispelled by the lye of this Conservative
critic, and was I to lose the chief result of my journey, a confidence
in the trustworthiness of the data hitherto accumulated?

I met the gentleman at his house at the appointed time, and learned at
once that I had been especially commended to him. I therefore entered
without hesitation upon the matter in which I was interested.

"I do not wish," I began, "to go through Russia in blinders. If your
excellency, as a Conservative, will have the goodness to refute what I
have heard hitherto, and will give me more accurate information, I shall
be under great obligation."

"What have you heard?" asked the count.

"That Russia is starving, while the papers report a surplus in the
treasury."

"That, unfortunately, is true."

"That your thinking people are in despair."

"Also true."

"That a revival of the Reign of Terror is to be feared."

"Equally true."

"That all Russia hopes the war will be lost, because only in that way
can the present state of things be brought to an end."

"True again."

"That the present régime passes all bounds of depravity, and can be
compared only with the Prætorian rule in the period of the decline of
Rome."

"That understates the truth."

My face must have taken on a very strange expression during this brisk
play of question and answer, for the count now took the initiative, and
said:

"You are, I can see, surprised that I, as a Conservative and a state
official, should answer in this way; but I hope you do not consider
'conservative' and 'infamous' synonymous terms. If you do not, you will
not expect me to approve the régime of Plehve. That is not a
Conservative régime. It is the régime of hell founded by a devil at the
head of the most important department." (Here came the speech with which
this paper began.) The count then proceeded: "Do not suppose that Russia
is of necessity smitten with such serious problems. These questions are
nowhere simpler than with us. We have no national problems like those of
Prussia, for instance, or of Austria-Hungary, which are complicated by
the fact that majorities and minorities are mixed together almost beyond
separation. We have even in Poland almost no national aspirations
regarding which we could not come to a peaceable understanding. Our
nationalities live almost entirely distinct, in compact bodies side by
side; even the Finns are politically separate. It would be an easy thing
to make them all contented under just maintenance of the supremacy of
the Czar. But the priestlike intolerance of Pobydonostzev has spread the
idea in the world that all diversities of religion and speech must be
ironed out with a hot flat-iron, even at the risk of singeing heads.
Since then it is considered patriotic to repress men and convictions.
For this business unclean creatures are to be found who make careers for
themselves in this way; and their prototype is the tenfold renegade
Plehve."

"Yet I cannot conceal my astonishment, your excellency, that you, as a
Conservative, have this opinion of the system of Pobydonostzev."

"Why is that so illogical? Conservative thought is, above all, that of
organic development. All violence is revolutionary in its essence,
whether it serves reactionary or republican tendencies. The system of
Pobydonostzev is revolutionary and reactionary. In his fashion Plehve,
however, is simply a monstrous bill of extortion against the Czar as
well as against the shackled nation."

"Your excellency of course refers to the idea that Plehve intimidates
the Czar by threats of revolution?"

"That is not an idea simply; it is a fact, of which we have very
definite information. But what not every one knows is the fact that we
have no one but Plehve to thank for this war, which may be a
catastrophe. He had a finger in all the manoeuvres of delay which
provoked the Japanese to war, because he believed that he could no
longer preserve himself in any other way than by diverting public
attention from conditions in the interior, and by ridding himself of
those who were dissatisfied with him into the bargain."

"How the latter?"

"You do not know? It is very simple. The first men who were sent to Asia
were the Poles, the Jews, and the Armenians. Among our troops the Poles
were five times as largely represented, and the Jews even more so, than
they should have been according to their census number. And you must
search to discover a Christian among the reserve surgeons. Why is this
the case? To get rid of the most important elements of the malcontents
for years, perhaps forever. Of course, the Poles, the Jews, and the
Ruthenians have the most cause for discontent. Meanwhile there is peace
at home."

"Not to a remarkable extent, I observe."

"Wait. The students, who are so incautious in airing their ideas, will
come to know the East."

"Your excellency, no Radical has spoken like this."

"I can well understand that. The honorable Radicals have much less
cause to be dissatisfied with this rule of banditti, for it sends the
water to their mills. But a Conservative like myself sees with horror
that all the foundations of the Conservative order of things are
undermined, and that we are approaching exactly the same convulsions
that France experienced after the spontaneous downfall of her absolute
monarchy."

"In what respect, then, does your excellency distinguish yourself as a
Conservative from the so-called Liberals? Certainly not in criticism?"

"I will explain. The Liberals are Girondists, with their ideas adopted
from Cahier and Rousseau. Minister Turgot was a Conservative, who wished
to save the monarchy by trying to make an end of the loose management of
favorites. We Conservatives do not believe in a constitution or a
parliament as the only means of salvation. We Russians are anything but
ripe for that. It is a question if any people of the Continent,
untrained in English self-government, are ripe for it. We look to the
Czar for salvation, and to the Czar alone."

"Prince Ukhtomski says much the same thing. He does not speak of Liberal
or Conservative, but only of an intelligent party in Russia, and he
believes that an able minister could save the whole situation."

"I do not believe that for an instant. For, under the present
circumstances, an able and honest minister cannot remain at court. There
is only one salvation--a czar who is so educated for his task of ruling
that he is not the plaything of a circle of courtiers, like our present
good Emperor."

"I have heard a saying of Pobydonostzev, 'Autocracy is good, but it
involves an autocrat.'"

"Certainly; even if it were not Pobydonostzev's opinion. For brutality
alone certainly will not do. We must have knowledge of the subject and
strength of will."

"Then the future must look very black to your excellency, if you await
salvation from a new and better-trained czar. At present there is not
even a prospect of a successor to the throne."

"It looks black enough. I have no hope at all. For what is hope to
others is to me new ground for sorrow. We shall be defeated in Asia. We
shall have a financial crash--_i. e._, our long-existent bankruptcy can
no longer be veiled by juggling with the budget; and then we shall have
a repetition of the old game of revolutions and constitutions. Some
Western ideas on constitution-making will be imported and will not work.
There will come a reaction, and the hand of every man will be against
every other...."

"Then your excellency is opposed to the freedom of the press?"

"God forbid! A Conservative régime is far from being a police régime. We
must have a public opinion and a respectable press, and a press without
freedom cannot be respectable. A press which is under strict laws but
not under police tyranny, and an honorable government, can both be
brought about more easily under an absolute monarchy than under
parliamentary rule; but there will be no question of all this."

"I find hardly any essential difference between the ideas your
excellency represents and those I have been hearing for months in
Russia."

"You cannot wonder at that. If you should ask me whether the snow
out-of-doors is white or green, I also, as a Conservative, can only
answer that it is white. We are in a bad way; our peasantry is starving,
our thinking class is in despair, our finances are ravaged. Yet I
believe that far more evil days are before us, and I thank God that I am
an old man who has seen the worst."

So ended my interview with the Conservative, whom I had sought out for
the correction of the Radical views I had heard. In the evening I had to
make a report to my friends, who had waited it in suspense. My
information created an immense sensation. Something entirely different
from the interview had been expected, and there was astonishment at
hearing views as bitter as any one present could have formulated. Had he
permitted me to publish the conversation with his name?

"The conversation, but not his name," I answered.

A general "Aha!" went up from all present.

"That is the way with our chinovniks," remarked some one; "in a
tête-à-tête they are all Liberal, and as soon as they are on the retired
list they are all Radical."

"I beg pardon. Count X---- spoke with decision against a constitution,
therefore he is not a Liberal."

"We must beg of you," came in an almost unanimous chorus, "for Heaven's
sake, not to adopt this view and represent it abroad. It would be the
greatest misfortune that could happen to us if the outer world should
believe that we really are not ripe for a constitution. We do not need
an English or a Belgian constitution, to be sure, but a free parliament
and a free press we do need. Otherwise there is no reliance to be placed
upon any reform, and the farther from the centre the more Asiatic will
be the rule of the satraps."

"My duty is to report and not to judge," said I, dryly. "I owe it to my
authority to reproduce his views as he gave them to me. The only thing
that I can do is to add your criticism to my report."

They were satisfied with this offer; and in accordance therewith I have
reproduced the interview.

FOOTNOTE:

[10] An interview with a Russian Conservative.




XXV

SECTARIANS AND SOCIALISTS


I was taken one day to see a young Russian nobleman who was making a
special study of the nature of sects. We drove to the outermost skirts
of Moscow and stopped before a small palace. My companion, another young
boyar, spoke to the servants, and after a few minutes we were conducted
up a broad marble staircase to the first floor, where a suite of rooms
furnished in extremely modern style opened out before us. I remarked to
my companion that, after all, there really are no boundaries between
countries, for this little palace with its very modern interior might
just as well have been in Paris or London as here in Moscow. Instead of
answering, the boyar motioned towards the ikon which hung in a corner.
Modern furnishings, a bookcase filled with the most modern philosophical
literature, and above it the orthodox ikon--we were in Moscow, after
all.

The master of the house came in and embraced and kissed his friend. I
was introduced, and we shook hands. Cigarettes were lighted, and without
further formalities the young host took some manuscripts from a shelf
and began to give me a private reading. My companion helped out when the
reader's vocabulary failed him. It is thus that I am in a position to
give from my notes the following excerpts from a work which cannot be
printed in Russia, because it deals with the forbidden subject of the
character of sects in a fashion not entirely acceptable to the censor.

The significance of sects in the inner structure of Russian life is best
shown by some figures which give approximately their membership. In the
year 1860 about ten million Raskolniks (non-conformists) were counted;
in 1878, fourteen million; in 1897, twenty million; and to-day they
number thirty million. These non-conformists not only do not belong to
the orthodox church, but stand in hostility to the state, which
identifies itself with the orthodox church. The sects are constantly
increasing in number, and there is no doubt whatever that they answer
much better to the religious needs of the Russian people than the state
church, just as they already comprise what is morally the best part of
the nation.

The sects interested me less in themselves--although every expression of
the human instinct of faith is of psychological interest--than in their
bearing on the question as to how far they are united to form a
revolutionary army which could disarm and overthrow the autocracy and
then take in hand the new order of things. I tried to inform myself on
this point from my attractive host's reading. I also asked about it
directly. The answers I received have no room for expectation of a
revolutionary organization in the near future. According to them
deliverance cannot come from below. Absolution no longer has the masses
in hand, but it is at least able to prevent any general, all-inclusive
organization of the dissatisfied; and the thinking class in the
opposition to the government did not find the way to the people until
the most recent times. Only within the last few years has it been
reported that the peasantry is beginning to show symptoms of unusual
fermentation, the authors of which are unknown. The government does what
it can. It has spent nine million rubles for the strengthening of the
provincial mounted police. According to the accepted view the sects
arose because Patriarch Nikon wished to have the sacred writings and
books of ritual then in use, in which textual errors were to be found,
replaced by texts carefully revised according to the originals. The
clergy, however, clinging to the old routine, opposed this. When the
great council of May 13, 1667, declared itself in favor of Nikon's
proposed reform, the division became complete. From that time forward
the opposition of "Old Believers" (Starovertzy) became the heart of all
popular movements against the imperial power. My host represented a
different shade of opinion. According to his idea, the sects arose with
the introduction of Christianity, and they represent the opposition of
the simple paganism of the people to the complicated casuistry of the
Byzantine Church. Until the fourteenth century, he thinks, the church
tried to keep with the sectarians, and suffered the procession to go
according to the old pagan usage, with the sun instead of against it.
Since the fourteenth century, however, the church has identified itself
with the power of the state. From this time dates the hostility of the
sects to the government. Nevertheless, until the seventeenth century,
local gods were tolerated as patron saints. But when Bishop Mascarius
issued a list of the saints recognized by the state, the quarrel with
sects which clung to their own saints was made eternal. Since that time
the sectarians have not troubled themselves at all with the official
religious literature. They print their own books on secret presses.

Sectarianism really represents, therefore, in the first place, the
national opposition of the Russians to Byzantium; next, the opposition
to St. Petersburg, and especially to Peter the Great, who was and is
regarded as antichrist. But side by side with these nationalistic
religious sects, and far in advance of them, have grown up mystically
rationalistic ones also. Some of these, going back to early Christian
ideas, refuse to bear arms and to take oath in court, like the German
Anabaptists, Nazarenes, and Baptists. Others oppose the church on mere
grounds of judgment, and lead a life regulated according to the
teachings of pure reason. The Old Believers, after long and terrible
martyrdoms in which their priests were burned or otherwise executed, and
after a sort of recantation, finally came to an understanding with the
state and are at present in part tolerated.

The great majority of rationalistic--mystic--sects, however, have
remained hostile to the government, and are persecuted on all sides by
the state, although a great part of their members lead much more moral
lives than the orthodox Russians.

They are to be distinguished at present--sects with priests ("Popovtzy")
and sects without priests ("Bezpopovtzy"). The first are the Old
Believers, who are especially well represented in the rich merchant
class in Moscow and are recognized by the state. They may be
distinguished by their uncut beards, by their mode of crossing
themselves, and by their great piety.

The sects without priests are, however, the most interesting. The most
characteristic among them are the Self-burners, or Danielites, the
Beguny, or Pilgrims, the Khlysty, or Scourgers, the Skoptzy and Skakuny,
or Jumpers.[11] Their customs show what psychology knows
already--namely, that religious emotion leads easily to sexual, and then
both tend to revel in bloody ideas. One is led, indeed, to question
whether the fascinating effect of so many of the stories of saints must
not be traced back to that psychological connection in the
subconsciousness. With the Danielites voluntary death by fire is
considered meritorious. The Beguny are vagabonds, "without passport," an
unheard-of thing according to Russian ideas, without name, without
proper institutions. In this sect men and women live together
promiscuously. They are supported by secret members of the sect who live
in towns, and who do not, like the regular Beguny, expose themselves to
the standing curse of antichrist--_i. e._, the state. The Khlysty have
direct revelations from heaven in the state of ecstasy which they
experience at their devotional meetings. They are flagellants, dance in
rings until they are exhausted, and then sink all together in a general
orgy. The Skoptzy castrate themselves in such circumstances. The
Skakuny, or Jumpers, dance in pairs in the woods with frightfully
dislocated limbs until they sink down exhausted. All these sects are
accused of child murder. They are said to wish to send children
unspotted to the kingdom of heaven. It is to be noted that all these
data are unreliable, because no stranger is admitted to the secret
devotions, while the imaginations of the denouncers have just as much
tendency to revel in sexual and sanguinary ideas as that of the exalted
devotees. The persecution of these sects by the government is easy to
understand. Spiritual epidemics must be fought as much as physical
disease.

The persecution of the rationalistic sects is quite unjustifiable. They
do not deserve the name of sects at all, for in other countries similar
ones form simply free political, ethical, or philosophical societies.
Certainly they can only benefit the communities in which they exist by
their high ideal of integrity and strict morality. Count Leo Tolstoï has
already made the banishment of the Doukhobors known to all the world as
an infamous proceeding, and has thereby raised large contributions for
their settlement in Canada. The Shaloputy and the Malevents, for the
most part Ruthenians, have a really ideal character, free from the
narrowness and superstition of the church, without ritual, industrious,
helpful, peaceful, and kindly. They live together in a state of
free-love marriages, without constraint of church or state, neither lie
nor swear, and do good even to their enemies. The Stundists, who are
said to have originated with the German pastor Bonekemper, in the
Rohrbach colony near Odessa, are similarly virtuous communists, who do
not trouble themselves about the state, hold all property in common,
adjust all quarrels among themselves, and harm nobody. The formula of
the report with which the gendarmes are accustomed to give notice of the
discovery of a Stundist is characteristic: "I was passing the house of
Farmer X---- and his son and saw them both reading in a book. I entered
and ascertained that this book is the Gospel. Farmer X---- and his son
are therefore Stundists, and as such are most respectfully reported to
the authorities." Russian nobles have been exiled to Siberia for the
crime of reading the Gospel to their servants. A former officer of the
guards, Vassili Alexandrovitch Pashkov, who dedicated all his means to
philanthropy and held religious exercises, was expelled from St.
Petersburg and the movement named for him was suppressed.

Why is all this? The narrow-mindedness of Pobydonostzev's system permits
no falling-away from the official church. The police state tolerates no
suspicious morality. The thinking class in Russia quote with bitterness
Aksakov's saying, "Be a rascal, but be correct in your politics" ("Bud,
razvraten, no bud, blagonamyeren"). Debauchery is directly commended to
young men of good family because it prevents intense absorption in
politics. The crime of the Stundists, Doukhobors, and Malevents consists
in their wishing to be Christians in the spirit of Christ, and in being
disaffected towards that diabolical machine the Russian state. For this
they are persecuted in the name of Christ and of the state, but, as the
above-quoted figures show, without result. Sectarianism grows
continuously. Thus Leo Tolstoï's religious anarchy is in a certain way
comprehensible. Whoever looks about him sees good people who, without
making any disturbance, simply turn away from the state as something
unchristian and inhuman; and he may easily fall into the delusion that
it will some time be possible to found the kingdom of heaven upon the
earth through the spreading of these teachings. Their rise, however, is
only too comprehensible in a state which has never pretended to
represent the general welfare and justice--means by which even
conscienceless conquerors and despots have spread civilization.

All these sects are limited to the peasantry. The sectarianism of the
cities is called socialism. Here, too, one must use the word
"sectarianism." For even the little bands of organized labor split
immediately, after the Russian fashion, into smaller groups; and even
the intelligent upper classes form just as many little circles, each
with its own doctrine and its own organ. In spite of all efforts I did
not succeed in getting approximately reliable figures for the strength
of the separate socialistic groups. The estimates varied from forty
thousand to two hundred thousand, and are, therefore, entirely
worthless. In regard to the nature of the groups, both in general and in
particular, there is much more definite information.

After the assassination of the Czar Alexander II., which no one in
Russia will believe was committed without the help of these groups, who
knew definitely that the Emperor intended to sign an order for arrest,
the small and entirely isolated group of perhaps a hundred and fifty
desperadoes was simply exterminated, and several thousand people were
exiled to Siberia. With that the so-called aggression of nihilism came
to an end. Malicious persons, however, think it ended with the deed
which was most in the interest of the omnipotent police--namely, the
assassination of Alexander II. In any case, the police was not at all
severe in getting rid of this definitely recognized band. At that time
the doctrine of Marx was beginning to spread in Russia. This doctrine
was looked upon by the authorities as an antidote for the terrorism of
anarchy. The Marxists, whose organ is the _Iskra_ (Ray, or Spark), are
doctrinaires here as everywhere, swear--at least so the Revisionists
declare--by the theory that the poor are growing poorer, and wish the
peasants to abandon their land and to become a wandering proletariat
according to the catechism of Marx. They were opposed by the late
Mikhailovski, who knew Russia better than the founders of the _Iskra_.
To-day the Marxists are supposed to be suppressed. Besides these there
is the league with the two Parisian organs, the _Revolutionary Russia_,
a monthly printed in Russian, and the _Russian Tribune_, the real
monitor of the socialistic movement, and, next to Struve's
_Oswobozhdenie_, the best source of information upon Russian conditions.
The leaguers are former followers of Lasalle. They are exceedingly
troublesome to the police on account of their close organization.

For a while the police cherished the hope of being able to seize the
labor movement for their own purposes. A certain Subatov invented a plan
by which the police were to give financial support to the organization
of labor, and in exchange to require the political good conduct of the
organization. The industrial barons, however, at whose expense this
treaty of peace was to be brought about, put themselves on the
defensive. Gouyon in particular, a manufacturer of Moscow, who employs
over five thousand persons, simply threatened to close his factory if
the inspectors were not withdrawn. So fell Subatov, leaving only his
name behind to designate those who still put in a good word for police
socialism. They are called "Subatovists." With this exception, no one
has thought of an honest factory inspection as an effectual help for the
workmen.

The socialistic movement is seizing not only the working classes, but
also the universities, almost all of which to-day embrace a radicalism
certainly related to socialism. No sharp distinction can be made,
indeed, between these two stages in the general dissatisfaction and
fermentation. The police keeps its strictest guard upon the universities
and all the thinking classes. In the province of Irkutsk there are at
present no fewer than three thousand political exiles. How many are
lashed to death with knouts in police prisons no man knows. The answer,
however, is found in those unplanned outrages which are beginning to
occur again, and to which a governor or a minister falls victim, now in
one place, now in another. An outbreak of many of these is generally
expected in the near future.

There is still, however, a conservative element in Russia. I asked a
well-fed Russian tradesman, a representative "kupetz" (small dealer) of
Moscow, what he thought about the war and the conditions in the country.
His answer was so characteristic that I must give it: "It is not
anybody's business to think, but to obey God and the Czar." The present
order of things in Russia rests on this principle and on the stupidity
of the half-savage Cossacks. Therefore, no one must be deceived by the
symptoms of bitter feeling. A revolution under organized leadership and
with a definite object is impossible. At the most, single nationalities
and the starving peasantry may rise up, to suffer a sanguinary
overthrow. Deliverance is not yet within sight for these most
unfortunate of all men. National bankruptcy, which no one doubts is
imminent, will perhaps bring an improvement. Therefore the Russians
pray, desirous to hasten it, "God help us so that we may be defeated."

FOOTNOTE:

[11] A kind of Shakers.




XXVI

MOSCOW


Blue heavens, golden cupolas, green towers, red houses, pealing bells
above, sleigh-bells on the streets, praying muzhiks before images of the
saints, beautiful women in costly furs--when I wish to reconstruct from
my recollections the picture of Moscow, these are the elements which at
first mingle, charming, chaotic, like the colors in Caucasian
gold-enamel. How beautiful a city this! How often have I stood upon the
tower of the Ivan Veliky and looked down on this endless sea of shining
cupolas and gay roofs crowded upon gently rising hills far into the blue
haze of the distance! Never was the Russian love of home so intelligible
to me as there in the heart of Russia, upon the battlements of the
Kremlin, high above the bank of the Moskva! And involuntarily I
wondered, as, indeed, would any one not a subject of the imperator, who
has looked down from such battlements upon all the subject masses of
Russians, whether he has really subjugated them or whether they have
only been brought to a death-bringing hibernation. Æsthetic,
ethnological, historical, and political suggestions swarm to the mind
of the thoughtful observer in this place. What wonder if the Russian
feels himself here on holy ground and would prefer to put off his shoes
when he treads it?

The tongue of the people has a kindly word for St. Petersburg and a pet
name for Moscow--"Little Mother Moscow," it is called, the real capital
of Russiandom. And even the stranger must remark this difference of
treatment. St. Petersburg astonishes, awes, frightens. Moscow
ingratiates herself at first sight and wins each day a firmer hold on
our hearts. One thinks with a certain tenderness of one's stay in
Moscow, and in spite of unbelief predicts to himself another visit. But
not with faith. For unless business calls him there he is not likely to
make a second visit to Moscow in a lifetime. But one longs to pass many
a pleasant day in this city, so curious and yet so homely, with her
kindly inhabitants. Why? It would be hard to say in a few words. The
city is in too strong a contrast to the forced founding of St.
Petersburg. There the hand of man is all in evidence; nothing is
refreshing. A great prison fortress of granite blocks surrounded by huts
and barracks. Moscow is a product of nature, founded with enthusiasm by
its dwellers in response to the open invitation of nature, and adored
even with devotion. Even the stranger feels this, even though there is
nothing to which he is unaccustomed except the devotion and tenderness
of a people to whom he is bound by not a single tie of common
association. With what shudders one wanders through Rome, from Mont
Pincio to the Vatican! how one is carried on by the ocean of world
history upon the Capitoline, among the excavations of the Forum, among
the palace walls of the Palatine! What is to us, in contrast, the
Kremlin, this sanctuary of half-Asiatic barbarians? Yes, an exoteric
delicacy, nothing else! One cannot free one's self from the charm of
these places. Here a good-natured folk has created a jewel-box, gay and
dazzlingly ornamented, careless of what the culture of the West has
declared beautiful and holy; hither gravitate all the national feelings
of a hundred million people; and, finally, all this is created to the
harm of no one, to frighten no one, to oppress no one. Here the Czar is
not the general-in-chief of so many million bayonets, but "Little Father
Czar," who yields the countless holy images and chapels just the same
devotion as his lowest muzhik. And here is the past--not alone the
brazen, threatening present--the past of a strange people, but a people
of lovable individuals, who, besides, are brought nearer to us than many
of our nearest neighbors by a literature of unparalleled fidelity to
life. One must grow to love this childlike, slow-blooded, and yet
care-free people, with their irresistible heartiness. And he who has
learned to love the Russians must love their Little Mother Moscow, in
spite of, or just on account of, her quietness.

From St. Petersburg an express train brings us to Moscow in thirteen
hours. It is always a night train that disposes of this traffic, for the
Russian likes to sleep in his comfortable berth. And so we arrive in
Moscow in the morning, ready at once to assimilate the first impressions
of the enormous city. Our expectancy is great, of course. Moscow, the
object of all most Russian! It must differ, at first sight, from all we
have as yet seen. But while the hotel omnibus rattles through the
streets from the depot but little that is peculiar is to be seen. An
affable fellow-passenger explains to us that that is only the foreign
business quarter. But now one after another the church cupolas appear,
one after another in increasing brightness and variety. At our "Ah!" in
expression of our satisfaction, we are instructed that we had better be
more sparing of that vowel sound or we might soon become hoarse. Moscow
has no less than four hundred and fifty such churches and twenty
cloisters in addition. So let us be sparing. But the resolution is hard
to keep. A long and mighty wall suddenly rises before us with countless
angles, towers, and turrets. The wall is white, the towers are green,
and through the gate we see long streets and buildings in all possible
colors, dark included. It is Kitay-Gorod, the inner city, with the
bazars. Bokhara cannot appear more Asiatic. Now we feel already all that
we are about to see. A giant modern hotel almost destroys for us the
ensemble. Look quickly to your lodgings and then out again!

We are nicely located. From our windows we see the towers of the
Kremlin, which rise above the nearest roofs. Let him who will endure
remaining behind double windows! After washing and having some tea we
are at the door again, and quickly make a bargain with the "izwozchik"
who is to drive us over the outlined tour of the city. Horse and sleigh
are a bit smaller than in St. Petersburg, but still very good. And so we
are out in the sunshine, off into the snowy landscape, to gain a hurried
general conception of the endless city.

For two hours our good little horse draws us, gliding over bridges and
pikes, up and down hill, and when we return half frozen to the hotel we
have seen scarce a fraction of the periphery, but a thousand teams, with
shaggy muzhiks in wicker sleighs, and, still more, little country-houses
of wood, which might serve in the West for summer cottages, but which
offer an inviting shelter even here in the icy winter. The whole of
Moscow is a complex of official municipal buildings which are crowded
together into the narrowest space, of churches and palaces narrowly
crowded about the Kremlin, and of immense suburbs which lie in rings
about the inner town. But these suburbs have a half-country
character--broad, uneven streets and low, villa-like houses, with little
gardens. Little Mother Moscow gives her children room. They do not have
to crowd together in usuriously paying tenements, and houses of more
than one story are quite the exception. Even in the shadow of the
Kremlin a parterre for the stores and a single story above it are
sufficient. Really, only the hotels stretch with three or four stories
heavenward. The impression is ever recurring that Moscow has no desire
to be a city, and only quite unwillingly yields to the necessity of a
crowded existence.

The Kremlin, which we did not lose sight of once on our whole trip,
entices us strongly. It lies before us; so let us enter.

Yes, if it were as easily done as said! We cross a broad square, across
which lean little horses draw a horse-car high as the first story of a
house, and then we stand before buildings which allow us to go no
farther. It is the Duma, the city hall, on the left, and the historical
museum on the right, both dark-red in color; on the latter the façade is
built entirely of darkened stone, so that it gives the impression of the
whole being incrusted. The style is to be met with frequently. It
belongs to the sixteenth century and is now being revived. The idea of
using a coating of Russian enamel as an element of architectural style
is a brilliant one. We reach a gate of the high wall surrounding the
inner city Kitay-Gorod. But before we pass the gate let us cast a glance
at the peculiar doings in the little chapel, scarcely bigger than a
room, which is built on its left side. It is the Iberian chapel, with
the famed image of the Virgin to which the Czar pays his devotions
before he enters the Kremlin. The original, with its genuine precious
stones, is now in the city, where for a fee it is brought to sick
people. In the mean time a copy takes its place. At the time of the
daily excursions of the Virgin the governor-general, Prince Sergius,
does not allow the Jews to remain on the streets. The Blessed Virgin may
not see upon her way the traces of Jewish feet. Every one crosses
himself before her. But most climb the few steps to her and cross
themselves again, with deep bendings of the upper body; but some, men as
well as women, throw themselves full length upon the ground and touch
the earth with their foreheads. The candle trade flourishes; scarcely a
soul enters who does not buy a candle and light it before some image. No
difference of station can be recognized. The great lady, the high
official, the dirty muzhik, all are the same in their worship. Their
caps are continually removed, and the rather time-consuming Russian
ceremony of making the sign of the cross is performed. But the really
pious ones do not content themselves with worshipping before the gate.
They do the same thing again when inside.

We reach, finally, the "Red Square," so called because of the red
Kremlin wall and the red group of houses at the entrance. We notice
again that astonishment does not exactly make one brilliant. An "Ah!" in
unison is all that escapes our lips. I believe that then I cried out
with enthusiasm, and I should have liked to take by the coat-lapels the
people who, used to the scene, were indifferently going their ways, and
to say to them: "Look, you barbarians! Do you not know what you have
here?" Vasili Blazhenny (the Basilius Cathedral)! Many times as one may
have seen the curious bit of architecture depicted and dissected, yet
when one finally stands before it and allows the gay towers, with their
green, red, blue, and yellow cupolas to make their impression, he seems
to have entered quite another world, which no longer has a single thing
in common with our Western one. A sovereign, glorying fantasy has here
been formed and created, apparently without rule, led only by the law of
variety; has made wings, doors, and windings, and in the narrowest space
unfolded a richness which strikes us dumb, much as our feeling for style
struggles against the reversal of all our national laws. One's whole
architectural sense leans towards clear relationship of parts, towards
rhythm and proportion; the artist of the Basilius Cathedral leans
towards intricacy, lack of rhythm, disproportion. He is a colorist, and
but a colorist, in contrast to our Renaissance artists, to whom the
color seems almost an injury to the delicate line. And yet in all this
gay confusion he has held fast to a fundamental feeling which in all the
variations keeps returning, as in a joint--yes, just as in the wildest
dream some guiding idea like a red thread follows through it all. This
motive--I could not help always calling it to myself the Tschibuk
motive, after the winding, pearl-set tubes of a Turkish pipe--is
carried out with every possible Indian, Persian, and Roman ingredient,
and still retains the characteristic Byzantine style. A person would
show great partiality to call this building a mad-house, as many an
artist has done. One must only be able to free himself for an hour from
the dictator of the old taste in order to be able to comprehend the
delight of Ivan the Terrible at sight of this architectural orgy. (He
gave expression to this delight by having the eyes of the architect put
out in order that he might build no second masterpiece like it.) And
then again it must be confessed that the task of uniting in narrow space
thirteen chapels with thirteen towers could not well have been solved in
any other way than in this apparently most untrammelled, fantastic one.
If this proposition be accepted, the master of Vasili Blazhenny can only
be the object of wonder.

Now Vasili Blazhenny is typical of all Moscow, the Kremlin included. It
is the spirit of curious variety, of rich fantasy, the spirit of the
South and the East which rules here. The snow one feels to be almost out
of place, so Southern is the character of the city. The Kremlin, too,
before which we now stand, is a "free-act" work of art, a piece
something like the San Marco quarter in Venice, if one thinks of the sea
as removed. For the Kremlin must not be thought of as a palace is; it is
a whole part of a city, surrounded by a wall twenty metres high, two
kilometres long, enclosing an irregular pentagon. It lies on a rather
steeply rising hill on the bank of the Moskva, and commands the whole
region round about. Its beauty is not to be enjoyed in the interior of
the many churches, palaces, and barracks, although there is enough worth
seeing there, too. It only opens up from the balcony of the Ivan Veliky
tower, or from the bastion where the colossal monument of Alexander
stands. But the most beautiful view of the whole complex is from the far
bank of the Moskva, where the high wall, with its countless towers and
cupolas, seems like the birth of an Oriental dream-fantasy. It shines
and lightens in all colors, looks into the air, and speaks kindly
greetings to all below; one could simply sit and clap one's hands for
joy. But to the Russian this little jewel-box is by no means a
plaything. On the contrary, he very respectfully bares his head and
ceases not to cross himself. For "above Moscow is only the Kremlin, and
above the Kremlin is only heaven." Within, however, the muzhik regains
his childlikeness, and when he stands before the enormous cannon--"the
Czar of Cannon," an old bronze gun--he invariably climbs upon the
pyramid of giant balls which stands before it, climbs aloft and gapes
into the yard-wide mouth of the gun. And under no circumstances does he
neglect to creep into the hole of the "Queen of the Bells," which is in
front of the Ivan Veliky, in which there is room for two hundred people.

We who are not childlike muzhiks may not allow ourselves such
diversions; we must conscientiously see all the wonders of this greatest
of all rarities, a thing which will consume at least a day. We spare the
reader our experiences. Even the treasure-chamber with the coronation
insignia and jewels big as one's fist cannot inveigle us into a
description--all that could be seen in Berlin or Vienna.

Finally, the wonderful beauty of the colossal Church of the Deliverer
must here be spoken of. The work is too unique in its nature to allow of
being passed over in silence. The church is built apart, is visible
afar, and forms the glorious completion of the Kremlin picture seen from
the Moskva. In its mighty height, with its colossal, gilded domes, of
which the middle one measures thirty metres in diameter, it lightens
like a promise of the light the gay, romantic air of the Kremlin.
Fifty-eight high reliefs in marble ornament the façade, sixty windows
give bright light to the interior,  still more golden by the
light of countless candles. The magnificence of the central nave,
entirely of gold and marble, is simply overpowering, and the golden and
silver garments of the patriarchs would be quite unnecessary in giving
us the strongest impression of the enormous riches of the Russian
Church. Together with the Cathedral of Isaac, in St. Petersburg, this
church is well calculated to compete with St. Peter's, in Rome. But I
believe that one should refrain from the comparison. The expression
"Roma tatae!" comes from Madame de Staël, and was, within certain
bounds, approved by Moltke, who would call Moscow a Russian Rome. But I
must, with all due modesty, demur. Too many undertones vibrate in our
souls at the word "Rome" to allow us to consider any sort of comparison.
But for a Russian? Who knows where the awe of eternity touches him
deeper, before St. Peter's or before this Church of the Deliverer?

But no, such a question may not be put. Muzhik and kupetz, farmer and
small merchant, have absolutely no understanding of Rome--no beauty
impresses them, only the barbaric pomp with the costliness of the
materials. But the cultured Russian feels just as we do, and will not
seek the elements which make mighty the word "Rome" anywhere else on
earth. And those that I spoke to in Moscow itself would have given a
good deal of the peculiarity of their country for a breath of European
atmosphere. Continuity between the time of Ivan the Terrible and the
present does not exist for these nobles, lawyers, and journalists of
Moscow. They endure with polite but painful resignation our delight in
the fantasticness of their Kremlin, their churches and cloisters. It
does not flatter them in the least that they are curiosities for Western
people, like the Baschkirs and Tatars, for instance; and they will not
hear of their being condemned to continue a life in Russian style,
apart from Europe. This extreme enthusiasm for the autochthonous, which
is often enough only an antiquated product of chance, is, after all, a
romantic reaction and nothing else. It has long been proved that the
Gothic which awakened such exclusive enthusiasm in the days of the
Germanic Romance is not Gothic at all, but French. And so Russia has no
reason at all for considering her style, which is really Byzantine,
all-sufficient. Byzantine, however, is the contrast to Europe, whose
past has led by way of Rome and Wittenberg to the Paris of 1789. And so
progressive Moscow seeks freedom from Byzantium. While I was pretty
deeply imbued with things Russian, it was suggested to me to see a play
in the "Artists' Theatre," and then to say whether Moscow was really
quite Russian and Asiatic. I followed this advice and had no reason to
regret it.




XXVII

MOSCOW--_CONTINUED_


They were right in advising me to go to the theatre in order to correct
my impression that Moscow was a thorough-going Russian city. A hotel,
for instance, proves nothing at all concerning the character of a town.
It betrays at most the year of its erection, for to-day, the world over,
building is done in the recognized "modern style."[12] Even this or that
elegant street indicates nothing. There the imitation of patterns seen
elsewhere plays too great a rôle. But the theatre which is to survive
must adapt itself to the ruling taste to such an extent that it can be
considered really characteristic of it.

Now the "Artists' Theatre"--or, as it is called because of the
"secessionistic"[12] arrangement, the "Decadent Theatre"--of Moscow is
really unique, and by the preferences of the theatre public one can very
well recognize the quality and quantity of the intelligence of a city.
With respect to picturesqueness of staging, it is distinctly the
superior of the Meininger Theatre; and, as far as scenery and purity of
style are concerned, it can well compare with the most up-to-date
stages. To be sure, inquiry should not be made into the distribution of
the individual rôles; to some extent this is worse than mediocre. I saw
"Julius Cæsar" played where the conspirators seemed to feel it necessary
to yell out their plans in the night with all their might. But, in
contrast to this, the palace of the emperor was represented with a
fidelity which could not have been exceeded in Rome itself; and the same
with the Forum, and with the generals' tent at Philippi. The choruses
were simply captivating in their execution.

But more interesting to me than the play was the audience. And the
audience, composed entirely of the educated middle class, knew quite as
well how to judge what was success and what failure in the performance
as any of the better audiences of a Vienna or a Berlin theatre. And the
foyer, very appealingly decorated by the simplest artistic means with
scenes from the history of the Russian drama and with many portraits of
writers and actors, was visited and enjoyed by the audience in the
intermission. If I had not continually heard about me the sounds of a
strange speech, and had not seen here and there a Russian student
uniform, it never would have occurred to me that I was in the very heart
of Russia, so far as culture was concerned.

It was the same, too, in the families with which I spent my evenings.
If anything, only the heartiness with which one is received is
gratefully at variance with our habits of careful reserve towards
strangers. But these hearty and hospitable people who at once lead us to
the samovar are by no means backwoodsmen, but are most intimately in
touch with all the advantages of the world, and they have uncommonly
keen powers of observation. The visiting European who might think
himself in a position to act among them would quickly become aware that
the Russian writers, who astonish us by their deep psychological
insight, have not picked up their art by the wayside. It is hidden in
the most charming little formalities, which in Moscow, in particular,
simply charmed me. Nowhere the slightest cant, nowhere the slightest
false display, nowhere the forced enthusiasm for culture which makes
certain circles of our great cities so repulsive to us. Naturalness is
the pervading note in Moscow social life. But literary and art interests
are a matter of course in a society which is scarcely paralleled by the
English in its demand for reviews. To-day, of course, every other
interest is forced to the wall by politics. I have been present at
gatherings in the best circles of people of culture at which even the
young had scarcely any interest save in political questions. Even little
declamations with which the individual guests distinguished themselves
were spiced with political allusions, and were enjoyed by young and old
just because of this spice.

Yet Moscowism has, in a sense, a bad reputation. It is held to be the
embodiment of the Russian reaction against every attempt of a civilizing
nature which emanates from St. Petersburg. Of the lesser citizens, or
the old-fashioned merchants at times, this may even to-day be true. The
nobility in the Moscow government, however, the university, and the
members of the few professions such as medicine and the law, are much
less circumspect and free-minded in their political criticism than their
contemporaries in St. Petersburg, for instance. Such an opposition organ
as the _Russkiya Vyedomosti_ does not exist in St. Petersburg. There is
also, to be sure, a sharp contrast between the intelligence of Moscow
and that of official St. Petersburg; but this contrast is anything but
one between reaction and progress. It is worth while to examine it more
closely.

The present Russian régime has preserved only the despotism of the
enlightened despotism of Peter; the enlightenment has vanished. The
wisdom of the government consists solely in the obstruction of popular
education. The means to this end is the police, with their relentless
crusade against any intelligence of a trend not quite orthodox in its
attitude towards the state and the ruling spirit of the old régime in
the corruption of all the elements of the higher strata of society.
Demoralization is encouraged, so to say, by official circles. Just as
among the peasants a man caught reading his Bible is held in suspicion,
so in St. Petersburg a young man makes himself subject to the
displeasure of the authorities if he does not take his part in the
"diversions of youth." A lordly contempt for humanity is accordingly the
prerequisite for every career in that Northern Paris. The pursuit of
fortune has never a conscience, least of all where it appears in
military form. There _esprit de corps_ and dignity of position displace
to a degree of absolute hostility all morality. Elegantly and
fashionably clothed, one is always ready to wager one's life, or rather
to throw it into the balance, for the most valueless stake. One is
irreligious and anti-moral on principle, but of the strictest outward
orthodoxy and monarchical to the very marrow.

It is to this anti-moral (anti-democratic) superficial
superciliousness[13] that Moscow forms a contrast in each and every
particular. Here one is benevolent, democratic, hearty, and
intentionally modest in appearance. Here, too, there appears to be less
struggling. The kupetz (small merchant) is rich as can be, but he
lingers in his little store with narrow entrances, and never has a
thought of laying aside his caftan, the ancestral overcoat, or his high
boots, into which are stuffed the ends of his trousers. But it is not
exactly this merchant whom I should like to cite as an example of my
point, for it is just he who has brought upon Moscow the reputation for
being hostile to progress. But there is probably some connection between
the resistance which the nobility of Moscow offers to St. Petersburg
customs and the obstinate self-sufficiency of the merchant with his
old-fashioned views. Just as this kupetz does not allow himself to be
dazzled by the elegant-looking clerk of the St. Petersburg merchant, but
clings to his ancestral ways, so the Moscow nobleman is not dazzled by
the elegance of the dressy St. Petersburg officer of the guards. People
dress elegantly in Moscow, too--yes, even in the Parisian style. But the
contemptible inhumanity of the struggling official of St. Petersburg
does not appeal to the Moscowite as civilizational progress, but as a
metropolitan degeneracy to be despised. And so among the bright people
of Moscow patriarchal heartiness is preserved. It was not a matter of
pure chance that Leo Tolstoï spent so many winters in Moscow society. In
St. Petersburg he would not have stayed.


The most beautiful creation of this conscious devotion to Moscow is the
donation of a simple merchant, the possession of which any city of the
world might envy--the Tretyakov Gallery, the largest and most valuable
private collection that exists anywhere. A knowledge of it is absolutely
indispensable to the historian of modern Russian painting. The Alexander
Museum of St. Petersburg has isolated magnificent pieces of Ryepin,
Aiwasowsky, and the most beautiful sculptures of Antokolski; but it
cannot be compared with the two thousand pieces of the Tretyakov
Gallery. The founder gave, besides this invaluable collection, a
building for it, and a fund, from the interest of which, even after his
death, the collection might be augmented. Admission, of course, is free
to all; even fees for coat checks may not be collected of its visitors.

In this gallery one realizes for the first time that Russian painting is
about at par with Russian literature, that it also has its Tolstoïs,
Turgenyevs, and Dostoyevskys. Above all, there is Ilya Ryepin with a
whole collection of portraits and large genre pictures. I have tried to
sketch some of those works of art elsewhere in a special article devoted
to this greatest of Russian artists, and will not repeat myself here.
Let me only mention the portraits of Leo Tolstoï, copies of which can
now be found in the West. The poet is here depicted once behind the
plough and again barefoot in his garden, his hands in his belt, his head
thoughtfully sunk upon his breast. It is the best picture of Tolstoï
that exists. Once, while I was walking up and down in conversation with
the poet in his room at Yasnaya Polyana, I had to bite my tongue in
order to suppress the remark, "Now you look as if you had been cut from
the canvas of Ryepin." Ryepin may be compared as a portrait-painter with
the very foremost artists of all times. The strength of his characters
is simply unequalled.

But the Russians appear to me particularly great in the field of
realistic genre and of landscape painting, just as in their literature,
which never leaves the firm ground of observation; and just for that
reason it is perfectly unique in the catching of every little event, of
every feeling and atmosphere peculiar to the landscape. Among the
painters of the last quarter of the nineteenth century who already have
worked under Ryepin's influence, there is no longer any insidiousness of
coloring. Everything is seen clearly and strongly reproduced. No
Düsseldorferie and no anecdote painting. Of course, they did not shun a
subject useful in itself, and they by no means avoid a slight political
tendency. But they are no less artists because they disdain to beg of
the fanatics of "art for art's sake" the right to the name of artists by
an exclusion of all but purely neutral subjects. On the contrary, in the
naïveté in which they show themselves in their art as human beings of
their time, they let it be known that the problem "art for art's sake"
is for them without any meaning, since with them it is an axiom that
they desire to influence only through the medium of their art; and yet
they judge every work of art first of all in accordance with its
artistic qualities. Only they do not allow themselves by an apparently
neutral, but in reality a reactionary, doctrine to be hindered from the
expression of their sympathy for everything liberal, free, and human.

There is, for instance, a picture there by Doroschenko which bears the
harmless title "Everywhere is life." It might, yes, it ought really to
hang in the gallery of the Parisian, for it is a work of Christian
spirit. Convicts are feeding doves from the railroad car which is
carrying them into exile. As a painting it is excellent. The light falls
full upon the whirring pigeons in the foreground and upon the convicts
pressing their faces against the iron bars of the window of the car. One
sees through the window, and notices on the far side of the car another
barred window at which a man is standing and looking out. The interior
of the car is almost dark. The group of convicts in the foreground
consists of a young man, evidently the guilty one, and his wife, who is
following him into exile with their year-old child on her bosom. For the
sake of the child, and to please him, they are feeding the doves. A
bearded old man looks on pleased, and a dark-bearded younger man, too,
whom one might sooner believe guilty of some slight misdeed. But upon
the face of all these exiles lies so childlike a brightness, so evident
a sympathetic pleasure in the joy of the child, that one rather doubts
their guilt than the fact that they are still capable of good-natured
human feelings. And yet this picture of Christian pity has not been
bought for the Parisian. For it is well understood, in spite of its
harmless title, what its meaning is. "Everywhere is life" should read,
"Everywhere is pity, everywhere humanity, except among the police, in
the state, and in an autocracy." What guilt can these good little folk
have committed--looking there so kindly at a child that cooingly feeds
the doves--that they should be torn from their native hearth and be sent
to the icy deserts of Siberia? The young father--perhaps he went among
the people teaching that a farmer was a man as well as the policeman
(pristav). And one thinks with a shudder of the two thousand political
convicts of the year before that were sent into the department of
Irkutsk....

Such is the Russian genre. It is full of references, but is never a mere
illustration of some tendency or other. The painter does not make the
solution of his problem easy, and does not speculate on the cooperative
comprehension of the observer, who is satisfied if he finds his thoughts
indicated. No, such a Russian genre picture is perfect in the
characteristic of the heads, in perspective, in the distribution of
light and atmosphere. The purely picturesque, to be sure, is more
evident in the landscape. And in this the Russians do astonishing work.
They have the eye of the child of nature for the peculiarities of the
landscape--an eye which we in the West must train again. What west
European writer could have been in a position to write nature studies
like Leo Tolstoï's _Cossacks_, or like the "Hay Harvest" from _Anna
Karenina_? And one might also ask, What west European has so studied the
forest like Schischkin, the sea like Aiwasowsky, the river and the wind
like Levitan? There is a picture of Schischkin's in the Tretyakov
Gallery, "Morning in the Pine Forest." A family of bears busy themselves
about an enormous fallen, splintered pine. Everything is alive; the
comical little brown fellows are quite as true to nature as the moss in
the foreground and the veil of mist before the trees in the background.

Strange to say, Schischkin is stronger in his etchings than in his
oil-paintings, the colors of which are always a little too dry. But his
etchings, which I could enjoy in their first prints, thanks to the
goodness of the senator Reutern in St. Petersburg, are real treasures in
sentiment and character. He is, if one may express it so, the
psychologist of the trees. A tree on the dunes is a whole tragedy from
the lives of the pines.

Aiwasowsky, the virtuoso of the troubled sea, is more effective than the
quiet Schischkin. His storms at sea, with their transparent waves,
actually drive terror into the onlooker. The Black Sea has been the
favorite object of his pictures. There all the furies seem to be let
loose in order to frighten fisher and sailor. And these floods shine and
shimmer; they are as if covered with a transparent light. Levitan,
again, has understood the charm of the calm surface of a small body of
water as no one else. His brush is dipped in feeling. The beauty of his
pictures cannot be reproduced in words. He seems to have a special
sense-organ for the shades of the atmosphere. It is a pity that he died
so very young.

The collection of Vereschtschagin has now obtained a particularly
enhanced value because of the awful death of the master. The Tretyakov
Gallery has, with the exception of the Napoleonic pictures which
ornament the Alexander Museum, almost the whole life-work of the artist.
His work has only recently been universally appreciated. The power of
the versatile man was astonishing; his philanthropic turn of mind and
his epigrammatic spirit give spice to his pictures; but of him, first of
all, perhaps, it might be said that he used his art for purposes foreign
to it in spite of all artistic treatment. For it was seldom the artistic
problem that charmed him. Only his Oriental color studies are to a
certain extent free from ulterior purposes.

It is difficult to choose from this abundance of good masters, and
particularly to name those whom one should know above the others.
Pictures cannot easily be made so accessible as books, and the contents
of a picture does not permit of being told at all. And so I content
myself with mentioning again the names of Ryepin, Schischkin, Levitan,
and Aiwasowsky, and then those of the portrait-painter Kramskoi, the
landscape-painter Gay, and the master of genre painting, Makowski. And
to any one whose path ever leads him to Moscow, a visit to the Tretyakov
Gallery is most urgently recommended. A people which produces such
artists in every field as the Russian has not only the right to the
strongest self-consciousness, and to the general sympathy of people of
culture, but, above all, it has the right to be respected by its rulers
and not to be handled like a horde of slaves.

But, in spite of it all, light has not dawned upon those in power. You
may resolve as often as you will in Russia not to bother, for the space
of a day, with the everlasting police, but, in spite of all, you will be
continually coming into contact with them. Our path from the Tretyakov
Gallery to the hotel leads past a long, barrack-like building. We ask
our companion its object. He at once tells us something of interest.
First, the giant building is the manége, the drill-room for the soldiers
in bad weather. Its arched roof lies upon the walls without any interior
support. The weight of the roof is so great that already the walls in
many places have sagged and have had to be reinforced. Architects had
suggested alterations, which, however, would have cost countless
thousands. Such an expenditure could not be tolerated, and in the mean
time the evil increased. Already they were about to take a costly bite
from the sour apple, when a small peasant appeared and promised for a
hundred rubles to arrange matters in a single night. He simply bored, in
the top of the leaden roof, a hole, through which the air could
circulate, and immediately the roof lay like a feather upon the walls
without endangering them any longer by its weight. Such is the story of
the Moskvich. Whether or not it is true, or is held to be so by people
who know about such things, I do not venture to judge. But it seemed to
me interesting enough to be told. But what interested me still more was
the subsidiary use to which the building is put. It is near the
university. Now if a student disorder arises, they manage to surround
the students by Cossacks and drive them into this manége, where they are
held behind lock and key, by thousands, until the worshipful officials
have sought out those which may most to their purpose be called
revolutionists. Chance wills that generally the Jews are held, since
Herr von Plehve needs statistical proof for his theory of a purely
Jewish opposition.

His accusations may have served him among those above him, but not among
those below him. I found that in Moscow itself dealings between the
intelligent Christians and the few Jews who are allowed upon the street
were most hearty. The political bitterness, the desperate fight against
the régime, unites them all; after the Russian custom they exchange,
embrace, and kiss at every meeting, Jew or Christian, provided they only
be friends. It was for me, a Westerner, an interesting and mortifying
sight to see how young Russian nobles with world-famous names kissed on
the mouth and cheek in welcome and in farewell their Jewish friends.
With this impression I took my departure from Moscow. Terrible as the
political pressure may be, the people have preserved one thing in this
prison--their humanity. And thus they will one day attain happiness,
just as they are in many things already happier than we, because they
have remained human. For a well-known authoress, who begged me to write
a few words in her album, I wrote the words which I shall here repeat,
because they contain the sum of my Russian impressions, particularly
after the pleasing days in Moscow: "Russia is a sack, but it is
inhabited by human beings. The West is free, but it knows almost none
but business-men. I often almost believe that we ought to envy them...."

FOOTNOTES:

[12] Referring to a modern independent art movement in Europe.

[13] Ubermenschenthum. Cf. philosophy of Nietzsche




XXVIII

A VISIT TO TOLSTOÏ


From Moscow an accommodation train goes in one night to Tula, capital of
the government of the same name. The infallible _Baedeker_ advises the
traveller to leave the train there, because it is hard to get a team at
the next station, Kozlovka, though Kozlovka is nearer to Yasnaya
Polyana, the estate of the poet, than is Tula. I follow my _Baedeker_
blindly, because I have always had to repent when I departed from its
advice. The German _Baedeker_ deserves the highest credit for taking the
trouble to give this information to the few travellers that make the
pilgrimage to Leo Tolstoï. For it is not to be supposed that Tolstoï is
overrun. His family guard his retirement, and do not grant admittance to
every one. I was, in fact, the only stranger who found his way there
during the entire week. It was, indeed, a very special introduction
which opened the gates to me.

The train reaches Tula at eight in the morning. Thoughtful friends had
given me a card in Russian to the station-master to help me to find a
driver who knew the way. The station-master could not, however,
decipher the card, and did not understand my French. A colonel of
Cossacks then helped me out. He had already been talking with the
official, and now asked me if I could not speak German a little. When I
assented he immediately played the interpreter. In a few minutes a
muzhik was found who, with his small sleigh and shaggy, big-boned pony,
had made the journey many times. The amiable Cossack then accepted an
invitation to breakfast in the clean station, and we chatted for a while
over our tea. He was a tall, fair-haired man, with kindly blue eyes and
the short Slavonic nose. His conversation, however, emphatically
contradicted his appearance. He was on his way to the Ural, where he was
to meet his regiment, and talked about the bayonets of his Cossacks
being bent because the men spit the "Kakamakis" (Japanese) and threw
them over their shoulders. He was delighted that I was a German, for the
Russians think the Germans very good fellows at present. Only the
English are a bad lot--"Jew Englishmen!" Leo Tolstoï, he said, was a man
of great genius, but it wasn't nice that he was an atheist. I
interrupted him, laughing:

"I don't wish to be personal, colonel, but Leo Tolstoï is a much better
Christian than you."

"How's that?"

I explained to him that Tolstoï wishes to reestablish the primitive
Christianity and is the enemy only of the church and of the priests. The
good fellow was immediately satisfied. If it were nothing worse than
that--no Russian could endure the priests. They were all rascals. The
missionaries in China had turned all their girls' schools into harems.
Only the dissenting priests led a moral life.

It was the talk of a big, thoroughly lovable child, in whom even the
thirst for fighting was not unbecoming. Who knows whether the bullets of
the "Kakamakis" have not already found him out! I spoke later to the
good Tolstoï of this conversation. He also is persuaded that only right
teaching is needed to turn these essentially good-hearted people from
the business of murder. At present war is merely a hunting adventure for
them. They form no conception of the sufferings of the defeated.


Deeply buried in furs and robes, we glided at last over the glittering
snow. The city of Tula, which would have been interesting at another
time on account of its metal industry, was a matter of indifference at
the moment. We quitted it on the left and struck at once into the road
to Yasnaya Polyana. The distance before us was almost fifteen versts
(ten miles); our pony had, therefore, to make good time if it was to
bring us, over all the hills covered with soft snow, to our destination
before noon. A Russian horse, however, can stand a good deal, so I did
not need to interrupt by inopportune consideration for animals the
thoughts which surged through my brain more and more as we came near
the end of the journey. A meeting with Tolstoï is such an incomparable
privilege for me--will fate permit me thoroughly to enjoy the moments?
And if he is not the man I expect to find, if one of the great again
unmasks before me as a _poseur_--who appears great and admirable only at
a distance--how many illusions have I still to lose? May not his
apostleship be merely a self-suggested idea obstinately clung to? Is not
his tardy religious bent, perhaps, mere hypochondria, fear of the next
world, preparation for death? A look with his eyes must show me. I must
learn from the sound of his voice whether my inner ear deceives me when
I hear the ring of sincerity in the primeval force of his diction. I
know I cannot deceive myself. If the concept I have formed of him is
corrected even in the least point by the reality, that is the end of my
secret worship.

We turned in at last between two stone pillars at the park of Yasnaya
Polyana. Below, beside the frozen pond, we saw a youthful figure
advancing with the light step of an officer surrounded by a pack of
baying and leaping dogs. Yet, if my eyes did not deceive me, a gray
beard flowed over the breast of this slender, boyish figure. He stopped,
shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked towards our sleigh. Then he
turned back. It was he.

We had hardly reached the house and been unwrapped from our furs and
overshoes by the servants, when the door of the low vestibule opened,
and there, in muzhik smock and fur, high boots and tall fur cap, as we
knew him from a thousand pictures, Leo Tolstoï stood before us and held
out a friendly hand.

While he, motioning away the servants, pulled off his knee-high felt
overshoes, I had opportunity to look at him. That is to say, my eyes at
first were held by the head alone, with its softly curling gray hair,
which flows, parted, to the neck. Thick, bushy, gray brows shade the
deep-set, blue eyes and sharply define an angular, self-willed forehead.
The nose is strong, slender above, broad and finely modelled in the
nostrils. The long, gray mustache completely covers the mobile mouth. A
waving white beard, parted in the middle, flows from the hoary cheeks to
the shoulders. The head is not broad--rather, it might be called
narrow--wholly unslavonic, and is well poised. The broad, strongly built
shoulders have a military erectness. The powerful body is set on slender
hips. A narrow foot is hidden in the high Russian boot and moves
elastically. The step and carriage are youthful. An irony of fate will
have it that the bitterest foe of militarism betrays in his whole
appearance the former officer. The man in the peasant's dress is in
every movement the _grand seigneur_.

We were still standing in the vestibule, which serves also as a
cloak-room. The count thrust both hands in his belt--well-shaped,
powerful hands--and asked in faultless German my plan for the day. I
felt the gentle eyes on my face as he spoke. The look is beaming and
kindly. One is not pierced, only illuminated. Yet one feels distinctly
that nothing is hidden from those quiet, kindly eyes. I answered that I
should return to Moscow at midnight, and until then would under no
consideration disturb him in his work. He told me, thereupon, to send
back my sleigh, since he would have us driven at night to the station in
his own. He would have no refusal to our eating breakfast before we
withdrew to the room assigned us. The countess, he said, was in Moscow
at the time, but the youngest daughter would soon return from the
village school, where she taught. He would leave her to entertain us
until luncheon. I should say here that my wife accompanied me on this
wintry journey, as on the whole journey of investigation. Tolstoï
himself would keep to his usual programme--would look over his mail,
write a promised article, rest a little in the afternoon, then ride, and
from dinner--that is, from six o'clock--until midnight would be at my
disposal. Then he led us to a large room on the first floor. Here stood
a long table, which remains spread all day. Tea and eggs were brought.
Before withdrawing, however, the count sat with us awhile, asked with
the tact of a man of the world about personal matters--the number of our
children and how they were cared for in our absence, and the friends in
Moscow who had introduced us to him--all in a low, musical voice which
banished all embarrassment. Then he rose with a slight bow and walked to
his room. At the door, however, he turned and came back to ask whether
we brought any news of the war. It was just in the pause after the first
catastrophe at Port Arthur. We were obliged, therefore, to say no. Then
the servant appeared and led us back to the ground floor, where we were
shown into two connecting rooms. We had time to record our first
impressions.

The worst was over. There was no fear of disillusion. That was gone like
a cloud of smoke. The infinite kindliness of his eyes, the gentleness of
his hand-shake, the beauty of the silvery head exert a fascination.
There can be no doubt of his complete sincerity. The mind is filled with
an entirely new feeling, that of astonishment at the unpretentious
peacefulness of this fighter, who, from the stern seriousness of his
latest writings, and from his current portraits, might be taken for a
philosophizing pessimist. Whatever titanic thoughts may work in this
head, which looks like one of Michael Angelo's, all that is visible is a
glow of serene and holy peace, which gently relaxes the tension of our
own souls also. The ever-disturbing thought that we might find in the
count a recluse and an eccentric--if one may use such profane
expressions in connection with this illustrious man--a fanatic on the
subject of woollen underclothing and a return to nature in foods, was
set at rest from the first moment of meeting. The count is no eccentric,
but a polished man in spite of the convenient dress of the muzhik. The
peasant dress is simply the one that has proved best for his intercourse
with the country people. Moreover, there is a noticeable difference
between the well-cut and well-fitting coat of Tolstoï and that of the
ragged peasant. I must confess that the setting at rest of even this
little misgiving was of value to me. For, as people are in this world,
they will not take even a saint seriously if he wraps himself in
external eccentricities--if he has not good taste. Leo Tolstoï decidedly
has good taste. Only he is great enough and strong enough not to submit
to the tyranny of fashion. I should like, however, to see the man who
felt the least suggestion of worldly superiority in talking with him.
Truly the count is not the man whom any <DW2> in the consciousness of his
English tailor would presume to patronize. Perhaps, unconsciously to
himself, and certainly against his will, it is unmistakably to be seen
in him that he once had the idea of being _comme il faut_, as he tells
in his _Childhood and Youth_. However insignificant this circumstance
may be in the worldwide fame of Leo Tolstoï, it must be mentioned,
simply because the legend of the muzhik's smock may too easily create an
entirely false impression of the personality of the poet. In spite of
all the kindly simplicity of his bearing, no one can for a moment
escape the impression that here speaks a distinguished man in every
sense of the term.

The rooms allotted to us were parts of his large library. On a shelf I
found the carefully kept catalogue of the fourteen cases, with each book
on a separate slip. A glance through one of the glass doors showed me
English, French, German, and Russian books; my eye even fell on a Danish
grammar. There stood side by side a work on Leonardo da Vinci,
Björnson's _Über unsere Kraft_, Marcel Prévost's _Vierges Fortes_, Jules
Verne's _Journey to the Centre of the Earth_, Spinoza, Renan, a book of
travel by Vámbéry, a book of entomology, Buffon--the most different
sorts of books, and obviously much used. The count is able to accomplish
such an achievement in reading only by a careful division of the day,
not to say a military exactness and thoroughness, pushed perhaps to
pedantry, in all his doings. Later, in speaking with me, he used the
familiar phrase, "Genius is eternal patience." He has this patience. It
is well known how he works--that he has his first conception copied on
the type-writer, then corrected, then copied again, and so on until the
work satisfies him. On the day of my visit this man of seventy-five took
an early morning walk of an hour and a half, looked over his large mail,
wrote an English article upon the war, rode two full hours in the
afternoon with the thermometer at six, worked again, and remained in
almost uninterrupted conversation with us from six o'clock until
midnight. He spoke German most of the time, rarely French. At the end of
the exceedingly intense conversation he was just as youthfully elastic
as at the beginning; indeed, in the late night hours his eyes first
began to glow with a light of inspiration which no one who has once seen
it can ever forget. In addition to the great thoroughness of all his
action and the strict division of the day, a vital energy which must be
called truly phenomenal is also most essentially characteristic of his
personality. Leo Tolstoï is a giant in psychical and intellectual
strength, as he must once have been in physical strength also. It is not
purely accidental that the two heroes in whom he has pictured himself
most unmistakably--Peter, in _War and Peace_, and Levin, in _Anna
Karenina_--are large, strong men of unusual productive capacity.




XXIX

A VISIT TO TOLSTOÏ--_CONTINUED_


It was not yet noon when the door opened and a supple, laughing creature
burst in like a whirlwind and ran up the stairs, filling the house with
music. Soon afterwards the servant summoned us to luncheon. When we went
up-stairs the laughing singer with the voice like a silver bell met us
at the door of the dining-room. It was the Countess Alexandra Lvovna,
or, as she is known in the house, Sasha, a blooming, beautiful blonde,
with her father's brows above great, wide-open, blue eyes. The Countess
Sasha does not speak German. She did the honors of the luncheon in the
absence of her father, who did not appear, since it is his custom not to
interrupt his work at this time. Therefore another inmate of the house
was present, a Circassian, a talented artist who had nursed the count in
the Crimea and since then has remained in the family. She makes herself
useful now by filing the count's correspondence. She speaks only
Russian, however, so that she could take no part in the conversation.

Naturally, we spoke only of the countess's father. His health the
preceding year had been very weak from attacks of malaria and typhus,
and even now the family were constantly anxious about him. For he does
not spare himself in the least, and will not take his advanced years
into consideration at all. For twenty years he has not eaten a morsel of
meat. What appeared to be cutlets, which I saw him eat later, were made
of baked rice. I cautiously led the conversation to a former inmate of
the house, who, in an indiscreet book upon the family of the count, made
the assertion that the count was only nominally a vegetarian, but
occasionally made up for his abstinence by secretly eating tender
beefsteaks. It would mean nothing in and of itself if a habitual
meat-eater, after going over to vegetarianism in a general way, should
now and then indulge the craving for meat. The secrecy of the
indulgence, however, would be a piece of that hypocrisy of which the
count is accused by his most obstinate enemies. We received from the
countess, however, an explanation of the circumstances in regard to the
German woman's book. Since the Tolstoï family, however, have long since
pardoned the repentant authoress, it would be indelicate of me to
publish the ancient history. Leo Tolstoï is no hypocrite. He does not
even consider it a duty to be a vegetarian. All the rest of his family,
including the Countess Sasha, eat meat. Tolstoï finds, however, that a
vegetable diet agrees with him, and he therefore adheres to it without
wishing to convert anybody else to the same belief, as vegetarians are
accustomed to do. The count, in general, does not try to make any
converts, brings no pressure to bear on any one. Everybody may live
exactly as he chooses, even in the bosom of the count's family. The
Countess Sasha said, touchingly, "The only thing we can learn from him
is whether a thing pleases him or not. That is enough, however, at least
for me."

Nothing could be more touching than the relations between this last
child remaining at home and her father. She hangs on his words. Every
wish of his, spoken half aloud, is quickly and silently fulfilled by
her. Since the marriage of the Countess Tatyana she has been his
secretary, and her white hands operate the typewriter like those of the
oldest amanuensis. She trills a little French song at the same time, and
blushes to the neck when any one catches her at it and speaks of her
sweet voice and accurate ear. Work for her father is a higher
satisfaction to her. She subordinates herself completely to his
thoughts. She used to be, like every one else, a lover of Shakespeare,
but since she copied the latest work of her father upon, or rather
against, Shakespeare, she has been convinced and converted by his
arguments. She said this without any affectation, with the sincerity of
a child. It is to be seen that the deep tenderness of her love for her
father springs from her care of him. She trembles for him. Perhaps she
exerts herself, too, to replace all the brothers and sisters who have
gone out from the home. Of nine living children--there were originally
thirteen--she is the last. It is easy to see, too, how much the careful
precautions of this daughter please the count. When his eyes rest on her
face, beautiful with the distinction of race and maidenhood, it is as if
a ray of light passed over his face. He does this, however, as if by
stealth. His love is shy, as is hers.

Soon after luncheon the count sent me an invitation to join him. He had
paused in his work to eat a few mouthfuls. Meanwhile we might chat. We
again sat at the same table. The talk turned on the war, against which
the count was just writing an article. He made the observation that the
right-minded Russian was in a remarkable position. He contradicted all
human feelings in wishing a defeat for his own nation. The bitterest
misfortune that Russia could meet, however, would be the continuance of
the present criminal régime, which demands so many victims, inflicts so
much suffering upon Russia, and which, in case of victory, would only be
strengthened. Quite recently he had received a letter from a highly
gifted writer, a certain Semionov, whom he himself had discovered and
taught. Semionov, a peasant, had been a janitor in Moscow, but on
Tolstoï's advice had returned to his father, and had written a little
volume of stories, which Tolstoï rates higher than those of Gorki. Now
the gendarmes have confiscated everything he has, and, if I am not
mistaken, have even arrested the writer. The pressure, the count says,
is unendurable. I told him of my meeting with the Cossack colonel in
Tula and of the hotel servants in Moscow, who one and all wished to go
to the scene of war for the sake of plunder. "Certainly," answered the
count. "The soldier must rejoice over every war, for war gives him for
the first time a kind of title to existence in his own eyes. As to these
house-servants and waiters, however, who are so ready to take part in
the war, their love of fighting is nothing but common love of stealing.
The Europeans have rioted and plundered shamefully in China. The people
of the lower classes suffer from these things, and thus all their evil
instincts are awakened."

I told the count of the officially arranged patriotic demonstrations in
St. Petersburg, of which I had been a witness, and in which alcohol had
played its part.

"Yes, intoxication!" said the count; "they need that to make people
forget that killing, robbery, and plunder are sins. If people only came
to their senses they could no longer do these things; for nineteen
hundred years of Christianity, however falsified, leave their trail in
the consciousness of man, and make it impossible for him to rage like
the heathen. But everything is done to suppress religion. Our upper
classes have already completely lost religious consciousness. They
either say 'Away with this nonsense!' and become gross materialists, or
they remain orthodox and do not themselves know what they
believe--stupid stuff about the world's being created in six days and
lasting only six thousand years. This trash, which is taught the people
as religion--that is to say, belief in the schools--is just as much a
means of hindering religion as a superficial knowledge of science. Yet
religion alone can free us from our evils, from war and violence, and
bring men together again. Religion is at present in a latent condition
in every one, and needs only to be developed. And this religion is the
same for all, for the native religious consciousness is quite the same
in all men. But the churches prevent this unity, and bury this religious
consciousness under forms and dogmas which produce a sort of
stupefaction instead of satisfying the religious hunger."

I repeated the amusing remark of the Cossack colonel of Tula, that
Tolstoï was a great man, only that it was a pity that he was an atheist.

The poet laughed, with something like pain in the laugh.

"There is always a certain amount of truth in which people believe, only
it is misunderstood. To that good Cossack faith and orthodoxy are
identical. My own sister, who is in a convent, laments that her brother
asserts that the Gospel is the worst book that has ever been written.
The truth is that I made this assertion about the legends of the saints,
but it is misquoted. The authorities know what I think of the Gospel.
They have even struck out of the Sermon on the Mount two verses which I
put into an alphabet for the people."

"Who struck them out?" I asked.

"The censor, to be sure. An orthodox Christian censorship strikes out of
the Sermon on the Mount two verses which do not suit it. This is called
Christianity."

The authorities give the Tolstoï family the greatest difficulty in its
work of educating the people. The village school was suppressed, because
reading and writing were taught there and not orthodoxy. The instruction
which the Countess Sasha now gives is quite unsystematic. Five children
come to her at the old manor, and are taught the black arts of reading,
writing, arithmetic, and manual training, in constant danger that some
high authority will interfere to ward off this injury to the state.

"It is quite probable that we shall all be officially disciplined when
my father is no longer living," the Countess Sasha said to us, with that
calmness with which every one in Russia sacrifices himself to his
convictions.

There was nothing pastoral, likewise nothing exalted, in Tolstoï's
manner during this conversation. After finishing his luncheon he rose
and walked up and down the long dining-room with me, both hands in his
belt, as he is painted by Ryepin. He spoke conversationally, with no
especial emphasis on any word, as to one whom there is no need of
convincing. It was the afternoon conversation of an intelligent country
gentleman with his guest--the easy, matter-of-course talking in a minute
of resting--talk that is not meant to go deep or to philosophize. To me
it proved only the lively interest taken by Tolstoï in all the events of
the day. He was not at all the hermit, merely preparing himself by holy
deeds for heavenly glory, but an alert, vigorous, elderly man who
watches events without eagerness or passion, yet with sufficient
sympathy--an apostle unanointed, literally or figuratively.

A half-hour's siesta was a necessity after the night spent in travel and
the excitements of the morning. We rested, as did the whole house, in
which at this time there was scarcely a sound. I do not know whether
such stillness reigns in summer in the park, which now lay buried deep
in snow. The house is very quiet now because it has become too large for
the remaining occupants. A whole suite of simply furnished rooms on the
ground floor stands entirely empty, and is awakened to life only when
the married children come to visit. In the first floor, also, where the
study and reception-room are, everything has become too large. After we
had settled for our nap we heard only the click of the typewriter, on
which the Countess Sasha was copying the manuscript her father had
written in the morning, and the low song with which she accompanied her
work. Then the house awoke again. The count was about to take his ride.
A fine black horse was led to the door, and the old count descended the
stairs with his light, quick step. He now had the Russian shawl around
his neck and a broad woollen scarf belted about his body. He drew on his
high felt overshoes and thick mittens, put the lambskin cap on his head,
seized his riding-whip, and went out. A strange muzhik was waiting for
him before the door. He had come from a distance to lay his case before
the count. Tolstoï listened to him, questioned him, and then called the
servant. As he was not at hand, the count asked me to tell him to give
the muzhik some money. Then a foot in the stirrup, and, with the swing
of a youth, the man of seventy-five seated himself in the saddle. It is
easy to see, even now, that he must once have been a notable horseman
and athlete. For, though strength of passion abates in an elderly man,
he who has once had muscular training does not lose the effects of it.

With a nod of the head the rider rapidly disappeared in the lane that
leads to the main road. It was already growing dark when he returned,
chilled through, and now noticeably altered. The cold had pinched his
face; his eyelids were slightly reddened; eyebrows, mustache, and beard
were thickly frosted. The change was only superficial, however. An hour
later he was more fresh and vigorous than before, held himself erect,
and spoke with ever-increasing animation.

We, however, spent the afternoon in a walk in the village with the
Countess Sasha. We had accepted her invitation with pleasure. She now
appeared, humming, in a lively mood, slipped on a light gray Circassian
mantle and her little high overshoes, wound a long, red scarf about her,
and put a gray Circassian cap on her thick hair. Nothing was ever more
beautiful than this creature, so full of health and strength. She took a
stout stick from the wall for protection from dogs, and then led us out
into the deep snow, in which only a narrow path was trodden.

Even the deepest reverence does not require uncritical adoration.
Moreover, Tolstoï is of such phenomenal importance for us all that the
narrator who can communicate his own perceptions is bound to reproduce
them with the most absolute fidelity. Therefore, I believe I ought not
to conceal the thoughts which refused to leave me during the walk
through this village. I had to admire once more the deep humanity of the
Tolstoïs when I saw the Countess Sasha, in her beauty and purity, go
into the damp, dirty hovels of the peasants, and caress the ragged and
filthy children, just as Katyusha, in _The Resurrection_, kissed a
deformed beggar on the mouth in Easter greeting after the Easter mass.
This absolute Christian brotherliness receives expression also in the
whole attitude of the family. Countess Sasha says, quite in the spirit
of her father: "The industrious peasant stands much higher morally than
we who own the land and do not work it. Otherwise he differs in no way
from us in his virtues and vices." This brotherliness, however, has this
shortcoming, that it leaves the brother where it finds him, and does not
compel him to conform to different and more refined ways of living. The
Tolstoï family teaches the village children. It has established a little
clinic in the village. But it does not make its influence felt in
teaching the villagers personal cleanliness, taking, say, the German
colonists in the south as a model. I cannot conceive of the peasants of
Yasnaya Polyana looking as they would if the landlord were an English or
Dutch philanthropist instead of a Russian; and I cannot believe, either,
that the simplicity of manners or the warmth of brotherly love would
suffer if the village looked, for instance, like those of the Moravians,
which shine with cleanliness. To be sure, the count refrains from any
pressure on the people about him, and if his muzhik feels better
unwashed, as his fathers were before him, and prefers a dirty, unaired
room, shared with the dear cattle, to one in which he would have to take
off his shoes to prevent soiling the floor, the count will not exhort
him to change into a Swabian or a Dutchman. Æsthetic demands do not form
any part of the Tolstoï view of life--I believe that for this reason it
will find slow acceptance in the West.

There is the meekness and "lowliness" of early Christianity, there is
an anti-Hellenic principle in the village dirt of Yasnaya Polyana. It is
true that Hellenism leads in its final outcome to the abominable
"Herrenmenschenthüm"[14] of Nietzsche, to Nero's hatred of the "many too
many." A predominant æsthetic valuation of the good things of life leads
in a negative way to the immoral in conduct. Every final consequence,
however--that is, every extreme--is absurd; even absolute spirituality,
indifferent to all outward things, as well as the heartless cult of mere
external beauty. If we may learn from the muzhik patience in misfortune,
we have also something to offer him in return for this in ideas of how
to care for the body and of æsthetically refined ways of living. But Leo
Tolstoï is an enemy of all compromise, and perhaps must be so. If the
impulse towards the spiritualizing of our life, towards brotherly
kindness and holiness, which goes out from him, is to work in its full
force, it must be free from any foreign admixture, at least in him, its
source. In the actual world counteracting forces are not wanting,
moreover, and in some way the balance is always struck. The synthesis of
Nietzsche and Tolstoï is really not so very hard to find. It was given
long ago in the "kaho-kayadin" (beauty and goodness) of the ancients as
well as in the rightly understood conception of the gentleman. If
Tolstoï's human ideal wears the form of the muzhik and flatly rejects
every concession to the claims of an æsthetic culture, the fact leads
back ultimately to the repulsion which the St. Petersburg type of
civilization must awaken in every unspoiled mind. One perceives there
that luxury cannot uplift man. Indeed, it is easy to come to the Tolstoï
conviction that it ruins instead of ennobling him. An isolated thinker
like Tolstoï reaches in this revulsion very extreme consequences. In any
case the bodily uncleanness of the peasants is less unpleasant to him
and his daughter than the moral impurity of the town dwellers. The dirt
of the peasants is for him nature, like the clinging clay of the field.

Suppressing our thoughts, we followed our brave guide into the houses of
the village. With a few blows of her stick she put to flight the
snarling curs that stood in her way. In the first house there was great
wretchedness. The muzhik lay sick on the oven, beside him a stunted,
hunchback child. The wife sat at the loom, surrounded by a heap of other
children, flaxen-haired and unspeakably filthy. Half a dozen lambs
shared the room and its frightful air with the peasants, sick and well.
The young countess had a friendly word for each. One of the children was
a pupil of hers, and was at that very time working at her writing
lesson. This, of course, was praised. There was, however, something
obsequiously cringing about the peasant woman I did not like. It was
all quite different in the next house, which belonged to a rich muzhik.
He likewise lay on the oven. The room was lighter, thanks to a larger
window, but the floor was equally dirty, and the inevitable lambs were
pushing each other about in the straw in the same way. At our entrance
the muzhik awoke and got up. His mighty brown beard almost covered his
breast, which showed through his open shirt, and was covered with a
thick crust. This peasant, however, read the paper, spoke of the war,
and put a very interesting question. A little while before the Countess
Sasha had been at his house with Bryan, who had visited her father. The
muzhik and his visitor had become rather friendly. Now the muzhik read
in the paper that the Americans are enemies of Russia. How about his
friend Bryan? The countess, therefore, had to tell him whether Bryan had
now become his personal enemy. She reassured him, laughing. The peasant
woman accompanied us out of the house, and made the characteristic
speech: "I am ashamed; we live here like pigs; but what is any one to
do? We are so, and can't help it!"

In the same house is the little village hospital, which for the present
is only a movable affair. This is kept really clean. The amount of
illness is large. The peasants from the surrounding country come also,
and the doctor often has to treat forty patients in a single office
hour. He is said to be an able man and a good one--a matter of course
in Tolstoï's vicinity. Whether one wishes it or not, one is drawn out
here in the atmosphere of pure kindliness. When I came back from the
village I was almost ashamed that I had held my breath in the peasant's
room.

FOOTNOTE:

[14] The theory that the elect few alone deserve to live and that the
masses are superfluous.




XXX

A VISIT TO TOLSTOÏ--_CONTINUED_


At six o'clock we were summoned to dinner, at which the count appeared.
As entrée there were baked fish--for the count, rice cutlets--then a
roast and vegetables, of which the count took only the latter; then
dessert and black coffee. We drank kvass, later tea, with cakes.
Everything was very well prepared. A man-servant waited at table. It is
by no means petty to tell all this. The Tolstoïs do not live on locusts
and wild honey, but like other good families in Russia. We have, thank
Heaven, outgrown the days when genius had to assert itself by
extravagant conduct. Brilliant originality is entirely compatible with
conformity to custom in all every-day usages, according to our way of
thinking. Conversely, all originality immediately becomes suspicious in
our eyes when it labors to assert itself in trifles. "A wise man behaves
like other people." The individuality of Tolstoï shows in no way the
stamp of the idle wish to differentiate itself in each and every
particular from other people.

No one will expect me to reproduce every detail of the conversation,
which began at dinner and ended almost six hours later at the house
door. I certainly have not forgotten a word of it, but I cannot answer
for the order of succession of subjects, nor even for every expression
and every turn of speech. I therefore reconstruct from memory only what
seems to me the most important, and ask every indulgence for this
report. It is as faithful as is possible to human inadequacy after such
fatigues and excitements, and with rather tardy notes.

"I am now under the influence of two Germans," began the count. "I am
reading Kant and Lichtenberg--selections, to be sure, for I do not
possess an original edition. I am fascinated by the clearness and grace
of their style, and in particular by Lichtenberg's keen wit."

"Goethe says, 'When Lichtenberg makes a jest, a whole system is hidden
behind it,'" I threw in.

"I do not understand how the Germans of to-day can so neglect their
writer and go so mad over a coquettish feuilletonist like Nietzsche. He
is no philosopher, and has no honest purpose of seeking and speaking the
truth."

"But he has an unprecedented polish of style, and an endless amount of
temperament."

"Schopenhauer seems to me greater as a stylist. Still, I agree with you
that he has a glittering polish, though it is only the facile grace of
the feuilletonist, which does not entitle him to a place among the great
thinkers and teachers of humanity."

"He flatters, however, the aristocratic instincts of the new-Germans,
who have attained power and honor, and he works against the evils of
socialism."

"What is the condition of socialism in Germany?" asked the count,
immediately, with great interest.

"I fear it has lost in depth and strength what it has gained in
breadth."

"You may be right," he answered. "I have the same impression. The belief
in its invincibility is broken, and its internal strength of conviction
begins to weaken. It had to be so. Socialism cannot free humanity. No
system and no doctrine can do that--nothing but religion."

"The Church says that, too."

"But she teaches it falsely. What is religion? The striving of each
individual soul towards perfection; the subordination to an ideal. As
long as a man has that he feels a purpose in life, can endure all
sufferings, and is capable of any strain. It does not need necessarily
to be a lofty ideal. A man may have an ambition to develop his biceps to
an uncommon degree. If he takes this as his particular purpose in life
this aim carries him along completely. To be sure, a man's choice of an
ideal can be only apparently capricious. In reality we are all products
of our environment; and after nineteen hundred years of Christianity we
cannot with any true conviction set up ideals which contradict the real
Christianity. We can make ourselves believe something else for a while.
But the conscience will not submit to be silenced. Peace is attained
only by the religious ideal of perfection and of love of humanity.
Nothing is deadly except cynicism and nihilism."

"I remember your metaphor, comparing a society without religion or moral
enthusiasm to an orchestra that has lost its leader. It keeps in time
for a while, then come the discords."

"We are now in the first measure after his departure. All will go well
for a while, but then every one will get out of time; the leaders first,
because they are most exposed to temptation; then, class by class, the
lower ones also."

"I believe a state is like a magnet, in which every smallest particle
must have its direction, or else the whole loses its strength and
cohesion."

"Exactly. A state or a society, like the individual, is fit for life
only so long as it feels as a whole a reason for being. This life
principle of totality is, however, identical with the idea of the
individual. It is the stream that encircles each particle and brings it
into polarity."

"People try to reach it by the ideal of nationalism and patriotism."

"That is no ideal. It is an absurd idea, which immediately comes into
irreconcilable conflict with our better feelings. An ideal that can and
does require me to kill my neighbor in order to gain an advantage for
the group to which I belong is criminal."

"Yet it is dangerous to stand out against it. You had a controversy on
that point with Spielhagen, who cast it up to you that you incline
people to fling themselves under the wheels of a flying express-train."

"I remember. But Spielhagen does not know how many people already comply
with the requirements of the gospel. The Doukhobors are such people."

"But they were obliged to leave the country."

"What difference does that make? They were able to remain true to
themselves. That is better than remaining at home. And when we have once
changed education, and have taken the sinful glorification of deeds of
murder out of the hands of our children, then there will be not merely
thousands, but millions, who will refuse to sacrifice themselves, or
have themselves murdered for the ambition or the material advantage of a
few individuals. And then this chapter of world-history will end."

"But the school is a matter of politics, and the state or the
influential classes will be careful not to permit an education that will
make their lower classes unavailable for purposes of war."

"Certainly. And as long as there is a church which by its fundamental
teaching delivers itself over as an assistant to the state, and which
blesses weapons of murder, so long will it be hard to fight against the
evil instincts thus aroused. But school, of course, does not end man's
education. Later reading is much more important. We have, therefore,
created something that might well be imitated abroad also, our
'Posrednik,' books for the people. The thing that suppresses bad reading
among the people is good books, especially stories. The books are sold
very cheaply. Our artists design frontispieces for them. You must look
at them in Moscow. I will give you a letter to the publisher, my friend
Ivan Ivanovitch Gorbunov, who can tell you the details."

He did so. With his kind letter I afterwards looked up Gorbunov in
Moscow. Under the pressure of the Russian censorship he accomplishes the
immense work of spreading among the people every year several million
good books at a cost of a few kopeks each, without having needed to add
to his original capital of thirty thousand rubles. I fulfil a duty, and
at the same time a wish of Tolstoï's, in here calling attention most
emphatically to this magnificent Russian enterprise, which should be an
example for all other nations.

I took up the subject of socialism again, and said, "In the West, Social
Democracy is trying to solve the problem of educating the masses and to
emancipate them."

"This is certainly meritorious," replied the count. "The mistake lies in
the teaching of the Social Democrats that some other organization of
society will automatically abolish evil from the world. The principal
thing, however, is always to raise the individual to better morals and
better ways of thinking. Without this no system can be permanent. Each
leads only to new violence. People ought not to wish to better the
world, but to better themselves."

"In that you agree essentially with our Moderns, who likewise take a
stand against socialism and preach an extreme individualism. I see in
that only a reactionary manoeuvre, however."

"How so?" asked the count.

"I believe that all wars for culture are always fought in a small class
of thinking people. For the masses, provision for material needs is
really the principal thing. In the thinking class, however, there are
two parties: one, consisting of the feudalists, the plutocrats, and
university-bred business men, fortune-hunters, seeks for itself the
privilege of exploiting others; the other consists of the idealists, who
desire progress--that is, the education and freeing of the masses.
Sometimes the one class, with its aristocratic philosophy of profit,
wins the upper hand, sometimes the other. We do not yet know in what
Hellenic or Sidonian laws the spiritual ebb and flow will find its
consummation. It is certain, however, that each party uses as a means of
attraction the declaration that its point of view is the more
progressive and that the opposite is the losing side. The
individualists, in their scorn of socialism, render the most valuable
service towards fundamental and complete reaction to the
aristocratic-plutocratic party of exploitation, because they spread
confusion in the ranks of the idealists by discrediting their
solidarity. Nevertheless, they call themselves "the Moderns," and dub
the advocates of solidarity 'old fogies.' The most modern thing in the
West is a vile cult of the Uebermensch (over-man) Renaissance
sentimentalism and the cult of beauty in bearing--æsthetic snobism."

"All that originates with Nietzsche. The mistake, however, does not lie
in the principle of individualism, which does not exclude solidarity,
but, on the contrary, advances it. For the individual unquestionably
attains solidarity in the very struggle towards his own perfection. The
mistake lies in the æstheticism, in the basing of life on externals and
on enjoyment. Connected with this is the strangest thing of all, that
this resurrection of the madness of the Renaissance has not made use of
art. For all that is produced is nothing but pure silliness. I have not
laughed so much for years as at an entirely serious account of the
contents of _Mona Vanna_, or at the poems which our æsthete and decadent
Balmont read to me. None of those things are to be taken seriously as
art. They will only confuse people through their absurdity, which could
not exist if the healthy human understanding had not been brought into
discredit. It is no better with you in Germany. Why is your literary
product so low?"

"Who knows, count? It has already been asserted that since 1870 the
gifted minds have turned to more serious and more lucrative callings
than literature. But I do not believe it. The sciences show at present
just as few geniuses as the arts. It seems as if there were laws of ebb
and flow here, too. Sometimes a whole billow of inspired intellects is
flung upon the earth, and then there is long drought. We have had no
great writers since Gottfried Keller."

"Gottfried Keller? I have never heard the name before. Who was he? What
did he write?"

"He was a Swiss who inherited Goethe's free outlook on life, and wrote
the best German novels, full of creative art, of racy humor, and of
almost uncanny knowledge of human nature. He would give you much
pleasure."

"How? You say he inherits to some degree from Goethe. In that case my
enthusiasm would be doubtful, for I cannot say I especially love that
Goethe of yours."

"Is it possible?"

"There are some of his works I admire without reserve, which stand among
the finest things that have ever been written: _Hermann and Dorothea_,
for instance. I once knew his dedication by heart. Yet the lyrics of
Heine, for instance, make a deeper impression upon me than Goethe's."

"Pardon the remark, count, but in that case your knowledge of the German
language is not sufficient for you to notice the difference in quality.
Heine is a virtuoso, who plays with form. With Goethe, every word
breathes the deepest spiritual experience and is uttered from inward
necessity."

"The same thing is said here of Pushkin--that his greatness can be
appreciated only by those who are most deeply imbued with the spirit of
the language. I haven't any too much faith in all that, however. To be
sure, a translation is only the wrong side of the carpet; yet I believe
really great works hold their own in translation, so the form of phrase
cannot be the only test for the value of a writing. But what repels me
in Goethe is precisely that play on form of which you accuse Heine.
Goethe and Shakespeare are both artists in the sense in which you
reproach the Moderns. They are bent only upon æsthetic play, and create
only for enjoyment, and not with the heart's blood."

"I could not admit that, count, without repudiating everything I have
ever thought and felt. Not for Shakespeare, in whom, through all the
dramatic conventions of the greater part, we hear the heartbeat often
enough. As for Goethe, whose poems are partly painful confessions,
written only for the reason he himself gives,


     "Warum sucht' ich den Weg so sehnsuchtsvoll
     Wenn ich ihn nicht den Brüdern zeigen soll?"[15]


"I find much more of this feeling for humanity in Schiller."

"He is more rhetorical, appeals more directly to the middle class and
contemporaries. But, like the overbearing political tribune he was, he
has hardly entered into the joy and sorrow of the human soul."

"And it is exactly this that brings him nearer to me than Goethe and
Shakespeare. He is filled with a sacred sense of purpose in his work. He
had not the cold ambition of the artist to be merely faithful to his
model. He was full of longing that we should be carried away with him.
Of the three requirements I make of the great artist--technical
perfection, worthiness of subject, and self-identification with the
matter--the last is the most important. One may be a great writer even
when technical perfection, complete mastery of the tricks of the trade,
is lacking, as, for instance, in the case of Dostoyevski. But unless a
man writes with his heart's blood he cannot be a great artist."

"I believe the heart's-blood doctrine would rule out all cheerful
_genre_, and that meets perhaps best of all the fundamental purpose of
art."

"You say that because you yourself see in art only a means of enjoyment,
only play."

I could not have denied that this is really my conception, and should,
therewith, have hit upon the fundamental opposition between our Western
conception of life, as expressed by Goethe, and the exclusively
religio-moral one of Tolstoï. I could not, however, compel myself to
fill with a fruitless argument the few hours I had to spend with the
honored man. I should have been as little able to convince the apostle
of seventy-five, whose ascetic philosophy is the product of definite
conditions of civilization, as he to convince me, the west-German, whose
light-heartedness and confident belief in culture had ripened in the
sunshine of the Rhine bank. I therefore evaded the point, and said:

"I have hitherto not taken your rigorous demands upon art as well as
upon life quite literally, count. I thought to myself that when one
pulls up a horse suddenly he does not wish it to turn around, but only
to stop. I supposed that you wished merely to counteract other powerful
impulses."

"No," said the count, after a moment's reflection. "That is not so. I
believe in the absolute correctness of my demands. I myself, however,
was too weakly or too badly trained to submit to them altogether. I
cannot, for instance, keep from enjoying Chopin, although I condemn his
music as exclusive art, which addresses itself to the understanding and
feelings only of the aristocratically cultivated few."

"It seems to me an unattainable ideal that all men should share in
enjoyment of art; and the requirement that the artist shall refrain from
all work that could be enjoyed only by a limited number of especially
cultivated men is impossible and even harmful. It would deprive us of
the finest works we possess."

"If the requirement is justified in and of itself, it is quite
immaterial what sacrifices must be made to it. Nothing is to be
considered in comparison with truth."

I could go no further here, again. For I was talking with the man who
repudiates his own immortal works because they are beyond the
comprehension of most people, and therefore help to widen the gulf
between the educated and the uneducated. I could not even make the
objection that almost all learning must be condemned on the same ground,
for it is well known that Tolstoï does not shrink from even this
conclusion.

It is not, however, a matter of indifference to him whether people
consider his views to be scientifically founded--_i. e._, correctly
reasoned out or not. He said to me in the course of the conversation:

"I often laugh, and I also often grow angry, when people cast it in my
face that my studies are not scientific. I assert in return that the
whole of positivism and materialism is unscientific. If I seek a science
by which I can _live_, I seek it only logically and steadfastly, or
scientifically, with no contradiction within itself from its premises to
its final conclusion. Scepticism, on the other hand, completely denies
every concept of life. And yet the sceptic wishes to live, otherwise he
would kill himself. He admits, therefore, by the mere fact that he is
alive that his whole philosophy is nothing for him but an idle exercise
of the intellect which has no bearing on his life. That means that it is
not in the least _true_ for him. I, however, seek the premise from which
I can not only live, but live peacefully and cheerfully. This premise is
God, and the duty for us that of perfecting ourselves. I follow the
consequence of that premise to the end, and feel that I am right not
only in words but also in deeds."

No truly scientific thinker needs to be reminded that Tolstoï here, in
the _a priori_ assumption that life must have a meaning, departs from
the fundamental principle of all scientific reasoning--namely, the
starting without a hypothesis, and, like Kant, to whom he feels drawn
not without reason, works with postulates instead of with conclusions.
But who will not rejoice that the poet, who above all things was and is
a passionate human creature, has saved himself from the despair of
agnosticism by a bold leap to the rock of faith, which lies beyond all
science, and can neither be supported nor shaken by it? How many of the
proud agnostics do not secretly cast furtive glances at that rock, where
they would like to reserve themselves a place against emergencies? While
Tolstoï sincerely acknowledges that without this foundation under his
feet he would no longer be able to live. He needed this quieting as to
the outcome of things to be able to follow his poetic impulse to look
at the world as it is. Only entirely barren, abstract natures find their
satisfaction in the voluntarily limited logical sequence of science,
confined as it is to the empirical. All men of imagination, including
Goethe and Bismarck, have had their share of mystic confidence in that
beneficent course of the universe which in popular language is called
God or Providence. This poetic faith has, of course, nothing whatever to
do with science.

Undervaluation of one's own qualities, however, and enthusiasm for the
complementary ones, is a familiar psychological fact. The poet Tolstoï
wishes to be a cut-and-dried philosopher. He repudiates his poetry, and
likewise speaks coldly--indeed, even with hostility--of the spirits akin
to him, of Goethe and Shakespeare. There is only one opinion among
lovers of art, and that is that Tolstoï, in the natural spontaneity of
his characters and incidents, is to be compared with these two alone,
and in the abundance of his psychological traits with Shakespeare only.
Yet at present Tolstoï is engaged in writing a book, soon to appear,
against Shakespeare and the study of Shakespeare. In our conversation he
came back to the indefensible over-estimation of this artist.

"If people were capable of approaching Shakespeare impartially they
would lose their unreasonable reverence for this writer. He is crude,
immoral, a toady to the great, an arrogant despiser of the small, a
slanderer of the common people. He lacks good taste in his jests, is
unjust in his sympathies, ignoble, intoxicated with the acquaintance
with which a few aristocrats honored him. Even his art is
over-estimated, for in every case the best comes from his predecessors
or his sources. But people are quite blind. They are under the spell of
the consensus of opinion handed down for centuries. It is truly
incredible what ideas can be awakened in the human mind by consecutive
treatments of one and the same theme."

I believe that one will not go astray in finding in the above-mentioned
book against Shakespeare a prosecution at the same time of Tolstoï's
campaign against the æsthetic-artistic view of life in general. His
purpose is to overthrow one of the chief idols of the æsthetic cult. As
far as the arguments on the moral side are concerned, he will certainly
have a following. The son of a tavern-keeper, himself an actor,
Shakespeare was certainly not the ideal of a gentleman. Tolstoï will,
however, have difficulty in abolishing wonder at the artistic power of
this most sumptuous of all geniuses.

Tolstoï dealt with the influence of general opinion again in another
connection. He was speaking of the mischief that the newspapers do in
the world, but chose, in my opinion, a very inappropriate example of
this.

"During the Dreyfus case," said he, "I received at least a thousand
letters from all parts of the world asking me to express an opinion.
How could I have responded? Here I am in Russia; the transaction was in
France. It was absolutely impossible to get a correct idea of the
proceedings, for every paper reported it differently. In and of itself,
what was the thing that had happened? An innocent officer had been
condemned. That was an unimportant occurrence. There were much greater
crimes committed by those in power. But the whole world took the alarm.
Everybody had an incontrovertible conviction as to the guilt or the
innocence of a man whom nobody knew, and whose judges nobody knew. A
thing like that is an epidemic, not thinking."

One must certainly travel a very strange and lonely road to fail to
appreciate that in this very instance the press accomplished an enormous
work in arousing mankind, and in showing them the danger threatening
from the Jesuits. The Dreyfus affair belongs to world-history as an
epoch-making event. Perhaps the deliverance of the whole white race from
the octopus-like embrace of clericalism and militarism is its work. And
Count Tolstoï, who regards it as his mission to fight militarism, lives
through the chief battle and does not suspect it! One certainly ought
not to forget that he is in Russia, where the incarceration of innocent
men is an every-day affair, and that the Russian papers think they
fulfil their duty to an allied nation by treating the matter from the
stand-point of Méline and Marcier.

Tolstoï's antipathy to this affair does not come at all from any
possible anti-Semitic feeling. He does not love the mercantile Jews, who
have not the slightest trace of Christian spirit. He condemns
anti-Semitism, however, in the most emphatic way. "Anti-Semitism," he
said, "is not a misfortune for the Jews, for he who suffers wrong is not
to be pitied, but he who does wrong. Anti-Semitism demoralizes society.
It is the worst evil of our time, for it poisons whole generations. It
makes them blind to right and wrong, and kills all moral feeling. It
changes the soul into a place of desolation in which all goodness and
nobility are swept away."

In regard to other matters, Tolstoï does not use strong expressions. He
parries them good-humoredly but decisively. When we were talking of the
new romanticists, I used some severe language. I explained the
uproarious applause of certain gifted but degenerate and perverse
artists as a cynical attack on the inborn moral sense, and said,
speaking from my own experience, that I had yet to meet one of those
devotees of immorality whom I had not found on closer acquaintance to be
morally deficient. When, however, I spoke of literary support of vice,
the count raised his hand to stop me, and said:

"Let us be gentle in our judgment of our fellow-men." Then he added, "Go
on."

I had, however, gained command of myself and begged pardon for my
vehemence. I could not go on, however, for what had been on my tongue
was only more bitter words.

He looked at me kindly, and merely said, "Thank you."

It is self-evident that Tolstoï did not mean by this to express sympathy
with the Diabolics and other eccentrics. Moreover, he spoke flatly
against art for art's sake, which he calls tiresome more than anything
else. "Agonized productions of the search for originality, welcomed by
idleness, and intended for the applause of the critics of so-called fine
taste." He shrugged his shoulders over the fact that a monument had been
erected to Baudelaire. He agreed with me, however, when I traced the
interest in exotic suggestion in the creative arts, as for everything
eccentric and bizarre, back to the tendency towards an entirely external
naturalism, which would completely rule out from art the personality of
the artist. He returned again to his text.

"Without the deepest sympathy and complete identification with the
subject no work of art can ever be produced."

He does not admit, however, that this identification with the subject is
found in the experiments of these latter-day writers. He sees in them
only a sudden change from the fashion for objectivity to the fashion for
subjectivity. When, however, I spoke of the good-fortune of the Russian
in not being obliged to take part in all these fashions, because he had
already showed in his deep-hearted realism that it is possible to be
true to reality, and yet be full of warmth and meaning, he again raised
his hand to stop me, and blushed. I could not tell whether it was from
modesty or whether he does not wish any longer to hear of the works of
his "literary" period. I believe, however, that the noise of all this no
longer reaches his ear. When I spoke with warm enthusiasm of the debt we
all owe him, said that his art was a revelation to us, that through him
we had first learned what poetic power lies in the simplest and deepest
fidelity to nature, he stopped me in his gentle way. Only philanthropy
is now a matter of any importance for him. Everything else is empty
trifling. He said to me:

"You are still buried deep in materialism. You must see that you free
yourself from that."

Nevertheless, he was good enough to recognize my honest purpose of
seeking the truth, even though I do not succeed in finding it in all
points as he believes he has found it.

I must certainly admit that in the late hours of the night, as he sat
opposite me, his fine head leaning far back and resting on one hand, his
glowing eyes making him seem as it were transparent, I had great
difficulty in preserving a conventional bearing. Here was one of the
greatest men of all times, who had risen out of the purely human and had
become a saint upon whom rests the divine light. The kindness and
tenderness of his voice and the gentleness of his words are
indescribable. He has the love and the dauntless courage of the prophet
and the apostle without their passion and wrath. It is doubtful whether
any mortal has ever had more understanding of human weakness than he. He
combats only institutions, never men. And yet no other man has had such
influence upon our consciences as he, most compassionate of all judges
in spite of the pitiless keenness of his vision.

It was midnight when the count's sleigh took us to Kozlovka, the nearest
station to the estate. In leaving I could not conceal the extent to
which I was moved. When I think of the final moments, when the count
stood at the head of the stairs and called a last word after me, while I
turned to him to say good-bye once more and forever, it seems to me that
I never in my life experienced anything more overwhelming. I carried
away an impression that the whole hall was filled with the light of his
eyes. Yet it was only a prosaic bit of advice for our return trip to
Moscow, to give which he had hurried after us after the adieus in his
study. The Countess Sasha, however, stood in the starlight by the door,
lovely as a goddess of hospitality. It was gratifying to know that the
saintly old man was in the care of this lovely creature.

Under the twinkling stars we sped at a brisk trot past black forests and
over the silent, deep-buried fields. Within us re-echoed the saying of
Kant, "Two things there are that always fill me with reverent awe: the
starry heavens above me and the moral consciousness within." The man
whose hand I had just grasped embodies the moral consciousness of our
century.

FOOTNOTE:

[15] "Why do I seek the way so ardently, if not that I might show it to
my brothers?"


THE END





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Land of Riddles, by Hugo Ganz

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