Russia
by Donald Mackenzie Wallace
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
Go to Part 2 of 2

by

Donald Mackenzie Wallace

1905

Contents

Preface

CHAPTER I

TRAVELLING IN RUSSIA

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

CHAPTER II

IN THE NORTHERN FORESTS

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

CHAPTER III

VOLUNTARY EXILE

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

CHAPTER IV

THE VILLAGE PRIEST

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

CHAPTER V

A MEDICAL CONSULTATION

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

CHAPTER VI

A PEASANT FAMILY OF THE OLD TYPE

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

CHAPTER VII

THE PEASANTRY OF THE NORTH

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

CHAPTER VIII

THE MIR, OR VILLAGE COMMUNITY

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

CHAPTER IX

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

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

CHAPTER X

FINNISH AND TARTAR VILLAGES

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

CHAPTER XI

LORD NOVGOROD THE GREAT

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

CHAPTER XII

THE TOWNS AND THE MERCANTILE CLASSES

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

CHAPTER XIII

THE PASTORAL TRIBES OF THE STEPPE

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

CHAPTER XIV

THE MONGOL DOMINATION

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

CHAPTER XV

THE COSSACKS

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

CHAPTER XVI

FOREIGN COLONISTS ON THE STEPPE

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

CHAPTER XVII

AMONG THE HERETICS

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

CHAPTER XVIII

THE DISSENTERS

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

CHAPTER XIX

CHURCH AND STATE

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

CHAPTER XX

THE NOBLESSE

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

CHAPTER XXI

LANDED PROPRIETORS OF THE OLD SCHOOL

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

CHAPTER XXII

PROPRIETORS OF THE MODERN SCHOOL

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

CHAPTER XXIII

SOCIAL CLASSES

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

CHAPTER XXIV

THE IMPERIAL ADMINISTRATION AND THE OFFICIALS

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

CHAPTER XXV

MOSCOW AND THE SLAVOPHILS

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

CHAPTER XXVI

ST. PETERSBURG AND EUROPEAN INFLUENCE

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

CHAPTER XXVII

THE CRIMEAN WAR AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

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

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SERFS

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

CHAPTER XXIX

THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SERFS

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

CHAPTER XXX

THE LANDED PROPRIETORS SINCE THE EMANCIPATION

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

CHAPTER XXXI

THE EMANCIPATED PEASANTRY

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

CHAPTER XXXII

THE ZEMSTVO AND THE LOCAL SELF-GOVERNMENT

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

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE NEW LAW COURTS

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

CHAPTER XXXIV

REVOLUTIONARY NIHILISM AND THE REACTION

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

CHAPTER XXXV

SOCIALIST PROPAGANDA, REVOLUTIONARY AGITATION, AND TERRORISM

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

CHAPTER XXXVI

INDUSTRIAL PROGRESS AND THE PROLETARIAT

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

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENT IN ITS LATEST PHASE

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

CHAPTER XXXVIII

TERRITORIAL EXPANSION AND FOREIGN POLICY

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

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE PRESENT SITUATION

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

PREFACE

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

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

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

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

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

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

LONDON, 22nd May, 1905.

RUSSIA

CHAPTER I

TRAVELLING IN RUSSIA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And when will there be some?"

"To-morrow!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II

IN THE NORTHERN FORESTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ivanofka," I replied.

"Now?"

"Now!"

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

"Roubles. How many?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ill, very ill!" sighed the head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III

VOLUNTARY EXILE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV

THE VILLAGE PRIEST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And does harmony generally reign in peasant households?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what is the effect of an inhibition?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V

A MEDICAL CONSULTATION

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

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

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

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

"And what is a Feldsher?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps it would be better."

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

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

"So you have an assistant, have you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first thing that roused his indignation was the conduct of his
fellow-servants. Nearly all the unmarried ones seemed to be
suddenly attacked by a peculiar matrimonial mania. The reason of
this was that the new law expressly gave permission to the
emancipated serfs to marry as they chose without the consent of
their masters, and nearly all the unmarried adults hastened to take
advantage of their newly-acquired privilege, though many of them
had great difficulty in raising the capital necessary to pay the
priest's fees. Then came disorders among the peasantry, the death
of the old master, and the removal of the family first to St.
Petersburg, and afterwards to Germany. Anton's mind had never been
of a very powerful order, and these great events had exercised a
deleterious influence upon it. When Karl Karl'itch, at the expiry
of the two years, informed him that he might now go where he chose,
he replied, with a look of blank, unfeigned astonishment, "Where
can I go to?"  He had never conceived the possibility of being
forced to earn his bread in some new way, and begged Karl Karl'itch
to let him remain where he was. This request was readily granted,
for Anton was an honest, faithful servant, and sincerely attached
to the family, and it was accordingly arranged that he should
receive a small monthly salary, and occupy an intermediate position
between those of major-domo and head watch-dog.

Had Anton been transformed into a real watch-dog he could scarcely
have slept more than he did. His power of sleeping, and his
somnolence when he imagined he was awake, were his two most
prominent characteristics. Out of consideration for his years and
his love of repose, I troubled him as little as possible; but even
the small amount of service which I demanded he contrived to
curtail in an ingenious way. The time and exertion required for
traversing the intervening space between his own room and mine
might, he thought, be more profitably employed; and accordingly he
extemporised a bed in a small ante-chamber, close to my door, and
took up there his permanent abode. If sonorous snoring be
sufficient proof that the performer is asleep, then I must conclude
that Anton devoted about three-fourths of his time to sleeping and
a large part of the remaining fourth to yawning and elongated
guttural ejaculations. At first this little arrangement
considerably annoyed me, but I bore it patiently, and afterwards
received my reward, for during my illness I found it very
convenient to have an attendant within call. And I must do Anton
the justice to say that he served me well in his own somnolent
fashion. He seemed to have the faculty of hearing when asleep, and
generally appeared in my room before he had succeeded in getting
his eyes completely open.

Anton had never found time, during his long life, to form many
opinions, but he had somehow imbibed or inhaled a few convictions,
all of a decidedly conservative kind, and one of these was that
feldshers were useless and dangerous members of society. Again and
again he had advised me to have nothing to do with the one who
visited me, and more than once he recommended to me an old woman of
the name of Masha, who lived in a village a few miles off. Masha
was what is known in Russia as a znakharka--that is to say, a woman
who is half witch, half medical practitioner--the whole permeated
with a strong leaven of knavery. According to Anton, she could
effect by means of herbs and charms every possible cure short of
raising from the dead, and even with regard to this last operation
he cautiously refrained from expressing an opinion.

The idea of being subjected to a course of herbs and charms by an
old woman who probably knew very little about the hidden properties
of either, did not seem to me inviting, and more than once I flatly
refused to have recourse to such unhallowed means. On due
consideration, however, I thought that a professional interview
with the old witch would be rather amusing, and then a brilliant
idea occurred to me! I would bring together the feldsher and the
znakharka, who no doubt hated each other with a Kilkenny-cat
hatred, and let them fight out their differences before me for the
benefit of science and my own delectation.

The more I thought of my project, the more I congratulated myself
on having conceived such a scheme; but, alas! in this very
imperfectly organised world of ours brilliant ideas are seldom
realised, and in this case I was destined to be disappointed. Did
the old woman's black art warn her of approaching danger, or was
she simply actuated by a feeling of professional jealousy and
considerations of professional etiquette? To this question I can
give no positive answer, but certain it is that she could not be
induced to pay me a visit, and I was thus balked of my expected
amusement. I succeeded, however, in learning indirectly something
about the old witch. She enjoyed among her neighbours that solid,
durable kind of respect which is founded on vague, undefinable
fear, and was believed to have effected many remarkable cures. In
the treatment of syphilitic diseases, which are fearfully common
among the Russian peasantry, she was supposed to be specially
successful, and I have no doubt, from the vague descriptions which
I received, that the charm which she employed in these cases was of
a mercurial kind. Some time afterward I saw one of her victims.
Whether she had succeeded in destroying the poison I know not, but
she had at least succeeded in destroying most completely the
patient's teeth. How women of this kind obtain mercury, and how
they have discovered its medicinal properties, I cannot explain.
Neither can I explain how they have come to know the peculiar
properties of ergot of rye, which they frequently employ for
illicit purposes familiar to all students of medical jurisprudence.

The znakharka and the feldsher represent two very different periods
in the history of medical science--the magical and the scientific.
The Russian peasantry have still many conceptions which belong to
the former. The great majority of them are already quite willing,
under ordinary circumstances, to use the scientific means of
healing; but as soon as a violent epidemic breaks out, and the
scientific means prove unequal to the occasion, the old faith
revives, and recourse is had to magical rites and incantations. Of
these rites many are very curious. Here, for instance, is one
which had been performed in a village near which I afterwards lived
for some time. Cholera had been raging in the district for several
weeks. In the village in question no case had yet occurred, but
the inhabitants feared that the dreaded visitor would soon arrive,
and the following ingenious contrivance was adopted for warding off
the danger. At midnight, when the male population was supposed to
be asleep, all the maidens met in nocturnal costume, according to a
preconcerted plan, and formed a procession. In front marched a
girl, holding an Icon. Behind her came her companions, dragging a
sokha--the primitive plough commonly used by the peasantry--by
means of a long rope. In this order the procession made the
circuit of the entire village, and it was confidently believed that
the cholera would not be able to overstep the magical circle thus
described. Many of the males probably knew, or at least suspected,
what was going on; but they prudently remained within doors,
knowing well that if they should be caught peeping indiscreetly at
the mystic ceremony, they would be unmercifully beaten by those who
were taking part in it.

This custom is doubtless a survival of old pagan superstitions.
The introduction of the Icon is a modern innovation, which
illustrates that curious blending of paganism and Christianity
which is often to be met with in Russia, and of which I shall have
more to say in another chapter.

Sometimes, when an epidemic breaks out, the panic produced takes a
more dangerous form. The people suspect that it is the work of the
doctors, or that some ill-disposed persons have poisoned the wells,
and no amount of reasoning will convince them that their own
habitual disregard of the most simple sanitary precautions has
something to do with the phenomenon. I know of one case where an
itinerant photographer was severely maltreated in consequence of
such suspicions; and once, in St. Petersburg, during the reign of
Nicholas I., a serious riot took place. The excited populace had
already thrown several doctors out of the windows of the hospital,
when the Emperor arrived, unattended, in an open carriage, and
quelled the disturbance by his simple presence, aided by his
stentorian voice.

Of the ignorant credulity of the Russian peasantry I might relate
many curious illustrations. The most absurd rumours sometimes
awaken consternation throughout a whole district. One of the most
common reports of this kind is that a female conscription is about
to take place. About the time of the Duke of Edinburgh's marriage
with the daughter of Alexander II. this report was specially
frequent. A large number of young girls were to be kidnapped and
sent to England in a red ship. Why the ship was to be red I can
easily explain, because in the peasants' language the conceptions
of red and beautiful are expressed by the same word (krasny), and
in the popular legends the epithet is indiscriminately applied to
everything connected with princes and great personages; but what
was to be done with the kidnapped maidens when they arrived at
their destination, I never succeeded in discovering.

The most amusing instance of credulity which I can recall was the
following, related to me by a peasant woman who came from the
village where the incident had occurred. One day in winter, about
the time of sunset, a peasant family was startled by the entrance
of a strange visitor, a female figure, dressed as St. Barbara is
commonly represented in the religious pictures. All present were
very much astonished by this apparition; but the figure told them,
in a low, soft voice, to be of good cheer, for she was St. Barbara,
and had come to honour the family with a visit as a reward for
their piety. The peasant thus favoured was not remarkable for his
piety, but he did not consider it necessary to correct the mistake
of his saintly visitor, and requested her to be seated. With
perfect readiness she accepted the invitation, and began at once to
discourse in an edifying way.

Meanwhile the news of this wonderful apparition spread like
wildfire, and all the inhabitants of the village, as well as those
of a neighbouring village about a mile distant, collected in and
around the house. Whether the priest was among those who came my
informant did not know. Many of those who had come could not get
within hearing, but those at the outskirts of the crowd hoped that
the saint might come out before disappearing. Their hopes were
gratified. About midnight the mysterious visitor announced that
she would go and bring St. Nicholas, the miracle-worker, and
requested all to remain perfectly still during her absence. The
crowd respectfully made way for her, and she passed out into the
darkness. With breathless expectation all awaited the arrival of
St. Nicholas, who is the favourite saint of the Russian peasantry;
but hours passed, and he did not appear. At last, toward sunrise,
some of the less zealous spectators began to return home, and those
of them who had come from the neighbouring village discovered to
their horror that during their absence their horses had been
stolen! At once they raised the hue-and-cry; and the peasants
scoured the country in all directions in search of the soi-disant
St. Barbara and her accomplices, but they never recovered the
stolen property. "And serve them right, the blockheads!" added my
informant, who had herself escaped falling into the trap by being
absent from the village at the time.

It is but fair to add that the ordinary Russian peasant, though in
some respects extremely credulous, and, like all other people,
subject to occasional panics, is by no means easily frightened by
real dangers. Those who have seen them under fire will readily
credit this statement. For my own part, I have had opportunities
of observing them merely in dangers of a non-military kind, and
have often admired the perfect coolness displayed. Even an
epidemic alarms them only when it attains a certain degree of
intensity. Once I had a good opportunity of observing this on
board a large steamer on the Volga. It was a very hot day in the
early autumn. As it was well known that there was a great deal of
Asiatic cholera all over the country, prudent people refrained from
eating much raw fruit; but Russian peasants are not generally
prudent men, and I noticed that those on board were consuming
enormous quantities of raw cucumbers and water-melons. This
imprudence was soon followed by its natural punishment. I refrain
from describing the scene that ensued, but I may say that those who
were attacked received from the others every possible assistance.
Had no unforeseen accident happened, we should have arrived at
Kazan on the following morning, and been able to send the patients
to the hospital of that town; but as there was little water in the
river, we had to cast anchor for the night, and next morning we ran
aground and stuck fast. Here we had to remain patiently till a
smaller steamer hove in sight. All this time there was not the
slightest symptom of panic, and when the small steamer came
alongside there was no frantic rush to get away from the infected
vessel, though it was quite evident that only a few of the
passengers could be taken off. Those who were nearest the gangway
went quietly on board the small steamer, and those who were less
fortunate remained patiently till another steamer happened to pass.

The old conceptions of disease, as something that may be most
successfully cured by charms and similar means, are rapidly
disappearing. The Zemstvo--that is to say, the new local self-
government--has done much towards this end by enabling the people
to procure better medical attendance. In the towns there are
public hospitals, which generally are--or at least seem to an
unprofessional eye--in a very satisfactory condition. The resident
doctors are daily besieged by a crowd of peasants, who come from
far and near to ask advice and receive medicines. Besides this, in
some provinces feldshers are placed in the principal villages, and
the doctor makes frequent tours of inspection. The doctors are
generally well-educated men, and do a large amount of work for a
very small remuneration.

Of the lunatic asylums, which are generally attached to the larger
hospitals, I cannot speak very favourably. Some of the great
central ones are all that could be desired, but others are badly
constructed and fearfully overcrowded. One or two of those I
visited appeared to me to be conducted on very patriarchal
principles, as the following incident may illustrate.

I had been visiting a large hospital, and had remained there so
long that it was already dark before I reached the adjacent lunatic
asylum. Seeing no lights in the windows, I proposed to my
companion, who was one of the inspectors, that we should delay our
visit till the following morning, but he assured me that by the
regulations the lights ought not to be extinguished till
considerably later, and consequently there was no objection to our
going in at once. If there was no legal objection, there was at
least a physical obstruction in the form of a large wooden door,
and all our efforts to attract the attention of the porter or some
other inmate were unavailing. At last, after much ringing,
knocking, and shouting, a voice from within asked us who we were
and what we wanted. A brief reply from my companion, not couched
in the most polite or amiable terms, made the bolts rattle and the
door open with surprising rapidity, and we saw before us an old man
with long dishevelled hair, who, as far as appearance went, might
have been one of the lunatics, bowing obsequiously and muttering
apologies.

After groping our way along a dark corridor we entered a still
darker room, and the door was closed and locked behind us. As the
key turned in the rusty lock a wild scream rang through the
darkness! Then came a yell, then a howl, and then various sounds
which the poverty of the English language prevents me from
designating--the whole blending into a hideous discord that would
have been at home in some of the worst regions of Dante's Inferno.
As to the cause of it I could not even form a conjecture.
Gradually my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and I could
dimly perceive white figures flitting about the room. At the same
time I felt something standing near me, and close to my shoulder I
saw a pair of eyes and long streaming hair. On my other side,
equally close, was something very like a woman's night-cap. Though
by no means of a nervous temperament, I felt uncomfortable. To be
shut up in a dark room with an indefinite number of excited maniacs
is not a comfortable position. How long the imprisonment lasted I
know not--probably not more than two or three minutes, but it
seemed a long time. At last a light was procured, and the whole
affair was explained. The guardians, not expecting the visit of an
inspector at so late an hour, had retired for the night much
earlier than usual, and the old porter had put us into the nearest
ward until he could fetch a light--locking the door behind us lest
any of the lunatics should escape. The noise had awakened one of
the unfortunate inmates of the ward, and her hysterical scream had
terrified the others.

By the influence of asylums, hospitals, and similar institutions,
the old conceptions of disease, as I have said, are gradually dying
out, but the znakharka still finds practice. The fact that the
znakharka is to be found side by side not only with the feldsher,
but also with the highly trained bacteriologist, is very
characteristic of Russian civilisation, which is a strange
conglomeration of products belonging to very different periods.
The enquirer who undertakes the study of it will sometimes be
scarcely less surprised than would be the naturalist who should
unexpectedly stumble upon antediluvian megatheria grazing
tranquilly in the same field with prize Southdowns. He will
discover the most primitive institutions side by side with the
latest products of French doctrinairism, and the most childish
superstitions in close proximity with the most advanced free-
thinking.

CHAPTER VI

A PEASANT FAMILY OF THE OLD TYPE

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

My illness had at least one good result. It brought me into
contact with the feldsher, and through him, after my recovery, I
made the acquaintance of several peasants living in the village.
Of these by far the most interesting was an old man called Ivan
Petroff.

Ivan must have been about sixty years of age, but was still robust
and strong, and had the reputation of being able to mow more hay in
a given time than any other peasant in the village. His head would
have made a line study for a portrait-painter. Like Russian
peasants in genera], he wore his hair parted in the middle--a
custom which perhaps owes its origin to the religious pictures.
The reverend appearance given to his face by his long fair beard,
slightly tinged with grey, was in part counteracted by his eyes,
which had a strange twinkle in them--whether of humour or of
roguery, it was difficult to say. Under all circumstances--whether
in his light, nondescript summer costume, or in his warm sheep-
skin, or in the long, glossy, dark-blue, double-breasted coat which
he put on occasionally on Sundays and holidays--he always looked a
well-fed, respectable, prosperous member of society; whilst his
imperturbable composure, and the entire absence of obsequiousness
or truculence in his manner, indicated plainly that he possessed no
small amount of calm, deep-rooted self-respect. A stranger, on
seeing him, might readily have leaped to the conclusion that he
must be the Village Elder, but in reality he was a simple member of
the Commune, like his neighbour, poor Zakhar Leshkof, who never let
slip an opportunity of getting drunk, was always in debt, and, on
the whole, possessed a more than dubious reputation.

Ivan had, it is true, been Village Elder some years before. When
elected by the Village Assembly, against his own wishes, he had
said quietly, "Very well, children; I will serve my three years";
and at the end of that period, when the Assembly wished to re-elect
him, he had answered firmly, "No, children; I have served my term.
It is now the turn of some one who is younger, and has more time.
There's Peter Alekseyef, a good fellow, and an honest; you may
choose him."  And the Assembly chose the peasant indicated; for
Ivan, though a simple member of the Commune, had more influence in
Communal affairs than any other half-dozen members put together.
No grave matter was decided without his being consulted, and there
was at least one instance on record of the Village Assembly
postponing deliberations for a week because he happened to be
absent in St. Petersburg.

No stranger casually meeting Ivan would ever for a moment have
suspected that that big man, of calm, commanding aspect, had been
during a great part of his life a serf. And yet a serf he had been
from his birth till he was about thirty years of age--not merely a
serf of the State, but the serf of a proprietor who had lived
habitually on his property. For thirty years of his life he had
been dependent on the arbitrary will of a master who had the legal
power to flog him as often and as severely as he considered
desirable. In reality he had never been subjected to corporal
punishment, for the proprietor to whom he had belonged had been,
though in some respects severe, a just and intelligent master.

Ivan's bright, sympathetic face had early attracted the master's
attention, and it was decided that he should learn a trade. For
this purpose he was sent to Moscow, and apprenticed there to a
carpenter. After four years of apprenticeship he was able not only
to earn his own bread, but to help the household in the payment of
their taxes, and to pay annually to his master a fixed yearly sum--
first ten, then twenty, then thirty, and ultimately, for some years
immediately before the Emancipation, seventy roubles. In return
for this annual sum he was free to work and wander about as he
pleased, and for some years he had made ample use of his
conditional liberty. I never succeeded in extracting from him a
chronological account of his travels, but I could gather from his
occasional remarks that he had wandered over a great part of
European Russia. Evidently he had been in his youth what is
colloquially termed "a roving blade," and had by no means confined
himself to the trade which he had learned during his four years of
apprenticeship. Once he had helped to navigate a raft from Vetluga
to Astrakhan, a distance of about two thousand miles. At another
time he had been at Archangel and Onega, on the shores of the White
Sea. St. Petersburg and Moscow were both well known to him, and he
had visited Odessa.

The precise nature of Ivan's occupations during these wanderings I
could not ascertain; for, with all his openness of manner, he was
extremely reticent regarding his commercial affairs. To all my
inquiries on this topic he was wont to reply vaguely, "Lesnoe
dyelo"--that is to say, "Timber business"; and from this I
concluded that his chief occupation had been that of a timber
merchant. Indeed, when I knew him, though he was no longer a
regular trader, he was always ready to buy any bit of forest that
could be bought in the vicinity for a reasonable price.

During all this nomadic period of his life Ivan had never entirely
severed his connection with his native village or with agricultural
life. When about the age of twenty he had spent several months at
home, taking part in the field labour, and had married a wife--a
strong, healthy young woman, who had been selected for him by his
mother, and strongly recommended to him on account of her good
character and her physical strength. In the opinion of Ivan's
mother, beauty was a kind of luxury which only nobles and rich
merchants could afford, and ordinary comeliness was a very
secondary consideration--so secondary as to be left almost entirely
out of sight. This was likewise the opinion of Ivan's wife. She
had never been comely herself, she used to say, but she had been a
good wife to her husband. He had never complained about her want
of good looks, and had never gone after those who were considered
good-looking. In expressing this opinion she always first bent
forward, then drew herself up to her full length, and finally gave
a little jerky nod sideways, so as to clench the statement. Then
Ivan's bright eye would twinkle more brightly than usual, and he
would ask her how she knew that--reminding her that he was not
always at home. This was Ivan's stereotyped mode of teasing his
wife, and every time he employed it he was called an "old
scarecrow," or something of the kind.

Perhaps, however, Ivan's jocular remark had more significance in it
than his wife cared to admit, for during the first years of their
married life they had seen very little of each other. A few days
after the marriage, when according to our notions the honeymoon
should be at its height, Ivan had gone to Moscow for several
months, leaving his young bride to the care of his father and
mother. The young bride did not consider this an extraordinary
hardship, for many of her companions had been treated in the same
way, and according to public opinion in that part of the country
there was nothing abnormal in the proceeding. Indeed, it may be
said in general that there is very little romance or sentimentality
about Russian peasant marriages. In this as in other respects the
Russian peasantry are, as a class, extremely practical and matter-
of-fact in their conceptions and habits, and are not at all prone
to indulge in sublime, ethereal sentiments of any kind. They have
little or nothing of what may be termed the Hermann and Dorothea
element in their composition, and consequently know very little
about those sentimental, romantic ideas which we habitually
associate with the preliminary steps to matrimony. Even those
authors who endeavour to idealise peasant life have rarely ventured
to make their story turn on a sentimental love affair. Certainly
in real life the wife is taken as a helpmate, or in plain language
a worker, rather than as a companion, and the mother-in-law leaves
her very little time to indulge in fruitless dreaming.

As time wore on, and his father became older and frailer, Ivan's
visits to his native place became longer and more frequent, and
when the old man was at last incapable of work, Ivan settled down
permanently and undertook the direction of the household. In the
meantime his own children had been growing up. When I knew the
family it comprised--besides two daughters who had married early
and gone to live with their parents-in-law--Ivan and his wife, two
sons, three daughters-in-law, and an indefinite and frequently
varying number of grandchildren. The fact that there were three
daughters-in-law and only two sons was the result of the
Conscription, which had taken away the youngest son shortly after
his marriage. The two who remained spent only a small part of the
year at home. The one was a carpenter and the other a bricklayer,
and both wandered about the country in search of employment, as
their father had done in his younger days. There was, however, one
difference. The father had always shown a leaning towards
commercial transactions, rather than the simple practice of his
handicraft, and consequently he had usually lived and travelled
alone. The sons, on the contrary, confined themselves to their
handicrafts, and were always during the working season members of
an artel.

The artel in its various forms is a curious institution. Those to
which Ivan's sons belonged were simply temporary, itinerant
associations of workmen, who during the summer lived together, fed
together, worked together, and periodically divided amongst
themselves the profits. This is the primitive form of the
institution, and is now not very often met with. Here, as
elsewhere, capital has made itself felt, and destroyed that
equality which exists among the members of an artel in the above
sense of the word. Instead of forming themselves into a temporary
association, the workmen now generally make an engagement with a
contractor who has a little capital, and receive from him fixed
monthly wages. The only association which exists in this case is
for the purchase and preparation of provisions, and even these
duties are very often left to the contractor.

In some of the larger towns there are artels of a much more complex
kind--permanent associations, possessing a large capital, and
pecuniarily responsible for the acts of the individual members. Of
these, by far the most celebrated is that of the Bank Porters.
These men have unlimited opportunities of stealing, and are often
entrusted with the guarding or transporting of enormous sums; but
the banker has no cause for anxiety, because he knows that if any
defalcations occur they will be made good to him by the artel.
Such accidents very rarely happen, and the fact is by no means so
extraordinary as many people suppose. The artel, being responsible
for the individuals of which it is composed, is very careful in
admitting new members, and a man when admitted is closely watched,
not only by the regularly constituted office-bearers, but also by
all his fellow-members who have an opportunity of observing him.
If he begins to spend money too freely or to neglect his duties,
though his employer may know nothing of the fact, suspicions are at
once aroused among his fellow-members, and an investigation ensues--
ending in summary expulsion if the suspicions prove to have been
well founded. Mutual responsibility, in short, creates a very
effective system of mutual supervision.

Of Ivan's sons, the one who was a carpenter visited his family only
occasionally, and at irregular intervals; the bricklayer, on the
contrary, as building is impossible in Russia during the cold
weather, spent the greater part of the winter at home. Both of
them paid a large part of their earnings into the family treasury,
over which their father exercised uncontrolled authority. If he
wished to make any considerable outlay, he consulted his sons on
the subject; but as he was a prudent, intelligent man, and enjoyed
the respect and confidence of the family, he never met with any
strong opposition. All the field work was performed by him with
the assistance of his daughters-in-law; only at harvest time he
hired one or two labourers to help him.

Ivan's household was a good specimen of the Russian peasant family
of the old type. Previous to the Emancipation in 1861 there were
many households of this kind, containing the representatives of
three generations. All the members, young and old, lived together
in patriarchal fashion under the direction and authority of the
Head of the House, called usually the Khozain--that is to say, the
Administrator; or, in some districts, the Bolshak, which means
literally "the Big One."  Generally speaking, this important
position was occupied by the grandfather, or, if he was dead, by
the eldest brother, but the rule was not very strictly observed.
If, for instance, the grandfather became infirm, or if the eldest
brother was incapacitated by disorderly habits or other cause, the
place of authority was taken by some other member--it might be by a
woman--who was a good manager, and possessed the greatest moral
influence.

The relations between the Head of the Household and the other
members depended on custom and personal character, and they
consequently varied greatly in different families. If the Big One
was an intelligent man, of decided, energetic character, like my
friend Ivan, there was probably perfect discipline in the
household, except perhaps in the matter of female tongues, which do
not readily submit to the authority even of their owners; but very
often it happened that the Big One was not thoroughly well fitted
for his post, and in that case endless quarrels and bickerings
inevitably took place. Those quarrels were generally caused and
fomented by the female members of the family--a fact which will not
seem strange if we try to realise how difficult it must be for
several sisters-in-law to live together, with their children and a
mother-in-law, within the narrow limits of a peasant's household.
The complaints of the young bride, who finds that her mother-in-law
puts all the hard work on her shoulders, form a favourite motive in
the popular poetry.

The house, with its appurtenances, the cattle, the agricultural
implements, the grain and other products, the money gained from the
sale of these products--in a word, the house and nearly everything
it contained--were the joint property of the family. Hence nothing
was bought or sold by any member--not even by the Big One himself,
unless he possessed an unusual amount of authority--without the
express or tacit consent of the other grown-up males, and all the
money that was earned was put into the common purse. When one of
the sons left home to work elsewhere, he was expected to bring or
send home all his earnings, except what he required for food,
lodgings, and other necessary expenses; and if he understood the
word "necessary" in too lax a sense, he had to listen to very
plain-spoken reproaches when he returned. During his absence,
which might last for a whole year or several years, his wife and
children remained in the house as before, and the money which he
earned could be devoted to the payment of the family taxes.

The peasant household of the old type is thus a primitive labour
association, of which the members have all things in common, and it
is not a little remarkable that the peasant conceives it as such
rather than as a family. This is shown by the customary
terminology, for the Head of the Household is not called by any
word corresponding to Paterfamilias, but is termed, as I have said,
Khozain, or Administrator--a word that is applied equally to a
farmer, a shopkeeper or the head of an industrial undertaking, and
does not at all convey the idea of blood-relationship. It is
likewise shown by what takes place when a household is broken up.
On such occasions the degree of blood-relationship is not taken
into consideration in the distribution of the property. All the
adult male members share equally. Illegitimate and adopted sons,
if they have contributed their share of labour, have the same
rights as the sons born in lawful wedlock. The married daughter,
on the contrary--being regarded as belonging to her husband's
family--and the son who has previously separated himself from the
household, are excluded from the succession. Strictly speaking,
the succession or inheritance is confined to the wearing apparel
and any little personal effects of a deceased member. The house
and all that it contains belong to the little household community;
and, consequently, when it is broken up, by the death of the
Khozain or other cause, the members do not inherit, but merely
appropriate individually what they had hitherto possessed
collectively. Thus there is properly no inheritance or succession,
but simply liquidation and distribution of the property among the
members. The written law of inheritance founded on the conception
of personal property, is quite unknown to the peasantry, and quite
inapplicable to their mode of life. In this way a large and most
important section of the Code remains a dead letter for about four-
fifths of the population.

This predominance of practical economic considerations is
exemplified also by the way in which marriages are arranged in
these large families. In the primitive system of agriculture
usually practised in Russia, the natural labour-unit--if I may use
such a term--comprises a man, a woman, and a horse. As soon,
therefore, as a boy becomes an able-bodied labourer he ought to be
provided with the two accessories necessary for the completion of
the labour-unit. To procure a horse, either by purchase or by
rearing a foal, is the duty of the Head of the House; to procure a
wife for the youth is the duty of "the female Big One" (Bolshukha).
And the chief consideration in determining the choice is in both
cases the same. Prudent domestic administrators are not to be
tempted by showy horses or beautiful brides; what they seek is not
beauty, but physical strength and capacity for work. When the
youth reaches the age of eighteen he is informed that he ought to
marry at once, and as soon as he gives his consent negotiations are
opened with the parents of some eligible young person. In the
larger villages the negotiations are sometimes facilitated by
certain old women called svakhi, who occupy themselves specially
with this kind of mediation; but very often the affair is arranged
directly by, or through the agency of, some common friend of the
two houses.

Care must of course be taken that there is no legal obstacle, and
these obstacles are not always easily avoided in a small village,
the inhabitants of which have been long in the habit of
intermarrying. According to Russian ecclesiastical law, not only
is marriage between first-cousins illegal, but affinity is
considered as equivalent to consanguinity--that is to say a mother-
in-law and a sister-in-law are regarded as a mother and a sister--
and even the fictitious relationship created by standing together
at the baptismal font as godfather and godmother is legally
recognised, and may constitute a bar to matrimony. If all the
preliminary negotiations are successful, the marriage takes place,
and the bridegroom brings his bride home to the house of which he
is a member. She brings nothing with her as a dowry except her
trousseau, but she brings a pair of good strong arms, and thereby
enriches her adopted family. Of course it happens occasionally--
for human nature is everywhere essentially the same--that a young
peasant falls in love with one of his former playmates, and brings
his little romance to a happy conclusion at the altar; but such
cases are very rare, and as a rule it may be said that the
marriages of the Russian peasantry are arranged under the influence
of economic rather than sentimental considerations.

The custom of living in large families has many economic
advantages. We all know the edifying fable of the dying man who
showed to his sons by means of a piece of wicker-work the
advantages of living together and assisting each other. In
ordinary times the necessary expenses of a large household of ten
members are considerably less than the combined expenses of two
households comprising five members each, and when a "black day"
comes a large family can bear temporary adversity much more
successfully than a small one. These are principles of world-wide
application, but in the life of the Russian peasantry they have a
peculiar force. Each adult peasant possesses, as I shall hereafter
explain, a share of the Communal land, but this share is not
sufficient to occupy all his time and working power. One married
pair can easily cultivate two shares--at least in all provinces
where the peasant allotments are not very large. Now, if a family
is composed of two married couples, one of the men can go elsewhere
and earn money, whilst the other, with his wife and sister-in-law,
can cultivate the two combined shares of land. If, on the contrary
a family consists merely of one pair with their children, the man
must either remain at home--in which case he may have difficulty in
finding work for the whole of his time--or he must leave home, and
entrust the cultivation of his share of the land to his wife, whose
time must be in great part devoted to domestic affairs.

In the time of serfage the proprietors clearly perceived these and
similar advantages, and compelled their serfs to live together in
large families. No family could be broken up without the
proprietor's consent, and this consent was not easily obtained
unless the family had assumed quite abnormal proportions and was
permanently disturbed by domestic dissension. In the matrimonial
affairs of the serfs, too, the majority of the proprietors
systematically exercised a certain supervision, not necessarily
from any paltry meddling spirit, but because their own material
interests were thereby affected. A proprietor would not, for
instance, allow the daughter of one of his serfs to marry a serf
belonging to another proprietor--because he would thereby lose a
female labourer--unless some compensation were offered. The
compensation might be a sum of money, or the affair might be
arranged on the principle of reciprocity by the master of the
bridegroom allowing one of his female serfs to marry a serf
belonging to the master of the bride.

However advantageous the custom of living in large families may
appear when regarded from the economic point of view, it has very
serious defects, both theoretical and practical.

That families connected by the ties of blood-relationship and
marriage can easily live together in harmony is one of those social
axioms which are accepted universally and believed by nobody. We
all know by our own experience, or by that of others, that the
friendly relations of two such families are greatly endangered by
proximity of habitation. To live in the same street is not
advisable; to occupy adjoining houses is positively dangerous; and
to live under the same roof is certainly fatal to prolonged amity.
There may be the very best intentions on both sides, and the
arrangement may be inaugurated by the most gushing expressions of
undying affection and by the discovery of innumerable secret
affinities, but neither affinities, affection, nor good intentions
can withstand the constant friction and occasional jerks which
inevitably ensue.

Now the reader must endeavour to realise that Russian peasants,
even when clad in sheep-skins, are human beings like ourselves.
Though they are often represented as abstract entities--as figures
in a table of statistics or dots on a diagram--they have in reality
"organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions."  If not exactly
"fed with the same food," they are at least "hurt with the same
weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means,"
and liable to be irritated by the same annoyances as we are. And
those of them who live in large families are subjected to a kind of
probation that most of us have never dreamed of.  The families
comprising a large household not only live together, but have
nearly all things in common. Each member works, not for himself,
but for the household, and all that he earns is expected to go into
the family treasury. The arrangement almost inevitably leads to
one of two results--either there are continual dissensions, or
order is preserved by a powerful domestic tyranny.

It is quite natural, therefore, that when the authority of the
landed proprietors was abolished in 1861, the large peasant
families almost all crumbled to pieces. The arbitrary rule of the
Khozain was based on, and maintained by, the arbitrary rule of the
proprietor, and both naturally fell together. Households like that
of our friend Ivan were preserved only in exceptional cases, where
the Head of the House happened to possess an unusual amount of
moral influence over the other members.

This change has unquestionably had a prejudicial influence on the
material welfare of the peasantry, but it must have added
considerably to their domestic comfort, and may perhaps produce
good moral results. For the present, however, the evil
consequences are by far the most prominent. Every married peasant
strives to have a house of his own, and many of them, in order to
defray the necessary expenses, have been obliged to contract debts.
This is a very serious matter. Even if the peasants could obtain
money at five or six per cent., the position of the debtors would
be bad enough, but it is in reality much worse, for the village
usurers consider twenty or twenty-five per cent. a by no means
exorbitant rate of interest. A laudable attempt has been made to
remedy this state of things by village banks, but these have proved
successful only in certain exceptional localities. As a rule the
peasant who contracts debts has a hard struggle to pay the interest
in ordinary times, and when some misfortune overtakes him--when,
for instance, the harvest is bad or his horse is stolen--he
probably falls hopelessly into pecuniary embarrassments. I have
seen peasants not specially addicted to drunkenness or other
ruinous habits sink to a helpless state of insolvency. Fortunately
for such insolvent debtors, they are treated by the law with
extreme leniency. Their house, their share of the common land,
their agricultural implements, their horse--in a word, all that is
necessary for their subsistence, is exempt from sequestration. The
Commune, however, may bring strong pressure to bear on those who do
not pay their taxes. When I lived among the peasantry in the
seventies, corporal punishment inflicted by order of the Commune
was among the means usually employed; and though the custom was
recently prohibited by an Imperial decree of Nicholas II, I am not
at all sure that it has entirely disappeared.

CHAPTER VII

THE PEASANTRY OF THE NORTH

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

Ivanofka may be taken as a fair specimen of the villages in the
northern half of the country, and a brief description of its
inhabitants will convey a tolerably correct notion of the northern
peasantry in general.

Nearly the whole of the female population, and about one-half of
the male inhabitants, are habitually engaged in cultivating the
Communal land, which comprises about two thousand acres of a light
sandy soil. The arable part of this land is divided into three
large fields, each of which is cut up into long narrow strips. The
first field is reserved for the winter grain--that is to say, rye,
which forms, in the shape of black bread, the principal food of the
rural population. In the second are raised oats for the horses,
and buckwheat, which is largely used for food. The third lies
fallow, and is used in the summer as pasturage for the cattle.

All the villagers in this part of the country divide the arable
land in this way, in order to suit the triennial rotation of crops.
This triennial system is extremely simple. The field which is used
this year for raising winter grain will be used next year for
raising summer grain, and in the following year will lie fallow.
Before being sown with winter grain it ought to receive a certain
amount of manure. Every family possesses in each of the two fields
under cultivation one or more of the long narrow strips or belts
into which they are divided.

The annual life of the peasantry is that of simple husbandman,
inhabiting a country where the winter is long and severe. The
agricultural year begins in April with the melting of the snow.
Nature has been lying dormant for some months. Awaking now from
her long sleep, and throwing off her white mantle, she strives to
make up for lost time. No sooner has the snow disappeared than the
fresh young grass begins to shoot up, and very soon afterwards the
shrubs and trees begin to bud. The rapidity of this transition
from winter to spring astonishes the inhabitants of more temperate
climes.

On St. George's Day (April 23rd*) the cattle are brought out for
the first time, and sprinkled with holy water by the priest. They
are never very fat, but at this period of the year their appearance
is truly lamentable. During the winter they have been cooped up in
small unventilated cow-houses, and fed almost exclusively on straw;
now, when they are released from their imprisonment, they look like
the ghosts of their former emaciated selves. All are lean and
weak, many are lame, and some cannot rise to their feet without
assistance.

* With regard to saints' days, I always give the date according to
the old style. To find the date according to our calendar,
thirteen days must be added.

Meanwhile the peasants are impatient to begin the field labour. An
old proverb which they all know says: "Sow in mud and you will be a
prince"; and they always act in accordance with this dictate of
traditional wisdom. As soon as it is possible to plough they begin
to prepare the land for the summer grain, and this labour occupies
them probably till the end of May. Then comes the work of carting
out manure and preparing the fallow field for the winter grain,
which will last probably till about St. Peter's Day (June 29th),
when the hay-making generally begins. After the hay-making comes
the harvest, by far the busiest time of the year. From the middle
of July--especially from St. Elijah's Day (July 20th), when the
saint is usually heard rumbling along the heavens in his chariot of
fire*--until the end of August, the peasant may work day and night,
and yet he will find that he has barely time to get all his work
done. In little more than a month he has to reap and stack his
grain--rye, oats, and whatever else he may have sown either in
spring or in the preceding autumn--and to sow the winter grain for
next year. To add to his troubles, it sometimes happens that the
rye and the oats ripen almost simultaneously, and his position is
then still more difficult.

* It is thus that the peasants explain the thunder, which is often
heard at that season.

Whether the seasons favour him or not, the peasant has at this time
a hard task, for he can rarely afford to hire the requisite number
of labourers, and has generally the assistance merely of his wife
and family; but he can at this season work for a short time at high
pressure, for he has the prospect of soon obtaining a good rest and
an abundance of food. About the end of September the field labour
is finished, and on the first day of October the harvest festival
begins--a joyous season, during which the parish fetes are commonly
celebrated.

To celebrate a parish fete in true orthodox fashion it is necessary
to prepare beforehand a large quantity of braga--a kind of home-
brewed small beer--and to bake a plentiful supply of piroghi or
meat pies. Oil, too, has to be procured, and vodka (rye spirit) in
goodly quantity. At the same time the big room of the izba, as the
peasant's house is called, has to be cleared, the floor washed, and
the table and benches scrubbed. The evening before the fete, while
the piroghi are being baked, a little lamp burns before the Icon in
the corner of the room, and perhaps one or two guests from a
distance arrive in order that they may have on the morrow a full
day's enjoyment.

On the morning of the fete the proceedings begin by a long service
in the church, at which all the inhabitants are present in their
best holiday costumes, except those matrons and young women who
remain at home to prepare the dinner. About mid-day dinner is
served in each izba for the family and their friends. In general
the Russian peasant's fare is of the simplest kind, and rarely
comprises animal food of any sort--not from any vegetarian
proclivities, but merely because beef, mutton, and pork are too
expensive; but on a holiday, such as a parish fete, there is always
on the dinner table a considerable variety of dishes. In the house
of a well-to-do family there will be not only greasy cabbage-soup
and kasha--a dish made from buckwheat--but also pork, mutton, and
perhaps even beef. Braga will be supplied in unlimited quantities,
and more than once vodka will be handed round. When the repast is
finished, all rise together, and, turning towards the Icon in the
corner, bow and cross themselves repeatedly. The guests then say
to their host, "Spasibo za khelb za sol"--that is to say, "Thanks
for your hospitality," or more literally, "Thanks for bread and
salt"; and the host replies, "Do not be displeased, sit down once
more for good luck"--or perhaps he puts the last part of his
request into the form of a rhyming couplet to the following effect:
"Sit down, that the hens may brood, and that the chickens and bees
may multiply!"  All obey this request, and there is another round
of vodka.

After dinner some stroll about, chatting with their friends, or go
to sleep in some shady nook, whilst those who wish to make merry go
to the spot where the young people are singing, playing, and
amusing themselves in various ways. As the sun sinks towards the
horizon, the more grave, staid guests wend their way homewards, but
many remain for supper; and as evening advances the effects of the
vodka become more and more apparent. Sounds of revelry are heard
more frequently from the houses, and a large proportion of the
inhabitants and guests appear on the road in various degrees of
intoxication. Some of these vow eternal affection to their
friends, or with flaccid gestures and in incoherent tones harangue
invisible audiences; others stagger about aimlessly in besotted
self-contentment, till they drop down in a state of complete
unconsciousness. There they will lie tranquilly till they are
picked up by their less intoxicated friends, or more probably till
they awake of their own accord next morning.

As a whole, a village fete in Russia is a saddening spectacle. It
affords a new proof--where, alas! no new proof was required--that
we northern nations, who know so well how to work, have not yet
learned the art of amusing ourselves.

If the Russian peasant's food were always as good and plentiful as
at this season of the year, he would have little reason to
complain; but this is by no means the case. Gradually, as the
harvest-time recedes, it deteriorates in quality, and sometimes
diminishes in quantity. Besides this, during a great part of the
year the peasant is prevented, by the rules of the Church, from
using much that he possesses.

In southern climes, where these rules were elaborated and first
practised, the prescribed fasts are perhaps useful not only in a
religious, but also in a sanitary sense. Having abundance of fruit
and vegetables, the inhabitants do well to abstain occasionally
from animal food. But in countries like Northern and Central
Russia the influence of these rules is very different. The Russian
peasant cannot get as much animal food as he requires, whilst sour
cabbage and cucumbers are probably the only vegetables he can
procure, and fruit of any kind is for him an unattainable luxury.
Under these circumstances, abstinence from eggs and milk in all
their forms during several months of the year seems to the secular
mind a superfluous bit of asceticism. If the Church would direct
her maternal solicitude to the peasant's drinking, and leave him to
eat what he pleases, she might exercise a beneficial influence on
his material and moral welfare. Unfortunately she has a great deal
too much inherent immobility to attempt anything of the kind, so
the muzhik, while free to drink copiously whenever he gets the
chance, must fast during the seven weeks of Lent, during two or
three weeks in June, from the beginning of November till Christmas,
and on all Wednesdays and Fridays during the remainder of the year.

From the festival time till the following spring there is no
possibility of doing any agricultural work, for the ground is hard
as iron, and covered with a deep layer of snow. The male peasants,
therefore, who remain in the villages, have very little to do, and
may spend the greater part of their time in lying idly on the
stove, unless they happen to have learned some handicraft that can
be practised at home. Formerly, many of them were employed in
transporting the grain to the market town, which might be several
hundred miles distant; but now this species of occupation has been
greatly diminished by the extension of railways.

Another winter occupation which was formerly practised, and has now
almost fallen into disuse, was that of stealing wood in the forest.
This was, according to peasant morality, no sin, or at most a very
venial offence, for God plants and waters the trees, and therefore
forests belong properly to no one. So thought the peasantry, but
the landed proprietors and the Administration of the Domains held a
different theory of property, and consequently precautions had to
be taken to avoid detection. In order to ensure success it was
necessary to choose a night when there was a violent snowstorm,
which would immediately obliterate all traces of the expedition;
and when such a night was found, the operation was commonly
performed with success. During the hours of darkness a tree would
be felled, stripped of its branches, dragged into the village, and
cut up into firewood, and at sunrise the actors would be tranquilly
sleeping on the stove as if they had spent the night at home. In
recent years the judicial authorities have done much towards
putting down this practice and eradicating the loose conceptions of
property with which it was connected.

For the female part of the population the winter used to be a busy
time, for it was during these four or five months that the spinning
and weaving had to be done, but now the big factories, with their
cheap methods of production, are rapidly killing the home
industries, and the young girls are not learning to work at the
jenny and the loom as their mothers and grandmothers did.

In many of the northern villages, where ancient usages happen to be
preserved, the tedium of the long winter evenings is relieved by
so-called Besedy, a word which signifies literally conversazioni.
A Beseda, however, is not exactly a conversazione as we understand
the term, but resembles rather what is by some ladies called a
Dorcas meeting, with this essential difference, that those present
work for themselves and not for any benevolent purposes. In some
villages as many as three Besedy regularly assemble about sunset;
one for the children, the second for the young people, and the
third for the matrons. Each of the three has its peculiar
character. In the first, the children work and amuse themselves
under the superintendence of an old woman, who trims the torch* and
endeavours to keep order. The little girls spin flax in a
primitive way without the aid of a jenny, and the boys, who are, on
the whole, much less industrious, make simple bits of wicker-work.
Formerly--I mean within my own recollection--many of them used to
make rude shoes of plaited bark, called lapty, but these are being
rapidly supplanted by leather boots. These occupations do not
prevent an almost incessant hum of talk, frequent discordant
attempts to sing in chorus, and occasional quarrels requiring the
energetic interference of the old woman who controls the
proceedings. To amuse her noisy flock she sometimes relates to
them, for the hundredth time, one of those wonderful old stories
that lose nothing by repetition, and all listen to her attentively,
as if they had never heard the story before.

* The torch (lutchina) has now almost entirely disappeared and been
replaced by the petroleum lamp.

The second Beseda is held in another house by the young people of a
riper age. Here the workers are naturally more staid, less given
to quarrelling, sing more in harmony, and require no one to look
after them. Some people, however, might think that a chaperon or
inspector of some kind would be by no means out of place, for a
good deal of flirtation goes on, and if village scandal is to be
trusted, strict propriety in thought, word, and deed is not always
observed. How far these reports are true I cannot pretend to say,
for the presence of a stranger always acts on the company like the
presence of a severe inspector. In the third Beseda there is
always at least strict decorum. Here the married women work
together and talk about their domestic concerns, enlivening the
conversation occasionally by the introduction of little bits of
village scandal.

Such is the ordinary life of the peasants who live by agriculture;
but many of the villagers live occasionally or permanently in the
towns. Probably the majority of the peasants in this region have
at some period of their lives gained a living elsewhere. Many of
the absentees spend yearly a few months at home, whilst others
visit their families only occasionally, and, it may be, at long
intervals. In no case, however, do they sever their connection
with their native village. Even the peasant who becomes a rich
merchant and settles permanently with his family in Moscow or St.
Petersburg remains probably a member of the Village Commune, and
pays his share of the taxes, though he does not enjoy any of the
corresponding privileges. Once I remember asking a rich man of
this kind, the proprietor of several large houses in St.
Petersburg, why he did not free himself from all connection with
his native Commune, with which he had no longer any interests in
common. His answer was, "It is all very well to be free, and I
don't want anything from the Commune now; but my old father lives
there, my mother is buried there, and I like to go back to the old
place sometimes. Besides, I have children, and our affairs are
commercial (nashe dyelo torgovoe). Who knows but my children may
he very glad some day to have a share of the Commune land?"

In respect to these non-agricultural occupations, each district has
its specialty. The province of Yaroslavl, for instance, supplies
the large towns with waiters for the traktirs, or lower class of
restaurants, whilst the best hotels in Petersburg are supplied by
the Tartars of Kasimof, celebrated for their sobriety and honesty.
One part of the province of Kostroma has a special reputation for
producing carpenters and stove-builders, whilst another part, as I
once discovered to my surprise, sends yearly to Siberia--not as
convicts, but as free laborours--a large contingent of tailors and
workers in felt! On questioning some youngsters who were
accompanying as apprentices one of these bands, I was informed by a
bright-eyed youth of about sixteen that he had already made the
journey twice, and intended to go every winter. "And you always
bring home a big pile of money with you?" I inquired. "Nitchevo!"
replied the little fellow, gaily, with an air of pride and self-
confidence; "last year I brought home three roubles!"  This answer
was, at the moment, not altogether welcome, for I had just been
discussing with a Russian fellow-traveller as to whether the
peasantry can fairly be called industrious, and the boy's reply
enabled my antagonist to score a point against me. "You hear
that!" he said, triumphantly. "A Russian peasant goes all the way
to Siberia and back for three roubles! Could you get an Englishman
to work at that rate?"  "Perhaps not," I replied, evasively,
thinking at the same time that if a youth were sent several times
from Land's End to John o' Groat's House, and obliged to make the
greater part of the journey in carts or on foot, he would probably
expect, by way of remuneration for the time and labour expended,
rather more than seven and sixpence!

Very often the peasants find industrial occupations without leaving
home, for various industries which do not require complicated
machinery are practised in the villages by the peasants and their
families. Wooden vessels, wrought iron, pottery, leather, rush-
matting, and numerous other articles are thus produced in enormous
quantities. Occasionally we find not only a whole village, but
even a whole district occupied almost exclusively with some one
kind of manual industry. In the province of Vladimir, for example,
a large group of villages live by Icon-painting; in one locality
near Nizhni-Novgorod nineteen villages are occupied with the
manufacture of axes; round about Pavlovo, in the same province,
eighty villages produce almost nothing but cutlery; and in a
locality called Ouloma, on the borders of Novgorod and Tver, no
less than two hundred villages live by nail-making.

These domestic industries have long existed, and were formerly an
abundant source of revenue--providing a certain compensation for
the poverty of the soil. But at present they are in a very
critical position. They belong to the primitive period of economic
development, and that period in Russia, as I shall explain in a
future chapter, is now rapidly drawing to a close. Formerly the
Head of a Household bought the raw material, had it worked up at
home, and sold with a reasonable profit the manufactured articles
at the bazaars, as the local fairs are called, or perhaps at the
great annual yarmarkt* of Nizhni-Novgorod. This primitive system
is now rapidly becoming obsolete. Capital and wholesale enterprise
have come into the field and are revolutionising the old methods of
production and trade. Already whole groups of industrial villages
have fallen under the power of middle-men, who advance money to the
working households and fix the price of the products. Attempts are
frequently made to break their power by voluntary co-operative
associations, organised by the local authorities or benevolent
landed proprietors of the neighbourhood--like the benevolent people
in England who try to preserve the traditional cottage industries--
and some of the associations work very well; but the ultimate
success of such "efforts to stem the current of capitalism" is
extremely doubtful. At the same time, the periodical bazaars and
yarmarki, at which producers and consumers transacted their affairs
without mediation, are being replaced by permanent stores and by
various classes of tradesmen--wholesale and retail.

* This term is a corruption of the German word Jahrmarkt.

To the political economist of the rigidly orthodox school this
important change may afford great satisfaction. According to his
theories it is a gigantic step in the right direction, and must
necessarily redound to the advantage of all parties concerned. The
producer now receives a regular supply of raw material, and
regularly disposes of the articles manufactured; and the time and
trouble which he formerly devoted to wandering about in search of
customers he can now employ more profitably in productive work.
The creation of a class between the producers and the consumers is
an important step towards that division and specialisation of
labour which is a necessary condition of industrial and commercial
prosperity. The consumer no longer requires to go on a fixed day
to some distant point, on the chance of finding there what he
requires, but can always buy what he pleases in the permanent
stores. Above all, the production is greatly increased in amount,
and the price of manufactured goods is proportionally lessened.

All this seems clear enough in theory, and any one who values
intellectual tranquillity will feel disposed to accept this view of
the case without questioning its accuracy; but the unfortunate
traveller who is obliged to use his eyes as well as his logical
faculties may find some little difficulty in making the facts fit
into the a priori formula. Far be it from me to question the
wisdom of political economists, but I cannot refrain from remarking
that of the three classes concerned--small producers, middle-men,
and consumers--two fail to perceive and appreciate the benefits
which have been conferred upon them. The small producers complain
that on the new system they work more and gain less; and the
consumers complain that the manufactured articles, if cheaper and
more showy in appearance, are far inferior in quality. The
middlemen, who are accused, rightly or wrongly, of taking for
themselves the lion's share of the profits, alone seem satisfied
with the new arrangement.

Interesting as this question undoubtedly is, it is not of permanent
importance, because the present state of things is merely
transitory. Though the peasants may continue for a time to work at
home for the wholesale dealers, they cannot in the long run compete
with the big factories and workshops, organised on the European
model with steam-power and complicated machinery, which already
exist in many provinces. Once a country has begun to move forward
on the great highway of economic progress, there is no possibility
of stopping halfway.

Here again the orthodox economists find reason for congratulation,
because big factories and workshops are the cheapest and most
productive form of manufacturing industry; and again, the observant
traveller cannot shut his eyes to ugly facts which force themselves
on his attention. He notices that this cheapest and most
productive form of manufacturing industry does not seem to advance
the material and moral welfare of the population. Nowhere is there
more disease, drunkenness, demoralisation and misery than in the
manufacturing districts.

The reader must not imagine that in making these statements I wish
to calumniate the spirit of modern enterprise, or to advocate a
return to primitive barbarism. All great changes produce a mixture
of good and evil, and at first the evil is pretty sure to come
prominently forward. Russia is at this moment in a state of
transition, and the new condition of things is not yet properly
organised. With improved organisation many of the existing evils
will disappear. Already in recent years I have noticed sporadic
signs of improvement. When factories were first established no
proper arrangements were made for housing and feeding the workmen,
and the consequent hardships were specially felt when the factories
were founded, as is often the case, in rural districts. Now, the
richer and more enterprising manufacturers build large barracks for
the workmen and their families, and provide them with common
kitchens, wash-houses, steam-baths, schools, and similar requisites
of civilised life. At the same time the Government appoints
inspectors to superintend the sanitary arrangements and see that
the health and comfort of the workers are properly attended to.

On the whole we must assume that the activity of these inspectors
tends to improve the condition of the working-classes. Certainly
in some instances it has that effect. I remember, for example,
some thirty years ago, visiting a lucifer-match factory in which
the hands employed worked habitually in an atmosphere impregnated
with the fumes of phosphorus, which produce insidious and very
painful diseases. Such a thing is hardly possible nowadays. On
the other hand, official inspection, like Factory Acts, everywhere
gives rise to a good deal of dissatisfaction and does not always
improve the relations between employers and employed. Some of the
Russian inspectors, if I may credit the testimony of employers, are
young gentlemen imbued with socialist notions, who intentionally
stir up discontent or who make mischief from inexperience. An
amusing illustration of the current complaints came under my notice
when, in 1903, I was visiting a landed proprietor of the southern
provinces, who has a large sugar factory on his estate. The
inspector objected to the traditional custom of the men sleeping in
large dormitories and insisted on sleeping-cots being constructed
for them individually. As soon as the change was made the workmen
came to the proprietor to complain, and put their grievance in an
interrogative form: "Are we cattle that we should be thus couped up
in stalls?"

To return to the northern agricultural region, the rural population
have a peculiar type, which is to be accounted for by the fact that
they never experienced to its full extent the demoralising
influence of serfage. A large proportion of them were settled on
State domains and were governed by a special branch of the Imperial
administration, whilst others lived on the estates of rich absentee
landlords, who were in the habit of leaving the management of their
properties to a steward acting under a code of instructions. In
either case, though serfs in the eye of the law, they enjoyed
practically a very large amount of liberty. By paying a small sum
for a passport they could leave their villages for an indefinite
period, and as long as they sent home regularly the money required
for taxes and dues, they were in little danger of being molested.
Many of them, though officially inscribed as domiciled in their
native communes, lived permanently in the towns, and not a few
succeeded in amassing large fortunes. The effect of this
comparative freedom is apparent even at the present day. These
peasants of the north are more energetic, more intelligent, more
independent, and consequently less docile and pliable than those of
the fertile central provinces. They have, too, more education. A
large proportion of them can read and write, and occasionally one
meets among them men who have a keen desire for knowledge. Several
times I encountered peasants in this region who had a small
collection of books, and twice I found in such collections, much to
my astonishment, a Russian translation of Buckle's "History of
Civilisation."

How, it may be asked, did a work of this sort find its way to such
a place? If the reader will pardon a short digression, I shall
explain the fact.

Immediately after the Crimean War there was a curious intellectual
movement--of which I shall have more to say hereafter--among the
Russian educated classes. The movement assumed various forms, of
which two of the most prominent were a desire for encyclopaedic
knowledge, and an attempt to reduce all knowledge to a scientific
form. For men in this state of mind Buckle's great work had
naturally a powerful fascination. It seemed at first sight to
reduce the multifarious conflicting facts of human history to a few
simple principles, and to evolve order out of chaos. Its success,
therefore, was great. In the course of a few years no less than
four independent translations were published and sold. Every one
read, or at least professed to have read, the wonderful book, and
many believed that its author was the greatest genius of his time.
During the first year of my residence in Russia (1870), I rarely
had a serious conversation without hearing Buckle's name mentioned;
and my friends almost always assumed that he had succeeded in
creating a genuine science of history on the inductive method. In
vain I pointed out that Buckle had merely thrown out some hints in
his introductory chapter as to how such a science ought to be
constructed, and that he had himself made no serious attempt to use
the method which he commended. My objections had little or no
effect: the belief was too deep-rooted to be so easily eradicated.
In books, periodicals, newspapers, and professional lectures the
name of Buckle was constantly cited--often violently dragged in
without the slightest reason--and the cheap translations of his
work were sold in enormous quantities. It is not, then, so very
wonderful after all that the book should have found its way to two
villages in the province of Yaroslavl.

The enterprising, self-reliant, independent spirit which is often
to be found among those peasants manifests itself occasionally in
amusing forms among the young generation. Often in this part of
the country I have encountered boys who recalled young America
rather than young Russia. One of these young hopefuls I remember
well. I was waiting at a post-station for the horses to be
changed, when he appeared before me in a sheep-skin, fur cap, and
gigantic double-soled boots--all of which articles had been made on
a scale adapted to future rather than actual requirements. He must
have stood in his boots about three feet eight inches, and he could
not have been more than twelve years of age; but he had already
learned to look upon life as a serious business, wore a commanding
air, and knitted his innocent little brows as if the cares of an
empire weighed on his diminutive shoulders. Though he was to act
as yamstchik he had to leave the putting in of the horses to larger
specimens of the human species, but he took care that all was done
properly. Putting one of his big boots a little in advance, and
drawing himself up to his full shortness, he watched the operation
attentively, as if the smallness of his stature had nothing to do
with his inactivity. When all was ready, he climbed up to his
seat, and at a signal from the station-keeper, who watched with
paternal pride all the movements of the little prodigy, we dashed
off at a pace rarely attained by post-horses. He had the faculty
of emitting a peculiar sound--something between a whirr and a
whistle--that appeared to have a magical effect on the team and
every few minutes he employed this incentive. The road was rough,
and at every jolt he was shot upwards into the air, but he always
fell back into his proper position, and never lost for a moment his
self-possession or his balance. At the end of the journey I found
we had made nearly fourteen miles within the hour.

Unfortunately this energetic, enterprising spirit sometimes takes
an illegitimate direction. Not only whole villages, but even whole
districts, have in this way acquired a bad reputation for robbery,
the manufacture of paper-money, and similar offences against the
criminal law. In popular parlance, these localities are said to
contain "people who play pranks" (narod shalit). I must, however,
remark that, if I may judge by my own experience, these so-called
"playful" tendencies are greatly exaggerated. Though I have
travelled hundreds of miles at night on lonely roads, I was never
robbed or in any way molested. Once, indeed, when travelling at
night in a tarantass, I discovered on awaking that my driver was
bending over me, and had introduced his hand into one of my
pockets; but the incident ended without serious consequences. When
I caught the delinquent hand, and demanded an explanation from the
owner, he replied, in an apologetic, caressing tone, that the night
was cold, and he wished to warm his fingers; and when I advised him
to use for that purpose his own pockets rather than mine, he
promised to act in future according to my advice. More than once,
it is true, I believed that I was in danger of being attacked, but
on every occasion my fears turned out to be unfounded, and
sometimes the catastrophe was ludicrous rather than tragical. Let
the following serve as an illustration.

I had occasion to traverse, in company with a Russian friend, the
country lying to the east of the river Vetluga--a land of forest
and morass, with here and there a patch of cultivation. The
majority of the population are Tcheremiss, a Finnish tribe; but
near the banks of the river there are villages of Russian peasants,
and these latter have the reputation of "playing pranks."  When we
were on the point of starting from Kozmodemiansk a town on the bank
of the Volga, we received a visit from an officer of rural police,
who painted in very sombre colours the habits and moral character--
or, more properly, immoral character--of the people whose
acquaintance we were about to make. He related with melodramatic
gesticulation his encounters with malefactors belonging to the
villages through which we had to pass, and ended the interview with
a strong recommendation to us not to travel at night, and to keep
at all times our eyes open and our revolver ready. The effect of
his narrative was considerably diminished by the prominence of the
moral, which was to the effect that there never had been a police-
officer who had shown so much zeal, energy, and courage in the
discharge of his duty as the worthy man before us. We considered
it, however, advisable to remember his hint about keeping our eyes
open.

In spite of our intention of being very cautious, it was already
dark when we arrived at the village which was to be our halting-
place for the night, and it seemed at first as if we should be
obliged to spend the night in the open air. The inhabitants had
already retired to rest, and refused to open their doors to unknown
travellers. At length an old woman, more hospitable than her
neighbours, or more anxious to earn an honest penny, consented to
let us pass the night in an outer apartment (seni), and this
permission we gladly accepted. Mindful of the warnings of the
police officer, we barricaded the two doors and the window, and the
precaution was evidently not superfluous, for almost as soon as the
light was extinguished we could hear that an attempt was being made
stealthily to effect an entrance. Notwithstanding my efforts to
remain awake, and on the watch, I at last fell asleep, and was
suddenly aroused by some one grasping me tightly by the arm.
Instantly I sprang to my feet and endeavoured to close with my
invisible assailant. In vain! He dexterously eluded my grasp, and
I stumbled over my portmanteau, which was lying on the floor; but
my prompt action revealed who the intruder was, by producing a wild
flutter and a frantic cackling! Before my companion could strike a
light the mysterious attack was fully explained. The supposed
midnight robber and possible assassin was simply a peaceable hen
that had gone to roost on my arm, and, on finding her position
unsteady, had dug her claws into what she mistook for a roosting-
pole!

When speaking of the peasantry of the north I have hitherto had in
view the inhabitants of the provinces of Old-Novgorod, Tver,
Yaroslavl, Nizhni-Novgorod, Kostroma, Kazan, and Viatka, and I have
founded my remarks chiefly on information collected on the spot.
Beyond this lies what may be called the Far North. Though I cannot
profess to have the same personal acquaintance with the peasantry
of that region, I may perhaps be allowed to insert here some
information regarding them which I collected from various
trustworthy sources.

If we draw a wavy line eastward from a point a little to the north
of St. Petersburg, as is shown in the map facing page 1 of this
volume, we shall have between that line and the Polar Ocean what
may be regarded as a distinct, peculiar region, differing in many
respects from the rest of Russia. Throughout the whole of it the
climate is very severe. For about half of the year the ground is
covered by deep snow, and the rivers are frozen. By far the
greater part of the land is occupied by forests of pine, fir,
larch, and birch, or by vast, unfathomable morasses. The arable
land and pasturage taken together form only about one and a half
per cent, of the area. The population is scarce--little more than
one to the English square mile--and settled chiefly along the banks
of the rivers. The peasantry support themselves by fishing,
hunting, felling and floating timber, preparing tar and charcoal,
cattle-breeding, and, in the extreme north, breeding reindeer.

These are their chief occupations, but the people do not entirely
neglect agriculture. They make the most of their short summer by
means of a peculiar and ingenious mode of farming, well adapted to
the peculiar local conditions. The peasant knows of course nothing
about agronomical chemistry, but he, as well as his forefathers,
have observed that if wood be burnt on a field, and the ashes be
mixed with the soil, a good harvest may be confidently expected.
On this simple principle his system of farming is based. When
spring comes round and the leaves begin to appear on the trees, a
band of peasants, armed with their hatchets, proceed to some spot
in the woods previously fixed upon. Here they begin to make a
clearing. This is no easy matter, for tree-felling is hard and
tedious work; but the process does not take so much time as might
be expected, for the workmen have been brought up to the trade, and
wield their axes with marvellous dexterity. When they have felled
all the trees, great and small, they return to their homes, and
think no more about their clearing till the autumn, when they
return, in order to strip the fallen trees of the branches, to pick
out what they require for building purposes or firewood, and to
pile up the remainder in heaps. The logs for building or firewood
are dragged away by horses as soon as the first fall of snow has
made a good slippery road, but the piles are allowed to remain till
the following spring, when they are stirred up with long poles and
ignited. The flames rapidly spread in all directions till they
join together and form a gigantic bonfire, such as is never seen in
more densely-populated countries. If the fire does its work
properly, the whole of the space is covered with a layer of ashes;
and when these have been slightly mixed with soil by means of a
light plough, the seed is sown.

On the field prepared in this original fashion is sown barley, rye,
or flax, and the harvests, nearly always good, sometimes border on
the miraculous. Barley or rye may be expected to produce about
sixfold in ordinary years, and they may produce as much as thirty-
fold under peculiarly favourable circumstances. The fertility is,
however, short-lived. If the soil is poor and stony, not more than
two crops can be raised; if it is of a better quality, it may give
tolerable harvests for six or seven successive years. In most
countries this would be an absurdly expensive way of manuring, for
wood is much too valuable a commodity to be used for such a
purpose; but in this northern region the forests are boundless, and
in the districts where there is no river or stream by which timber
may be floated, the trees not used in this way rot from old age.
Under these circumstances the system is reasonable, but it must be
admitted that it does not give a very large return for the amount
of labour expended, and in bad seasons it gives almost no return at
all.

The other sources of revenue are scarcely less precarious. With
his gun and a little parcel of provisions the peasant wanders about
in the trackless forests, and too often returns after many days
with a very light bag; or he starts in autumn for some distant
lake, and comes back after five or six weeks with nothing better
than perch and pike. Sometimes he tries his luck at deep-sea
fishing. In this case he starts in February--probably on foot--for
Kem, on the shore of the White Sea, or perhaps for the more distant
Kola, situated on a small river which falls into the Arctic Ocean.
There, in company with three or four comrades, he starts on a
fishing cruise along the Murman coast, or, it may be, off the coast
of Spitzbergen. His gains will depend on the amount caught, for it
is a joint-venture; but in no case can they be very great, for
three-fourths of the fish brought into port belongs to the owner of
the craft and tackle. Of the sum realised, he brings home perhaps
only a small part, for he has a strong temptation to buy rum, tea,
and other luxuries, which are very dear in those northern
latitudes. If the fishing is good and he resists temptation, he
may save as much as 100 roubles--about 10 pounds--and thereby live
comfortably all winter; but if the fishing season is bad, he may
find himself at the end of it not only with empty pockets, but in
debt to the owner of the boat. This debt he may pay off, if he has
a horse, by transporting the dried fish to Kargopol, St.
Petersburg, or some other market.

It is here in the Far North that the ancient folk-lore--popular
songs, stories, and fragments of epic poetry--has been best
preserved; but this is a field on which I need not enter, for the
reader can easily find all that he may desire to know on the
subject in the brilliant writings of M. Rambaud and the very
interesting, conscientious works of the late Mr. Ralston,* which
enjoy a high reputation in Russia.

* Rambaud, "La Russie Epique," Paris, 1876; Ralston, "The Songs of
the Russian People," London, 1872; and "Russian Folk-tales,"
London, 1873.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MIR, OR VILLAGE COMMUNITY

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

When I had gained a clear notion of the family-life and occupations
of the peasantry, I turned my attention to the constitution of the
village. This was a subject which specially interested me, because
I was aware that the Mir is the most peculiar of Russian
institutions. Long before visiting Russia I had looked into
Haxthausen's celebrated work, by which the peculiarities of the
Russian village system were first made known to Western Europe, and
during my stay in St. Petersburg I had often been informed by
intelligent, educated Russians that the rural Commune presented a
practical solution of many difficult social problems with which the
philosophers and statesmen of the West had long been vainly
struggling. "The nations of the West"--such was the substance of
innumerable discourses which I had heard--"are at present on the
high-road to political and social anarchy, and England has the
unenviable distinction of being foremost in the race. The natural
increase of population, together with the expropriation of the
small landholders by the great landed proprietors, has created a
dangerous and ever-increasing Proletariat--a great disorganised
mass of human beings, without homes, without permanent domicile,
without property of any kind, without any stake in the existing
institutions. Part of these gain a miserable pittance as
agricultural labourers, and live in a condition infinitely worse
than serfage. The others have been forever uprooted from the soil,
and have collected in the large towns, where they earn a precarious
living in the factories and workshops, or swell the ranks of the
criminal classes. In England you have no longer a peasantry in the
proper sense of the term, and unless some radical measures be very
soon adopted, you will never be able to create such a class, for
men who have been long exposed to the unwholesome influences of
town life are physically and morally incapable of becoming
agriculturists.

"Hitherto," the disquisition proceeded, "England has enjoyed, in
consequence of her geographical position, her political freedom,
and her vast natural deposits of coal and iron, a wholly
exceptional position in the industrial world. Fearing no
competition, she has proclaimed the principles of Free Trade, and
has inundated the world with her manufactures--using unscrupulously
her powerful navy and all the other forces at her command for
breaking down every barrier tending to check the flood sent forth
from Manchester and Birmingham. In that way her hungry Proletariat
has been fed. But the industrial supremacy of England is drawing
to a close. The nations have discovered the perfidious fallacy of
Free-Trade principles, and are now learning to manufacture for
their own wants, instead of paying England enormous sums to
manufacture for them. Very soon English goods will no longer find
foreign markets, and how will the hungry Proletariat then be fed?
Already the grain production of England is far from sufficient for
the wants of the population, so that, even when the harvest is
exceptionally abundant, enormous quantities of wheat are imported
from all quarters of the globe. Hitherto this grain has been paid
for by the manufactured goods annually exported, but how will it be
procured when these goods are no longer wanted by foreign
consumers? And what then will the hungry Proletariat do?"*

* This passage was written, precisely as it stands, long before the
fiscal question was raised by Mr. Chamberlain. It will be found in
the first edition of this work, published in 1877. (Vol. I., pp.
179-81.)

This sombre picture of England's future had often been presented to
me, and on nearly every occasion I had been assured that Russia had
been saved from these terrible evils by the rural Commune--an
institution which, in spite of its simplicity and incalculable
utility, West Europeans seemed utterly incapable of understanding
and appreciating.

The reader will now easily conceive with what interest I took to
studying this wonderful institution, and with what energy I
prosecuted my researches. An institution which professes to solve
satisfactorily the most difficult social problems of the future is
not to be met with every day, even in Russia, which is specially
rich in material for the student of social science.

On my arrival at Ivanofka my knowledge of the institution was of
that vague, superficial kind which is commonly derived from men who
are fonder of sweeping generalisations and rhetorical declamation
than of serious, patient study of phenomena. I knew that the chief
personage in a Russian village is the Selski Starosta, or Village
Elder, and that all important Communal affairs are regulated by the
Selski Skhod, or Village Assembly. Further, I was aware that the
land in the vicinity of the village belongs to the Commune, and is
distributed periodically among the members in such a way that every
able-bodied peasant possesses a share sufficient, or nearly
sufficient, for his maintenance. Beyond this elementary
information I knew little or nothing.

My first attempt at extending my knowledge was not very successful.
Hoping that my friend Ivan might be able to assist me, and knowing
that the popular name for the Commune is Mir, which means also "the
world," I put to him the direct, simple question, "What is the
Mir?"

Ivan was not easily disconcerted, but for once he looked puzzled,
and stared at me vacantly. When I endeavoured to explain to him my
question, he simply knitted his brows and scratched the back of his
head. This latter movement is the Russian peasant's method of
accelerating cerebral action; but in the present instance it had no
practical result. In spite of his efforts, Ivan could not get much
further than the "Kak vam skazat'?" that is to say, "How am I to
tell you?"

It was not difficult to perceive that I had adopted an utterly
false method of investigation, and a moment's reflection sufficed
to show me the absurdity of my question. I had asked from an
uneducated man a philosophical definition, instead of extracting
from him material in the form of concrete facts, and constructing
therefrom a definition for myself. These concrete facts Ivan was
both able and willing to supply; and as soon as I adopted a
rational mode of questioning, I obtained from him all I wanted.
The information he gave me, together with the results of much
subsequent conversation and reading, I now propose to present to
the reader in my own words.

The peasant family of the old type is, as we have just seen, a kind
of primitive association in which the members have nearly all
things in common. The village may be roughly described as a
primitive association on a larger scale.

Between these two social units there are many points of analogy.
In both there are common interests and common responsibilities. In
both there is a principal personage, who is in a certain sense
ruler within and representative as regards the outside world: in
the one case called Khozain, or Head of the Household, and in the
other Starosta, or Village Elder. In both the authority of the
ruler is limited: in the one case by the adult members of the
family, and in the other by the Heads of Households. In both there
is a certain amount of common property: in the one case the house
and nearly all that it contains, and in the other the arable land
and possibly a little pasturage. In both cases there is a certain
amount of common responsibility: in the one case for all the debts,
and in the other for all the taxes and Communal obligations. And
both are protected to a certain extent against the ordinary legal
consequences of insolvency, for the family cannot be deprived of
its house or necessary agricultural implements, and the Commune
cannot be deprived of its land, by importunate creditors.

On the other hand, there are many important points of contrast. The
Commune is, of course, much larger than the family, and the mutual
relations of its members are by no means so closely interwoven.
The members of a family all farm together, and those of them who
earn money from other sources are expected to put their savings
into the common purse; whilst the households composing a Commune
farm independently, and pay into the common treasury only a certain
fixed sum.

From these brief remarks the reader will at once perceive that a
Russian village is something very different from a village in our
sense of the term, and that the villagers are bound together by
ties quite unknown to the English rural population. A family
living in an English village has little reason to take an interest
in the affairs of its neighbours. The isolation of the individual
families is never quite perfect, for man, being a social animal,
takes necessarily a certain interest in the affairs of those around
him, and this social duty is sometimes fulfilled by the weaker sex
with more zeal than is absolutely indispensable for the public
welfare; but families may live for many years in the same village
without ever becoming conscious of common interests. So long as
the Jones family do not commit any culpable breach of public order,
such as putting obstructions on the highway or habitually setting
their house on fire, their neighbour Brown takes probably no
interest in their affairs, and has no ground for interfering with
their perfect liberty of action. Amongst the families composing a
Russian village, such a state of isolation is impossible. The
Heads of Households must often meet together and consult in the
Village Assembly, and their daily occupation must be influenced by
the Communal decrees. They cannot begin to mow the hay or plough
the fallow field until the Village Assembly has passed a resolution
on the subject. If a peasant becomes a drunkard, or takes some
equally efficient means to become insolvent, every family in the
village has a right to complain, not merely in the interests of
public morality, but from selfish motives, because all the families
are collectively responsible for his taxes.*  For the same reason
no peasant can permanently leave the village without the consent of
the Commune, and this consent will not be granted until the
applicant gives satisfactory security for the fulfilment of his
actual and future liabilities. If a peasant wishes to go away for
a short time, in order to work elsewhere, he must obtain a written
permission, which serves him as a passport during his absence; and
he may be recalled at any moment by a Communal decree. In reality
he is rarely recalled so long as he sends home regularly the full
amount of his taxes--including the dues which he has to pay for the
temporary passport--but sometimes the Commune uses the power of
recall for purposes of extortion. If it becomes known, for
instance, that an absent member is receiving a good salary or
otherwise making money, he may one day receive a formal order to
return at once to his native village, but he is probably informed
at the same time, unofficially, that his presence will be dispensed
with if he will send to the Commune a certain specified sum. The
money thus sent is generally used by the Commune for convivial
purposes. **

* This common responsibility for the taxes was abolished in 1903 by
the Emperor, on the advice of M. Witte, and the other Communal
fetters are being gradually relaxed. A peasant may now, if he
wishes, cease to be a member of the Commune altogether, as soon as
he has defrayed all his outstanding obligations.

** With the recent relaxing of the Communal fetters, referred to in
the foregoing note, this abuse should disappear.

In all countries the theory of government and administration
differs considerably from the actual practice. Nowhere is this
difference greater than in Russia, and in no Russian institution is
it greater than in the Village Commune. It is necessary,
therefore, to know both theory and practice; and it is well to
begin with the former, because it is the simpler of the two. When
we have once thoroughly mastered the theory, it is easy to
understand the deviations that are made to suit peculiar local
conditions.

According, then, to theory, all male peasants in every part of the
Empire are inscribed in census-lists, which form the basis of the
direct taxation. These lists are revised at irregular intervals,
and all males alive at the time of the "revision," from the newborn
babe to the centenarian, are duly inscribed. Each Commune has a
list of this kind, and pays to the Government an annual sum
proportionate to the number of names which the list contains, or,
in popular language, according to the number of "revision souls."
During the intervals between the revisions the financial
authorities take no notice of the births and deaths. A Commune
which has a hundred male members at the time of the revision may
have in a few years considerably more or considerably less than
that number, but it has to pay taxes for a hundred members all the
same until a new revision is made for the whole Empire.

Now in Russia, so far at least as the rural population is
concerned, the payment of taxes is inseparably connected with the
possession of land. Every peasant who pays taxes is supposed to
have a share of the land belonging to the Commune. If the Communal
revision lists contain a hundred names, the Communal land ought to
be divided into a hundred shares, and each "revision soul" should
enjoy his share in return for the taxes which he pays.

The reader who has followed my explanations up to this point may
naturally conclude that the taxes paid by the peasants are in
reality a species of rent for the land which they enjoy. Such a
conclusion would not be altogether justified. When a man rents a
bit of land he acts according to his own judgment, and makes a
voluntary contract with the proprietor; but the Russian peasant is
obliged to pay his taxes whether he desires to enjoy land or not.
The theory, therefore, that the taxes are simply the rent of the
land will not bear even superficial examination. Equally untenable
is the theory that they are a species of land-tax. In any
reasonable system of land-dues the yearly sum imposed bears some
kind of proportion to the quantity and quality of the land enjoyed;
but in Russia it may be that the members of one Commune possess six
acres of bad land, and the members of the neighbouring Commune
seven acres of good land, and yet the taxes in both cases are the
same. The truth is that the taxes are personal, and are calculated
according to the number of male "souls," and the Government does
not take the trouble to inquire how the Communal land is
distributed. The Commune has to pay into the Imperial Treasury a
fixed yearly sum, according to the number of its "revision souls,"
and distributes the land among its members as it thinks fit.

How, then, does the Commune distribute the land? To this question
it is impossible to reply in brief, general terms, because each
Commune acts as it pleases!*  Some act strictly according to the
theory. These divide their land at the time of the revision into a
number of portions or shares corresponding to the number of
revision souls, and give to each family a number of shares
corresponding to the number of revision souls which it contains.
This is from the administrative point of view by far the simplest
system. The census-list determines how much land each family will
enjoy, and the existing tenures are disturbed only by the revisions
which take place at irregular intervals.**  But, on the other hand,
this system has serious defects. The revision-list represents
merely the numerical strength of the families, and the numerical
strength is often not at all in proportion to the working power.
Let us suppose, for example, two families, each containing at the
time of the revision five male members. According to the census-
list these two families are equal, and ought to receive equal
shares of the land; but in reality it may happen that the one
contains a father in the prime of life and four able-bodies sons,
whilst the other contains a widow and five little boys. The wants
and working power of these two families are of course very
different; and if the above system of distribution be applied, the
man with four sons and a goodly supply of grandchildren will
probably find that he has too little land, whilst the widow with
her five little boys will find it difficult to cultivate the five
shares alloted to her, and utterly impossible to pay the
corresponding amount of taxation--for in all cases, it must be
remembered, the Communal burdens are distributed in the same
proportion as the land.

* A long list of the various systems of allotment to be found in
individual Communes in different parts of the country is given in
the opening chapter of a valuable work by Karelin, entitled
"Obshtchinnoye Vladyenie v Rossii" (St. Petersburg, 1893). As my
object is to convey to the reader merely a general idea of the
institution, I refrain from confusing him by an enumeration of the
endless divergencies from the original type.

** Since 1719 eleven revisions have been made, the last in 1897.
The intervals varied from six to forty-one years.

But why, it may be said, should the widow not accept provisionally
the five shares, and let to others the part which she does not
require? The balance of rent after payment of the taxes might help
her to bring up her young family.

So it seems to one acquainted only with the rural economy of
England, where land is scarce, and always gives a revenue more than
sufficient to defray the taxes. But in Russia the possession of a
share of Communal land is often not a privilege, but a burden. In
some Communes the land is so poor and abundant that it cannot be
let at any price. In others the soil will repay cultivation, but a
fair rent will not suffice to pay the taxes and dues.

To obviate these inconvenient results of the simpler system, many
Communes have adopted the expedient of allotting the land, not
according to the number of revision souls, but according to the
working power of the families. Thus, in the instance above
supposed, the widow would receive perhaps two shares, and the large
household, containing five workers, would receive perhaps seven or
eight. Since the breaking-up of the large families, such
inequality as I have supposed is, of course, rare; but inequality
of a less extreme kind does still occur, and justifies a departure
from the system of allotment according to the revision-lists.

Even if the allotment be fair and equitable at the time of the
revision, it may soon become unfair and burdensome by the natural
fluctuations of the population. Births and deaths may in the
course of a very few years entirely alter the relative working
power of the various families. The sons of the widow may grow up
to manhood, whilst two or three able-bodied members of the other
family may be cut off by an epidemic. Thus, long before a new
revision takes place, the distribution of the land may be no longer
in accordance with the wants and capacities of the various families
composing the Commune. To correct this, various expedients are
employed. Some Communes transfer particular lots from one family
to another, as circumstances demand; whilst others make from time
to time, during the intervals between the revisions, a complete
redistribution and reallotment of the land. Of these two systems
the former is now more frequently employed.

The system of allotment adopted depends entirely on the will of the
particular Commune. In this respect the Communes enjoy the most
complete autonomy, and no peasant ever dreams of appealing against
a Communal decree.*  The higher authorities not only abstain from
all interference in the allotment of the Communal lands, but remain
in profound ignorance as to which system the Communes habitually
adopt. Though the Imperial Administration has a most voracious
appetite for symmetrically constructed statistical tables--many of
them formed chiefly out of materials supplied by the mysterious
inner consciousness of the subordinate officials--no attempt has
yet been made, so far as I know, to collect statistical data which
might throw light on this important subject. In spite of the
systematic and persistent efforts of the centralised bureaucracy to
regulate minutely all departments of the national life, the rural
Communes, which contain about five-sixths of the population, remain
in many respects entirely beyond its influence, and even beyond its
sphere of vision! But let not the reader be astonished overmuch.
He will learn in time that Russia is the land of paradoxes; and
meanwhile he is about to receive a still more startling bit of
information. In "the great stronghold of Caesarian despotism and
centralised bureaucracy," these Village Communes, containing about
five-sixths of the population, are capital specimens of
representative Constitutional government of the extreme democratic
type!

* This has been somewhat modified by recent legislation. According
to the Emancipation Law of 1861, redistribution of the land could
take place at any time provided it was voted by a majority of two-
thirds at the Village Assembly. By a law of 1893 redistribution
cannot take place oftener than once in twelve years, and must
receive the sanction of certain local authorities.

When I say that the rural Commune is a good specimen of
Constitutional government, I use the phrase in the English, and not
in the Continental sense. In the Continental languages a
Constitutional regime implies the existence of a long, formal
document, in which the functions of the various institutions, the
powers of the various authorities, and the methods of procedure are
carefully defined. Such a document was never heard of in Russian
Village Communes, except those belonging to the Imperial Domains,
and the special legislation which formerly regulated their affairs
was repealed at the time of the Emancipation. At the present day
the Constitution of all the Village Communes is of the English
type--a body of unwritten, traditional conceptions, which have
grown up and modified themselves under the influence of ever-
changing practical necessity. No doubt certain definitions of the
functions and mutual relations of the Communal authorities might be
extracted from the Emancipation Law and subsequent official
documents, but as a rule neither the Village Elder nor the members
of the Village Assembly ever heard of such definitions; and yet
every peasant knows, as if by instinct, what each of these
authorities can do and cannot do. The Commune is, in fact, a
living institution, whose spontaneous vitality enables it to
dispense with the assistance and guidance of the written law, and
its constitution is thoroughly democratic. The Elder represents
merely the executive power. The real authority resides in the
Assembly, of which all Heads of Households are members.*

* An attempt was made by Alexander III. in 1884 to bring the rural
Communes under supervision and control by the appointment of rural
officials called Zemskiye Natchalniki. Of this so-called reform I
shall have occasion to speak later.

The simple procedure, or rather the absence of all formal
procedure, at the Assemblies, illustrates admirably the essentially
practical character of the institution. The meetings are held in
the open air, because in the village there is no building--except
the church, which can be used only for religious purposes--large
enough to contain all the members; and they almost always take
place on Sundays or holidays, when the peasants have plenty of
leisure. Any open space may serve as a Forum. The discussions are
occasionally very animated, but there is rarely any attempt at
speech-making. If any young member should show an inclination to
indulge in oratory, he is sure to be unceremoniously interrupted by
some of the older members, who have never any sympathy with fine
talking. The assemblage has the appearance of a crowd of people
who have accidentally come together and are discussing in little
groups subjects of local interest. Gradually some one group,
containing two or three peasants who have more moral influence than
their fellows, attracts the others, and the discussion becomes
general. Two or more peasants may speak at a time, and interrupt
each other freely--using plain, unvarnished language, not at all
parliamentary--and the discussion may become a confused,
unintelligible din; but at the moment when the spectator imagines
that the consultation is about to be transformed into a free fight,
the tumult spontaneously subsides, or perhaps a general roar of
laughter announces that some one has been successfully hit by a
strong argumentum ad hominem, or biting personal remark. In any
case there is no danger of the disputants coming to blows. No
class of men in the world are more good-natured and pacific than
the Russian peasantry. When sober they never fight, and even when
under the influence of alcohol they are more likely to be violently
affectionate than disagreeably quarrelsome. If two of them take to
drinking together, the probability is that in a few minutes, though
they may never have seen each other before, they will be expressing
in very strong terms their mutual regard and affection, confirming
their words with an occasional friendly embrace.

Theoretically speaking, the Village Parliament has a Speaker, in
the person of the Village Elder. The word Speaker is
etymologically less objectionable than the term President, for the
personage in question never sits down, but mingles in the crowd
like the ordinary members. Objection may be taken to the word on
the ground that the Elder speaks much less than many other members,
but this may likewise be said of the Speaker of the House of
Commons. Whatever we may call him, the Elder is officially the
principal personage in the crowd, and wears the insignia of office
in the form of a small medal suspended from his neck by a thin
brass chain. His duties, however, are extremely light. To call to
order those who interrupt the discussion is no part of his
functions. If he calls an honourable member "Durak" (blockhead),
or interrupts an orator with a laconic "Moltchi!" (hold your
tongue!), he does so in virtue of no special prerogative, but
simply in accordance with a time-honoured privilege, which is
equally enjoyed by all present, and may be employed with impunity
against himself. Indeed, it may be said in general that the
phraseology and the procedure are not subjected to any strict
rules. The Elder comes prominently forward only when it is
necessary to take the sense of the meeting. On such occasions he
may stand back a little from the crowd and say, "Well, orthodox,
have you decided so?" and the crowd will probably shout, "Ladno!
ladno!" that is to say, "Agreed! agreed!"

Communal measures are generally carried in this way by acclamation;
but it sometimes happens that there is such a diversity of opinion
that it is difficult to tell which of the two parties has a
majority. In this case the Elder requests the one party to stand
to the right and the other to the left. The two groups are then
counted, and the minority submits, for no one ever dreams of
opposing openly the will of the Mir.

During the reign of Nicholas I. an attempt was made to regulate by
the written law the procedure of Village Assemblies amongst the
peasantry of the State Domains, and among other reforms voting by
ballot was introduced; but the new custom never struck root. The
peasants did not regard with favour the new method, and persisted
in calling it, contemptuously, "playing at marbles."  Here, again,
we have one of those wonderful and apparently anomalous facts which
frequently meet the student of Russian affairs: the Emperor
Nicholas I., the incarnation of autocracy and the champion of the
Reactionary Party throughout Europe, forces the ballot-box, the
ingenious invention of extreme radicals, on several millions of his
subjects!

In the northern provinces, where a considerable portion of the male
population is always absent, the Village Assembly generally
includes a good many female members. These are women who, on
account of the absence or death of their husbands, happen to be for
the moment Heads of Households. As such they are entitled to be
present, and their right to take part in the deliberations is never
called in question. In matters affecting the general welfare of
the Commune they rarely speak, and if they do venture to enounce an
opinion on such occasions they have little chance of commanding
attention, for the Russian peasantry are as yet little imbued with
the modern doctrines of female equality, and express their opinion
of female intelligence by the homely adage: "The hair is long, but
the mind is short."  According to one proverb, seven women have
collectively but one soul, and, according to a still more ungallant
popular saying, women have no souls at all, but only a vapour.
Woman, therefore, as woman, is not deserving of much consideration,
but a particular woman, as Head of a Household, is entitled to
speak on all questions directly affecting the household under her
care. If, for instance, it be proposed to increase or diminish her
household's share of the land and the burdens, she will be allowed
to speak freely on the subject, and even to indulge in personal
invective against her male opponents. She thereby exposes herself,
it is true, to uncomplimentary remarks; but any which she happens
to receive she is pretty sure to repay with interest--referring,
perhaps, with pertinent virulence to the domestic affairs of those
who attack her. And when argument and invective fail, she can try
the effect of pathetic appeal, supported by copious tears.

As the Village Assembly is really a representative institution in
the full sense of the term, it reflects faithfully the good and the
bad qualities of the rural population. Its decisions are therefore
usually characterised by plain, practical common sense, but it is
subject to occasional unfortunate aberrations in consequence of
pernicious influences, chiefly of an alcoholic kind. An instance
of this fact occurred during my sojourn at Ivanofka. The question
under discussion was whether a kabak, or gin-shop, should be
established in the village. A trader from the district town
desired to establish one, and offered to pay to the Commune a
yearly sum for the necessary permission. The more industrious,
respectable members of the Commune, backed by the whole female
population, were strongly opposed to the project, knowing full well
that a kabak would certainly lead to the ruin of more than one
household; but the enterprising trader had strong arguments
wherewith to seduce a large number of the members, and succeeded in
obtaining a decision in his favour.

The Assembly discusses all matters affecting the Communal welfare,
and, as these matters have never been legally defined, its
recognised competence is very wide. It fixes the time for making
the hay, and the day for commencing the ploughing of the fallow
field; it decrees what measures shall be employed against those who
do not punctually pay their taxes; it decides whether a new member
shall be admitted into the Commune, and whether an old member shall
be allowed to change his domicile; it gives or withholds permission
to erect new buildings on the Communal land; it prepares and signs
all contracts which the Commune makes with one of its own members
or with a stranger; it interferes whenever it thinks necessary in
the domestic affairs of its members; it elects the Elder--as well
as the Communal tax-collector and watchman, where such offices
exist--and the Communal herd-boy; above all, it divides and allots
the Communal land among the members as it thinks fit.

Of all these various proceedings the English reader may naturally
assume that the elections are the most noisy and exciting. In
reality this is a mistake. The elections produce little
excitement, for the simple reason that, as a rule, no one desires
to be elected. Once, it is said, a peasant who had been guilty of
some misdemeanor was informed by an Arbiter of the Peace--a species
of official of which I shall have occasion to speak in the sequel--
that he would be no longer capable of filling any Communal office;
and instead of regretting this diminution of his civil rights, he
bowed very low, and respectfully expressed his thanks for the new
privilege which he had acquired. This anecdote may not be true,
but it illustrates the undoubted fact that the Russian peasant
regards office as a burden rather than as an honour. There is no
civic ambition in those little rural commonwealths, whilst the
privilege of wearing a bronze medal, which commands no respect, and
the reception of a few roubles as salary afford no adequate
compensation for the trouble, annoyance, and responsibility which a
Village Elder has to bear. The elections are therefore generally
very tame and uninteresting. The following description may serve
as an illustration:

It is a Sunday afternoon. The peasants, male and female, have
turned out in Sunday attire, and the bright costumes of the women
help the sunshine to put a little rich colour into the scene, which
is at ordinary times monotonously grey. Slowly the crowd collects
on the open space at the side of the church. All classes of the
population are represented. On the extreme outskirts are a band of
fair-haired, merry children--some of them standing or lying on the
grass and gazing attentively at the proceedings, and others running
about and amusing themselves. Close to these stand a group of
young girls, convulsed with half-suppressed laughter. The cause of
their merriment is a youth of some seventeen summers, evidently the
wag of the village, who stands beside them with an accordion in his
hand, and relates to them in a half-whisper how he is about to be
elected Elder, and what mad pranks he will play in that capacity.
When one of the girls happens to laugh outright, the matrons who
are standing near turn round and scowl; and one of them, stepping
forward, orders the offender, in a tone of authority, to go home at
once if she cannot behave herself. Crestfallen, the culprit
retires, and the youth who is the cause of the merriment makes the
incident the subject of a new joke. Meanwhile the deliberations
have begun. The majority of the members are chatting together, or
looking at a little group composed of three peasants and a woman,
who are standing a little apart from the others. Here alone the
matter in hand is being really discussed. The woman is explaining,
with tears in her eyes, and with a vast amount of useless
repetition, that her "old man," who is Elder for the time being, is
very ill, and cannot fulfil his duties.

"But he has not yet served a year, and he'll get better," remarks
one peasant, evidently the youngest of the little group.

"Who knows?" replies the woman, sobbing. "It is the will of God,
but I don't believe that he'll ever put his foot to the ground
again. The Feldsher has been four times to see him, and the doctor
himself came once, and said that he must be brought to the
hospital."

"And why has he not been taken there?"

"How could he be taken? Who is to carry him? Do you think he's a
baby? The hospital is forty versts off. If you put him in a cart
he would die before he had gone a verst. And then, who knows what
they do with people in the hospital?"  This last question contained
probably the true reason why the doctor's orders had been
disobeyed.

"Very well, that's enough; hold your tongue," says the grey-beard
of the little group to the woman; and then, turning to the other
peasants, remarks, "There is nothing to be done. The Stanovoi
[officer of rural police] will be here one of these days, and will
make a row again if we don't elect a new Elder. Whom shall we
choose?"

As soon as this question is asked several peasants look down to the
ground, or try in some other way to avoid attracting attention,
lest their names should be suggested. When the silence has
continued a minute or two, the greybeard says, "There is Alexei
Ivanof; he has not served yet!"

"Yes, yes, Alexei Ivanof!" shout half-a-dozen voices, belonging
probably to peasants who fear they may be elected.

Alexei protests in the strongest terms. He cannot say that he is
ill, because his big ruddy face would give him the lie direct, but
he finds half-a-dozen other reasons why he should not be chosen,
and accordingly requests to be excused. But his protestations are
not listened to, and the proceedings terminate. A new Village
Elder has been duly elected.

Far more important than the elections is the redistribution of the
Communal land. It can matter but little to the Head of a Household
how the elections go, provided he himself is not chosen. He can
accept with perfect equanimity Alexei, or Ivan, or Nikolai, because
the office-bearers have very little influence in Communal affairs.
But he cannot remain a passive, indifferent spectator when the
division and allotment of the land come to be discussed, for the
material welfare of every household depends to a great extent on
the amount of land and of burdens which it receives.

In the southern provinces, where the soil is fertile, and the taxes
do not exceed the normal rent, the process of division and
allotment is comparatively simple. Here each peasant desires to
get as much land as possible, and consequently each household
demands all the land to which it is entitled--that is to say, a
number of shares equal to the number of its members inscribed in
the last revision list. The Assembly has therefore no difficult
questions to decide. The Communal revision list determines the
number of shares into which the land must be divided, and the
number of shares to be allotted to each family. The only
difficulty likely to arise is as to which particular shares a
particular family shall receive, and this difficulty is commonly
obviated by the custom of drawing lots. There may be, it is true,
some difference of opinion as to when a redistribution should be
made, but this question is easily decided by a vote of the
Assembly.

Very different is the process of division and allotment in many
Communes of the northern provinces. Here the soil is often very
unfertile and the taxes exceed the normal rent, and consequently it
may happen that the peasants strive to have as little land as
possible. In these cases such scenes as the following may occur:

Ivan is being asked how many shares of the Communal land he will
take, and replies in a slow, contemplative way, "I have two sons,
and there is myself, so I'll take three shares, or somewhat less,
if it is your pleasure."

"Less!" exclaims a middle-aged peasant, who is not the Village
Elder, but merely an influential member, and takes the leading part
in the proceedings. "You talk nonsense. Your two sons are already
old enough to help you, and soon they may get married, and so bring
you two new female labourers."

"My eldest son," explains Ivan, "always works in Moscow, and the
other often leaves me in summer."

"But they both send or bring home money, and when they get married,
the wives will remain with you."

"God knows what will be," replies Ivan, passing over in silence the
first part of his opponent's remark. "Who knows if they will
marry?"

"You can easily arrange that!"

"That I cannot do. The times are changed now. The young people do
as they wish, and when they do get married they all wish to have
houses of their own. Three shares will be heavy enough for me!"

"No, no. If they wish to separate from you, they will take some
land from you. You must take at least four. The old wives there
who have little children cannot take shares according to the number
of souls."

"He is a rich muzhik!" says a voice in the crowd. "Lay on him five
souls!" (that is to say, give him five shares of the land and of
the burdens).

"Five souls I cannot! By God, I cannot!"

"Very well, you shall have four," says the leading spirit to Ivan;
and then, turning to the crowd, inquires, "Shall it be so?"

"Four! four!" murmurs the crowd; and the question is settled.

Next comes one of the old wives just referred to. Her husband is a
permanent invalid, and she has three little boys, only one of whom
is old enough for field labour. If the number of souls were taken
as the basis of distribution, she would receive four shares; but
she would never be able to pay four shares of the Communal burdens.
She must therefore receive less than that amount. When asked how
many she will take, she replies with downcast eyes, "As the Mir
decides, so be it!"

"Then you must take three."

"What do you say, little father?" cries the woman, throwing off
suddenly her air of submissive obedience. "Do you hear that, ye
orthodox? They want to lay upon me three souls! Was such a thing
ever heard of? Since St. Peter's Day my husband has been
bedridden--bewitched, it seems, for nothing does him good. He
cannot put a foot to the ground--all the same as if he were dead;
only he eats bread!"

"You talk nonsense," says a neighbour; "he was in the kabak [gin-
shop] last week."

"And you!" retorts the woman, wandering from the subject in hand;
"what did YOU do last parish fete? Was it not you who got drunk
and beat your wife till she roused the whole village with her
shrieking? And no further gone than last Sunday--pfu!"

"Listen!" says the old man, sternly cutting short the torrent of
invective. "You must take at least two shares and a half. If you
cannot manage it yourself, you can get some one to help you."

"How can that be? Where am I to get the money to pay a labourer?"
asks the woman, with much wailing and a flood of tears. "Have
pity, ye orthodox, on the poor orphans! God will reward you!" and
so on, and so on.

I need not worry the reader with a further description of these
scenes, which are always very long and sometimes violent. All
present are deeply interested, for the allotment of the land is by
far the most important event in Russian peasant life, and the
arrangement cannot be made without endless talking and discussion.
After the number of shares for each family has been decided, the
distribution of the lots gives rise to new difficulties. The
families who have plentifully manured their land strive to get back
their old lots, and the Commune respects their claims so far as
these are consistent with the new arrangement; but often it happens
that it is impossible to conciliate private rights and Communal
interests, and in such cases the former are sacrificed in a way
that would not be tolerated by men of Anglo-Saxon race. This
leads, however, to no serious consequences. The peasants are
accustomed to work together in this way, to make concessions for
the Communal welfare, and to bow unreservedly to the will of the
Mir. I know of many instances where the peasants have set at
defiance the authority of the police, of the provincial governor,
and of the central Government itself, but I have never heard of any
instance where the will of the Mir was openly opposed by one of its
members.

In the preceding pages I have repeatedly spoken about "shares of
the Communal land."  To prevent misconception I must explain
carefully what this expression means. A share does not mean simply
a plot or parcel of land; on the contrary, it always contains at
least four, and may contain a large number of distinct plots. We
have here a new point of difference between the Russian village and
the villages of Western Europe.

Communal land in Russia is of three kinds: the land on which the
village is built, the arable land, and the meadow or hay-field, if
the village is fortunate enough to possess one. On the first of
these each family possesses a house and garden, which are the
hereditary property of the family, and are never affected by the
periodical redistributions. The other two kinds are both subject
to redistribution, but on somewhat different principles.

The whole of the Communal arable land is first of all divided into
three fields, to suit the triennial rotation of crops already
described, and each field is divided into a number of long narrow
strips--corresponding to the number of male members in the Commune--
as nearly as possible equal to each other in area and quality.
Sometimes it is necessary to divide the field into several
portions, according to the quality of the soil, and then to
subdivide each of these portions into the requisite number of
strips. Thus in all cases every household possesses at least one
strip in each field; and in those cases where subdivision is
necessary, every household possesses a strip in each of the
portions into which the field is subdivided. It often happens,
therefore, that the strips are very narrow, and the portions
belonging to each family very numerous. Strips six feet wide are
by no means rare. In 124 villages of the province of Moscow,
regarding which I have special information, they varied in width
from 3 to 45 yards, with an average of 11 yards. Of these narrow
strips a household may possess as many as thirty in a single field!
The complicated process of division and subdivision is accomplished
by the peasants themselves, with the aid of simple measuring-rods,
and the accuracy of the result is truly marvellous.

The meadow, which is reserved for the production of hay, is divided
into the same number of shares as the arable land. There, however,
the division and distribution take place, not at irregular
intervals, but annually. Every year, on a day fixed by the
Assembly, the villagers proceed in a body to this part of their
property, and divide it into the requisite number of portions.
Lots are then cast, and each family at once mows the portion
allotted to it. In some Communes the meadow is mown by all the
peasants in common, and the hay afterwards distributed by lot among
the families; but this system is by no means so frequently used.

As the whole of the Communal land thus resembles to some extent a
big farm, it is necessary to make certain rules concerning
cultivation. A family may sow what it likes in the land allotted
to it, but all families must at least conform to the accepted
system of rotation. In like manner, a family cannot begin the
autumn ploughing before the appointed time, because it would
thereby interfere with the rights of the other families, who use
the fallow field as pasturage.

It is not a little strange that this primitive system of land
tenure should have succeeded in living into the twentieth century,
and still more remarkable that the institution of which it forms an
essential part should be regarded by many intelligent people as one
of the great institutions of the future, and almost as a panacea
for social and political evils. The explanation of these facts
will form the subject of the next chapter.

CHAPTER IX

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

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

The reader is probably aware that immediately after the Crimean War
Russia was subjected to a series of sweeping reforms, including the
emancipation of the serfs and the creation of a new system of local
self-government, and he may naturally wonder how it came to pass
that a curious, primitive institution like the rural Commune
succeeded in weathering the bureaucratic hurricane. This strange
phenomena I now proceed to explain, partly because the subject is
in itself interesting, and partly because I hope thereby to throw
some light on the peculiar intellectual condition of the Russian
educated classes.

When it became evident, in 1857, that the serfs were about to be
emancipated, it was at first pretty generally supposed that the
rural Commune would be entirely abolished, or at least radically
modified. At that time many Russians were enthusiastic,
indiscriminate admirers of English institutions, and believed, in
common with the orthodox school of political economists, that
England had acquired her commercial and industrial superiority by
adopting the principle of individual liberty and unrestricted
competition, or, as French writers term it, the "laissez faire"
principle. This principle is plainly inconsistent with the rural
Commune, which compels the peasantry to possess land, prevents an
enterprising peasant from acquiring the land of his less
enterprising neighbours, and places very considerable restrictions
on the freedom of action of the individual members. Accordingly it
was assumed that the rural Commune, being inconsistent with the
modern spirit of progress, would find no place in the new regime of
liberty which was about to be inaugurated.

No sooner had these ideas been announced in the Press than they
called forth strenuous protests. In the crowd of protesters were
two well-defined groups. On the one hand there were the so-called
Slavophils, a small band of patriotic, highly educated Moscovites,
who were strongly disposed to admire everything specifically
Russian, and who habitually refused to bow the knee to the wisdom
of Western Europe. These gentlemen, in a special organ which they
had recently founded, pointed out to their countrymen that the
Commune was a venerable and peculiarly Russian institution, which
had mitigated in the past the baneful influence of serfage, and
would certainly in the future confer inestimable benefits on the
emancipated peasantry. The other group was animated by a very
different spirit. They had no sympathy with national
peculiarities, and no reverence for hoary antiquity. That the
Commune was specifically Russian or Slavonic, and a remnant of
primitive times, was in their eyes anything but a recommendation in
its favour. Cosmopolitan in their tendencies, and absolutely free
from all archaeological sentimentality, they regarded the
institution from the purely utilitarian point of view. They
agreed, however, with the Slavophils in thinking that its
preservation would have a beneficial influence on the material and
moral welfare of the peasantry.

For the sake of convenience it is necessary to designate this
latter group by some definite name, but I confess I have some
difficulty in making a choice. I do not wish to call these
gentlemen Socialists, because many people habitually and
involuntarily attach a stigma to the word, and believe that all to
whom the term is applied must be first-cousins to the petroleuses.
To avoid misconceptions of this kind, it will be well to designate
them simply by the organ which most ably represented their views,
and to call them the adherents of The Contemporary.

The Slavophils and the adherents of The Contemporary, though
differing widely from each other in many respects, had the same
immediate object in view, and accordingly worked together. With
great ingenuity they contended that the Communal system of land
tenure had much greater advantages, and was attended with much
fewer inconveniences, than people generally supposed. But they did
not confine themselves to these immediate practical advantages,
which had very little interest for the general reader. The writers
in The Contemporary explained that the importance of the rural
Commune lies, not in its actual condition, but in its capabilities
of development, and they drew, with prophetic eye, most attractive
pictures of the happy rural Commune of the future. Let me give
here, as an illustration, one of these prophetic descriptions:

"Thanks to the spread of primary and technical education the
peasants have become well acquainted with the science of
agriculture, and are always ready to undertake in common the
necessary improvements. They no longer exhaust the soil by
exporting the grain, but sell merely certain technical products
containing no mineral ingredients. For this purpose the Communes
possess distilleries, starch-works, and the like, and the soil
thereby retains its original fertility. The scarcity induced by
the natural increase of the population is counteracted by improved
methods of cultivation. If the Chinese, who know nothing of
natural science, have succeeded by purely empirical methods in
perfecting agriculture to such an extent that a whole family can
support itself on a few square yards of land, what may not the
European do with the help of chemistry, botanical physiology, and
the other natural sciences?"

Coming back from the possibilities of the future to the actualities
of the present, these ingenious and eloquent writers pointed out
that in the rural Commune, Russia possessed a sure preventive
against the greatest evil of West-European social organisation, the
Proletariat. Here the Slavophils could strike in with their
favourite refrain about the rotten social condition of Western
Europe; and their temporary allies, though they habitually scoffed
at the Slavophil jeremiads, had no reason for the moment to
contradict them. Very soon the Proletariat became, for the
educated classes, a species of bugbear, and the reading public were
converted to the doctrine that the Communal institutions should be
preserved as a means of excluding the monster from Russia.

This fear of what is vaguely termed the Proletariat is still
frequently to be met with in Russia, and I have often taken pains
to discover precisely what is meant by the term. I cannot,
however, say that my efforts have been completely successful. The
monster seems to be as vague and shadowy as the awful forms which
Milton placed at the gate of the infernal regions. At one moment
he seems to be simply our old enemy Pauperism, but when we approach
a little nearer we find that he expands to colossal dimensions, so
as to include all who do not possess inalienable landed property.
In short, he turns out to be, on examination, as vague and
undefinable as a good bugbear ought to be; and this vagueness
contributed probably not a little to his success.

The influence which the idea of the Proletariat exercised on the
public mind and on the legislation at the time of the Emancipation
is a very notable fact, and well worthy of attention, because it
helps to illustrate a point of difference between Russians and
Englishmen.

Englishmen are, as a rule, too much occupied with the multifarious
concerns of the present to look much ahead into the distant future.
We profess, indeed, to regard with horror the maxim, Apres nous le
deluge! and we should probably annihilate with our virtuous
indignation any one who should boldly profess the principle. And
yet we often act almost as if we were really partisans of that
heartless creed. When called upon to consider the interests of the
future generations, we declared that "sufficient unto the day is
the evil thereof," and stigmatise as visionaries and dreamers all
who seek to withdraw our attention from the present. A modern
Cassandra who confidently predicts the near exhaustion of our coal-
fields, or graphically describes a crushing national disaster that
must some day overtake us, may attract some public attention; but
when we learn that the misfortune is not to take place in our time,
we placidly remark that future generations must take care of
themselves, and that we cannot reasonably be expected to bear their
burdens. When we are obliged to legislate, we proceed in a
cautious, tentative way, and are quite satisfied with any homely,
simple remedies that common sense and experience may suggest,
without taking the trouble to inquire whether the remedy adopted is
in accordance with scientific theories. In short, there is a
certain truth in those "famous prophetick pictures" spoken of by
Stillingfleet, which "represent the fate of England by a mole, a
creature blind and busy, continually working under ground."

In Russia we find the opposite extreme. There reformers have been
trained, not in the arena of practical politics, but in the school
of political speculation. As soon, therefore, as they begin to
examine any simple matter with a view to legislation, it at once
becomes a "question," and flies up into the region of political and
social science. Whilst we have been groping along an unexplored
path, the Russians have--at least in recent times--been constantly
mapping out, with the help of foreign experience, the country that
lay before them, and advancing with gigantic strides according to
the newest political theories. Men trained in this way cannot rest
satisfied with homely remedies which merely alleviate the evils of
the moment. They wish to "tear up evil by the roots," and to
legislate for future generations as well as for themselves.

This tendency was peculiarly strong at the time of the
Emancipation. The educated classes were profoundly convinced that
the system of Nicholas I. had been a mistake, and that a new and
brighter era was about to dawn upon the country. Everything had to
be reformed. The whole social and political edifice had to be
reconstructed on entirely new principles.

Let us imagine the position of a man who, having no practical
acquaintance with building, suddenly finds himself called upon to
construct a large house, containing all the newest appliances for
convenience and comfort. What will his first step be? Probably he
will proceed at once to study the latest authorities on
architecture and construction, and when he has mastered the general
principles he will come down gradually to the details. This is
precisely what the Russians did when they found themselves called
upon to reconstruct the political and social edifice. They eagerly
consulted the most recent English, French, and German writers on
social and political science, and here it was that they made the
acquaintance of the Proletariat.

People who read books of travel without ever leaving their own
country are very apt to acquire exaggerated notions regarding the
hardships and dangers of uncivilised life. They read about savage
tribes, daring robbers, ferocious wild beasts, poisonous snakes,
deadly fevers, and the like; and they cannot but wonder how a human
being can exist for a week among such dangers. But if they happen
thereafter to visit the countries described, they discover to their
surprise that, though the descriptions may not have been
exaggerated, life under such conditions is much easier than they
supposed. Now the Russians who read about the Proletariat were
very much like the people who remain at home and devour books of
travel. They gained exaggerated notions, and learned to fear the
Proletariat much more than we do, who habitually live in the midst
of it. Of course it is quite possible that their view of the
subject is truer than ours, and that we may some day, like the
people who live tranquilly on the slopes of a volcano, be rudely
awakened from our fancied security. But this is an entirely
different question. I am at present not endeavouring to justify
our habitual callousness with regard to social dangers, but simply
seeking to explain why the Russians, who have little or no
practical acquaintance with pauperism, should have taken such
elaborate precautions against it.

But how can the preservation of the Communal institutions lead to
this "consummation devoutly to be wished," and how far are the
precautions likely to be successful?

Those who have studied the mysteries of social science have
generally come to the conclusion that the Proletariat has been
formed chiefly by the expropriation of the peasantry or small land-
holders, and that its formation might be prevented, or at least
retarded, by any system of legislation which would secure the
possession of land for the peasants and prevent them from being
uprooted from the soil. Now it must be admitted that the Russian
Communal system is admirably adapted for this purpose. About one-
half of the arable land has been reserved for the peasantry, and
cannot be encroached on by the great landowners or the capitalists,
and every adult peasant, roughly speaking, has a right to a share
of this land. When I have said that the peasantry compose about
five-sixths of the population, and that it is extremely difficult
for a peasant to sever his connection with the rural Commune, it
will be at once evident that, if the theories of social
philosophers are correct, and if the sanguine expectations
entertained in many quarters regarding the permanence of the
present Communal institutions are destined to be realised, there is
little or no danger of a numerous Proletariat being formed, and the
Russians are justified in maintaining, as they often do, that they
have successfully solved one of the most important and most
difficult of social problems.

But is there any reasonable chance of these sanguine expectations
being realised?

This is, doubtless, a most complicated and difficult question, but
it cannot be shirked. However sceptical we may be with regard to
social panaceas of all sorts, we cannot dismiss with a few
hackneyed phrases a gigantic experiment in social science involving
the material and moral welfare of many millions of human beings.
On the other hand, I do not wish to exhaust the reader's patience
by a long series of multifarious details and conflicting arguments.
What I propose to do, therefore, is to state in a few words the
conclusions at which I have arrived, after a careful study of the
question in all its bearings, and to indicate in a general way how
I have arrived at these conclusions.

If Russia were content to remain a purely agricultural country of
the Sleepy Hollow type, and if her Government were to devote all
its energies to maintaining economic and social stagnation, the
rural Commune might perhaps prevent the formation of a large
Proletariat in the future, as it has tended to prevent it for
centuries in the past. The periodical redistributions of the
Communal land would secure to every family a portion of the soil,
and when the population became too dense, the evils arising from
inordinate subdivision of the land might be obviated by a carefully
regulated system of emigration to the outlying, thinly populated
provinces. All this sounds very well in theory, but experience is
proving that it cannot be carried out in practice. In Russia, as
in Western Europe, the struggle for life, even among the
conservative agricultural classes, is becoming yearly more and more
intense, and is producing both the desire and the necessity for
greater freedom of individual character and effort, so that each
man may make his way in the world according to the amount of his
intelligence, energy, spirit of enterprise, and tenacity of
purpose. Whatever institutions tend to fetter the individual and
maintain a dead level of mediocrity have little chance of
subsisting for any great length of time, and it must be admitted
that among such institutions the rural Commune in its present form
occupies a prominent place. All its members must possess, in
principle if not always in practice, an equal share of the soil and
must practice the same methods of agriculture, and when a certain
inequality has been created by individual effort it is in great
measure wiped out by a redistribution of the Communal land.

Now, I am well aware that in practice the injustice and
inconveniences of the system, being always tempered and corrected
by ingenious compromises suggested by long experience, are not
nearly so great as the mere theorist might naturally suppose; but
they are, I believe, quite great enough to prevent the permanent
maintenance of the institution, and already there are ominous
indications of the coming change, as I shall explain more fully
when I come to deal with the consequences of serf-emancipation. On
the other hand there is no danger of a sudden, general abolition of
the old system. Though the law now permits the transition from
Communal to personal hereditary tenure, even the progressive
enterprising peasants are slow to avail themselves of the
permission; and the reason I once heard given for this conservative
tendency is worth recording. A well-to-do peasant who had been in
the habit of manuring his land better than his neighbours, and who
was, consequently, a loser by the existing system, said to me: "Of
course I want to keep the allotment I have got. But if the land is
never again to be divided my grandchildren may be beggars. We must
not sin against those who are to come after us."  This unexpected
reply gave me food for reflection. Surely those muzhiks who are so
often accused of being brutally indifferent to moral obligations
must have peculiar deep-rooted moral conceptions of their own which
exercise a great influence on their daily life. A man who
hesitates to sin against his grandchildren still unborn, though his
conceptions of the meum and the tuum in the present may be
occasionally a little confused, must possess somewhere deep down in
his nature a secret fund of moral feeling of a very respectable
kind. Even among the educated classes in Russia the way of looking
at these matters is very different from ours. We should naturally
feel inclined to applaud, encourage, and assist the peasants who
show energy and initiative, and who try to rise above their
fellows. To the Russian this seems at once inexpedient and
immoral. The success of the few, he explains, is always obtained
at the expense of the many, and generally by means which the severe
moralist cannot approve of. The rich peasants, for example, have
gained their fortune and influence by demoralising and exploiting
their weaker brethren, by committing all manner of illegalities,
and by bribing the local authorities. Hence they are styled
Miroyedy (Commune-devourers) or Kulaki (fists), or something
equally uncomplimentary. Once this view is adopted, it follows
logically that the Communal institutions, in so far as they form a
barrier to the activity of such persons, ought to be carefully
preserved. This idea underlies nearly all the arguments in favour
of the Commune, and explains why they are so popular. Russians of
all classes have, in fact, a leaning towards socialistic notions,
and very little sympathy with our belief in individual initiative
and unrestricted competition.

Even if it be admitted that the Commune may effectually prevent the
formation of an agricultural Proletariat, the question is thereby
only half answered. Russia aspires to become a great industrial
and commercial country, and accordingly her town population is
rapidly augmenting. We have still to consider, then, how the
Commune affects the Proletariat of the towns. In Western Europe
the great centres of industry have uprooted from the soil and
collected in the towns a great part of the rural population. Those
who yielded to this attractive influence severed all connection
with their native villages, became unfit for field labour, and were
transformed into artisans or factory-workers. In Russia this
transformation could not easily take place. The peasant might work
during the greater part of his life in the towns, but he did not
thereby sever his connection with his native village. He remained,
whether he desired it or not, a member of the Commune, possessing a
share of the Communal land, and liable for a share of the Communal
burdens. During his residence in the town his wife and family
remained at home, and thither he himself sooner or later returned.
In this way a class of hybrids--half-peasants, half-artisans--has
been created, and the formation of a town Proletariat has been
greatly retarded.

The existence of this hybrid class is commonly cited as a
beneficent result of the Communal institutions. The artisans and
factory labourers, it is said, have thus always a home to which
they can retire when thrown out of work or overtaken by old age,
and their children are brought up in the country, instead of being
reared among the debilitating influences of overcrowded cities.
Every common labourer has, in short, by this ingenious contrivance,
some small capital and a country residence.

In the present transitional state of Russian society this peculiar
arrangement is at once natural and convenient, but amidst its
advantages it has many serious defects. The unnatural separation
of the artisan from his wife and family leads to very undesirable
results, well known to all who are familiar with the details of
peasant life in the northern provinces. And whatever its
advantages and defects may be, it cannot be permanently retained.
At the present time native industry is still in its infancy.
Protected by the tariff from foreign competition, and too few in
number to produce a strong competition among themselves, the
existing factories can give to their owners a large revenue without
any strenuous exertion. Manufacturers can therefore allow
themselves many little liberties, which would be quite inadmissible
if the price of manufactured goods were lowered by brisk
competition. Ask a Lancashire manufacturer if he could allow a
large portion of his workers to go yearly to Cornwall or Caithness
to mow a field of hay or reap a few acres of wheat or oats! And if
Russia is to make great industrial progress, the manufacturers of
Moscow, Lodz, Ivanovo, and Shui will some day be as hard pressed as
are those of Bradford and Manchester. The invariable tendency of
modern industry, and the secret of its progress, is the ever-
increasing division of labour; and how can this principle be
applied if the artisans insist on remaining agriculturists?

The interests of agriculture, too, are opposed to the old system.
Agriculture cannot be expected to make progress, or even to be
tolerably productive, if it is left in great measure to women and
children. At present it is not desirable that the link which binds
the factory-worker or artisan with the village should be at once
severed, for in the neighbourhood of the large factories there is
often no proper accommodation for the families of the workers, and
agriculture, as at present practised, can be carried on
successfully though the Head of the Household happens to be absent.
But the system must be regarded as simply temporary, and the
disruption of large families--a phenomenon of which I have already
spoken--renders its application more and more difficult.

CHAPTER X

FINNISH AND TARTAR VILLAGES

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

When talking one day with a landed proprietor who lived near
Ivanofka, I accidentally discovered that in a district at some
distance to the northeast there were certain villages the
inhabitants of which did not understand Russian, and habitually
used a peculiar language of their own. With an illogical hastiness
worthy of a genuine ethnologist, I at once assumed that these must
be the remnants of some aboriginal race.

"Des aborigenes!" I exclaimed, unable to recall the Russian
equivalent for the term, and knowing that my friend understood
French. "Doubtless the remains of some ancient race who formerly
held the country, and are now rapidly disappearing. Have you any
Aborigines Protection Society in this part of the world?"

My friend had evidently great difficulty in imagining what an
Aborigines Protection Society could be, and promptly assured me
that there was nothing of the kind in Russia. On being told that
such a society might render valuable services by protecting the
weaker against the stronger race, and collecting important
materials for the new science of Social Embryology, he looked
thoroughly mystified. As to the new science, he had never heard of
it, and as to protection, he thought that the inhabitants of the
villages in question were quite capable of protecting themselves.
"I could invent," he added, with a malicious smile, "a society for
the protection of ALL peasants, but I am quite sure that the
authorities would not allow me to carry out my idea."

My ethnological curiosity was thoroughly aroused, and I endeavoured
to awaken a similar feeling in my friend by hinting that we had at
hand a promising field for discoveries which might immortalise the
fortunate explorers; but my efforts were in vain. The old
gentleman was a portly, indolent man, of phlegmatic temperament,
who thought more of comfort than of immortality in the terrestrial
sense of the term. To my proposal that we should start at once on
an exploring expedition, he replied calmly that the distance was
considerable, that the roads were muddy, and that there was nothing
to be learned. The villages in question were very like other
villages, and their inhabitants lived, to all intents and purposes,
in the same way as their Russian neighbours. If they had any
secret peculiarities they would certainly not divulge them to a
stranger, for they were notoriously silent, gloomy, morose, and
uncommunicative. Everything that was known about them, my friend
assured me, might be communicated in a few words. They belonged to
a Finnish tribe called Korelli, and had been transported to their
present settlements in comparatively recent times. In answer to my
questions as to how, when, and by whom they had been transported
thither my informant replied that it had been the work of Ivan the
Terrible.

Though I knew at that time little of Russian history, I suspected
that the last assertion was invented on the spur of the moment, in
order to satisfy my troublesome curiosity, and accordingly I
determined not to accept it without verification. The result
showed how careful the traveller should be in accepting the
testimony of "intelligent, well-informed natives."  On further
investigation I discovered, not only that the story about Ivan the
Terrible was a pure invention--whether of my friend or of the
popular imagination, which always uses heroic names as pegs on
which to hang traditions, I know not--but also that my first theory
was correct. These Finnish peasants turned out to be a remnant of
the aborigines, or at least of the oldest known inhabitants of the
district. Men of the same race, but bearing different tribal
names, such as Finns, Korelli, Tcheremiss, Tchuvash, Mordva,
Votyaks, Permyaks, Zyryanye, Voguls, are to be found in
considerable numbers all over the northern provinces, from the Gulf
of Bothnia to Western Siberia, as well as in the provinces
bordering the Middle Volga as far south as Penza, Simbirsk, and
Tamboff.*  The Russian peasants, who now compose the great mass of
the population, are the intruders.

* The semi-official "Statesman's Handbook for Russia," published in
1896, enumerates fourteen different tribes, with an aggregate of
about 4,650,000 souls, but these numbers must not be regarded as
having any pretensions to accuracy. The best authorities differ
widely in their estimates.

I had long taken a deep interest in what learned Germans call the
Volkerwanderung--that is to say, the migrations of peoples during
the gradual dissolution of the Roman Empire, and it had often
occurred to me that the most approved authorities, who had expended
an infinite amount of learning on the subject, had not always taken
the trouble to investigate the nature of the process. It is not
enough to know that a race or tribe extended its dominions or
changed its geographical position. We ought at the same time to
inquire whether it expelled, exterminated, or absorbed the former
inhabitants, and how the expulsion, extermination, or absorption
was effected. Now of these three processes, absorption may have
been more frequent than is commonly supposed, and it seemed to me
that in Northern Russia this process might be conveniently studied.
A thousand years ago the whole of Northern Russia was peopled by
Finnish pagan tribes, and at the present day the greater part of it
is occupied by peasants who speak the language of Moscow, profess
the Orthodox faith, present in their physiognomy no striking
peculiarities, and appear to the superficial observer pure
Russians. And we have no reason to suppose that the former
inhabitants were expelled or exterminated, or that they gradually
died out from contact with the civilisation and vices of a higher
race. History records no wholesale Finnish migrations like that of
the Kalmyks, and no war of extermination; and statistics prove that
among the remnants of those primitive races the population
increases as rapidly as among the Russian peasantry.*  From these
facts I concluded that the Finnish aborigines had been simply
absorbed, or rather, were being absorbed, by the Slavonic
intruders.

* This latter statement is made on the authority of Popoff
("Zyryanye i zyryanski krai," Moscow, 1874) and Tcheremshanski
("Opisanie Orenburgskoi Gubernii," Ufa, 1859).

This conclusion has since been confirmed by observation. During my
wanderings in these northern provinces I have found villages in
every stage of Russification. In one, everything seemed thoroughly
Finnish: the inhabitants had a reddish-olive skin, very high cheek-
bones, obliquely set eyes, and a peculiar costume; none of the
women, and very few of the men, could understand Russian, and any
Russian who visited the place was regarded as a foreigner. In a
second, there were already some Russian inhabitants; the others had
lost something of their pure Finnish type, many of the men had
discarded the old costume and spoke Russian fluently, and a Russian
visitor was no longer shunned. In a third, the Finnish type was
still further weakened: all the men spoke Russian, and nearly all
the women understood it; the old male costume had entirely
disappeared, and the old female costume was rapidly following it;
while intermarriage with the Russian population was no longer rare.
In a fourth, intermarriage had almost completely done its work, and
the old Finnish element could be detected merely in certain
peculiarities of physiognomy and pronunciation.*

* One of the most common peculiarities of pronunciation is the
substitution of the sound of ts for that of tch, which I found
almost universal over a large area.

The process of Russification may be likewise observed in the manner
of building the houses and in the methods of farming, which show
plainly that the Finnish races did not obtain rudimentary
civilisation from the Slavs. Whence, then, was it derived? Was it
obtained from some other race, or is it indigenous? These are
questions which I have no means of answering.

A Positivist poet--or if that be a contradiction in terms, let us
say a Positivist who wrote verses--once composed an appeal to the
fair sex, beginning with the words:

"Pourquoi, O femmes, restez-vous en arriere?"

The question might have been addressed to the women in these
Finnish villages. Like their sisters in France, they are much more
conservative than the men, and oppose much more stubbornly the
Russian influence. On the other hand, like women in general, when
they do begin to change, they change more rapidly. This is seen
especially in the matter of costume. The men adopt the Russian
costume very gradually; the women adopt it at once. As soon as a
single woman gets a gaudy Russian dress, every other woman in the
village feels envious and impatient till she has done likewise. I
remember once visiting a Mordva village when this critical point
had been reached, and a very characteristic incident occurred. In
the preceding villages through which I had passed I had tried in
vain to buy a female costume, and I again made the attempt. This
time the result was very different. A few minutes after I had
expressed my wish to purchase a costume, the house in which I was
sitting was besieged by a great crowd of women, holding in their
hands articles of wearing apparel. In order to make a selection I
went out into the crowd, but the desire to find a purchaser was so
general and so ardent that I was regularly mobbed. The women,
shouting "Kupi! kupi!" ("Buy! buy!"), and struggling with each
other to get near me, were so importunate that I had at last to
take refuge in the house, to prevent my own costume from being torn
to shreds. But even there I was not safe, for the women followed
at my heels, and a considerable amount of good-natured violence had
to be employed to expel the intruders.

It is especially interesting to observe the transformation of
nationality in the sphere of religious conceptions. The Finns
remained pagans long after the Russians had become Christians, but
at the present time the whole population, from the eastern boundary
of Finland proper to the Ural Mountains, are officially described
as members of the Greek Orthodox Church. The manner in which this
change of religion was effected is well worthy of attention.

The old religion of the Finnish tribes, if we may judge from the
fragments which still remain, had, like the people themselves, a
thoroughly practical, prosaic character. Their theology consisted
not of abstract dogmas, but merely of simple prescriptions for the
ensuring of material welfare. Even at the present day, in the
districts not completely Russified, their prayers are plain,
unadorned requests for a good harvest, plenty of cattle, and the
like, and are expressed in a tone of childlike familiarity that
sounds strange in our ears. They make no attempt to veil their
desires with mystic solemnity, but ask, in simple, straightforward
fashion, that God should make the barley ripen and the cow calve
successfully, that He should prevent their horses from being
stolen, and that he should help them to gain money to pay their
taxes.

Their religious ceremonies have, so far as I have been able to
discover, no hidden mystical signification, and are for the most
part rather magical rites for averting the influence of malicious
spirits, or freeing themselves from the unwelcome visits of their
departed relatives. For this latter purpose many even of those who
are officially Christians proceed at stated seasons to the
graveyards and place an abundant supply of cooked food on the
graves of their relations who have recently died, requesting the
departed to accept this meal, and not to return to their old homes,
where their presence is no longer desired. Though more of the food
is eaten at night by the village dogs than by the famished spirits,
the custom is believed to have a powerful influence in preventing
the dead from wandering about at night and frightening the living.
If it be true, as I am inclined to believe, that tombstones were
originally used for keeping the dead in their graves, then it must
be admitted that in the matter of "laying" ghosts the Finns have
shown themselves much more humane than other races. It may,
however, be suggested that in the original home of the Finns--"le
berceau de la race," as French ethnologists say--stones could not
easily be procured, and that the custom of feeding the dead was
adopted as a pis aller. The decision of the question must be left
to those who know where the original home of the Finns was.

As the Russian peasantry, knowing little or nothing of theology,
and placing implicit confidence in rites and ceremonies, did not
differ very widely from the pagan Finns in the matter of religious
conceptions, the friendly contact of the two races naturally led to
a curious blending of the two religions. The Russians adopted many
customs from the Finns, and the Finns adopted still more from the
Russians. When Yumala and the other Finnish deities did not do as
they were desired, their worshippers naturally applied for
protection or assistance to the Madonna and the "Russian God."  If
their own traditional magic rites did not suffice to ward off evil
influences, they naturally tried the effect of crossing themselves,
as the Russians do in moments of danger. All this may seem strange
to us who have been taught from our earliest years that religion is
something quite different from spells, charms, and incantations,
and that of all the various religions in the world one alone is
true, all the others being false. But we must remember that the
Finns have had a very different education. They do not distinguish
religion from magic rites, and they have never been taught that
other religions are less true than their own. For them the best
religion is the one which contains the most potent spells, and they
see no reason why less powerful religions should not be blended
therewith. Their deities are not jealous gods, and do not insist
on having a monopoly of devotion; and in any case they cannot do
much injury to those who have placed themselves under the
protection of a more powerful divinity.

This simple-minded eclecticism often produces a singular mixture of
Christianity and paganism. Thus, for instance, at the harvest
festivals, Tchuvash peasants have been known to pray first to their
own deities, and then to St. Nicholas, the miracle-worker, who is
the favourite saint of the Russian peasantry. Such dual worship is
sometimes even recommended by the Yomzi--a class of men who
correspond to the medicine-men among the Red Indians--and the
prayers are on these occasions couched in the most familiar terms.
Here is a specimen given by a Russian who has specially studied the
language and customs of this interesting people:* "Look here, O
Nicholas-god! Perhaps my neighbour, little Michael, has been
slandering me to you, or perhaps he will do so. If he does, don't
believe him. I have done him no ill, and wish him none. He is a
worthless boaster and a babbler. He does not really honour you,
and merely plays the hypocrite. But I honour you from my heart;
and, behold, I place a taper before you!"  Sometimes incidents
occur which display a still more curious blending of the two
religions. Thus a Tcheremiss, on one occasion, in consequence of a
serious illness, sacrificed a young foal to our Lady of Kazan!

* Mr. Zolotnitski, "Tchuvasko-russki slovar," p. 167.

Though the Finnish beliefs affected to some extent the Russian
peasantry, the Russian faith ultimately prevailed. This can be
explained without taking into consideration the inherent
superiority of Christianity over all forms of paganism. The Finns
had no organised priesthood, and consequently never offered a
systematic opposition to the new faith; the Russians, on the
contrary, had a regular hierarchy in close alliance with the civil
administration. In the principal villages Christian churches were
built, and some of the police-officers vied with the ecclesiastical
officials in the work of making converts. At the same time there
were other influences tending in the same direction. If a Russian
practised Finnish superstitions he exposed himself to disagreeable
consequences of a temporal kind; if, on the contrary, a Finn
adopted the Christian religion, the temporal consequences that
could result were all advantageous to him.

Many of the Finns gradually became Christians almost unconsciously.
The ecclesiastical authorities were extremely moderate in their
demands. They insisted on no religious knowledge, and merely
demanded that the converts should be baptised. The converts,
failing to understand the spiritual significance of the ceremony,
commonly offered no resistance, so long as the immersion was
performed in summer. So little repugnance, indeed, did they feel,
that on some occasions, when a small reward was given to those who
consented, some of the new converts wished the ceremony to be
repeated several times. The chief objection to receiving the
Christian faith lay in the long and severe fasts imposed by the
Greek Orthodox Church; but this difficulty was overcome by assuming
that they need not be strictly observed. At first, in some
districts, it was popularly believed that the Icons informed the
Russian priests against those who did not fast as the Church
prescribed; but experience gradually exploded this theory. Some of
the more prudent converts, however, to prevent all possible tale-
telling, took the precaution of turning the face of the Icon to the
wall when prohibited meats were about to be eaten!

This gradual conversion of the Finnish tribes, effected without any
intellectual revolution in the minds of the converts, had very
important temporal consequences. Community of faith led to
intermarriage, and intermarriage led rapidly to the blending of the
two races.

If we compare a Finnish village in any stage of Russification with
a Tartar village, of which the inhabitants are Mahometans, we
cannot fail to be struck by the contrast. In the latter, though
there may be many Russians, there is no blending of the two races.
Between them religion has raised an impassable barrier. There are
many villages in the eastern and north-eastern provinces of
European Russia which have been for generations half Tartar and
half Russian, and the amalgamation of the two nationalities has not
yet begun. Near the one end stands the Christian church, and near
the other stands the little metchet, or Mahometan house of prayer.
The whole village forms one Commune, with one Village Assembly and
one Village Elder; but, socially, it is composed of two distinct
communities, each possessing its peculiar customs and peculiar mode
of life. The Tartar may learn Russian, but he does not on that
account become Russianised.

It must not, however, be supposed that the two races are imbued
with fanatical hatred towards each other. On the contrary, they
live in perfect good-fellowship, elect as Village Elder sometimes a
Russian and sometimes a Tartar, and discuss the Communal affairs in
the Village Assembly without reference to religious matters. I
know one village where the good-fellowship went even a step
farther: the Christians determined to repair their church, and the
Mahometans helped them to transport wood for the purpose! All this
tends to show that under a tolerably good Government, which does
not favour one race at the expense of the other, Mahometan Tartars
and Christian Slavs can live peaceably together.

The absence of fanaticism and of that proselytising zeal which is
one of the most prolific sources of religious hatred, is to be
explained by the peculiar religious conceptions of these peasants.
In their minds religion and nationality are so closely allied as to
be almost identical. The Russian is, as it were, by nature a
Christian, and the Tartar a Mahometan; and it never occurs to any
one in these villages to disturb the appointed order of nature. On
this subject I had once an interesting conversation with a Russian
peasant who had been for some time living among Tartars. In reply
to my question as to what kind of people the Tartars were, he
replied laconically, "Nitchevo"--that is to say, "nothing in
particular"; and on being pressed for a more definite expression of
opinion, he admitted that they were very good people indeed.

"And what kind of faith have they?" I continued.

"A good enough faith," was the prompt reply.

"Is it better than the faith of the Molokanye?"  The Molokanye are
Russian sectarians--closely resembling Scotch Presbyterians--of
whom I shall have more to say in the sequel.

"Of course it is better than the Molokan faith."

"Indeed!" I exclaimed, endeavouring to conceal my astonishment at
this strange judgment. "Are the Molokanye, then, very bad people?"

"Not at all. The Molokanye are good and honest."

"Why, then, do you think their faith is so much worse than that of
the Mahometans?"

"How shall I tell you?"  The peasant here paused as if to collect
his thoughts, and then proceeded slowly, "The Tartars, you see,
received their faith from God as they received the colour of their
skins, but the Molokanye are Russians who have invented a faith out
of their own heads!"

This singular answer scarcely requires a commentary. As it would
be absurd to try to make Tartars change the colour of their skins,
so it would be absurd to try to make them change their religion.
Besides this, such an attempt would be an unjustifiable
interference with the designs of Providence, for, in the peasant's
opinion, God gave Mahometanism to the Tartars just as he gave the
Orthodox faith to the Russians.

The ecclesiastical authorities do not formally adopt this strange
theory, but they generally act in accordance with it. There is
little official propaganda among the Mahometan subjects of the
Tsar, and it is well that it is so, for an energetic propaganda
would lead merely to the stirring up of any latent hostility which
may exist deep down in the nature of the two races, and it would
not make any real converts. The Tartars cannot unconsciously
imbibe Christianity as the Finns have done. Their religion is not
a rude, simple paganism without theology in the scholastic sense of
the term, but a monotheism as exclusive as Christianity itself.
Enter into conversation with an intelligent man who has no higher
religious belief than a rude sort of paganism, and you may, if you
know him well and make a judicious use of your knowledge, easily
interest him in the touching story of Christ's life and teaching.
And in these unsophisticated natures there is but one step from
interest and sympathy to conversion.

Try the same method with a Mussulman, and you will soon find that
all your efforts are fruitless. He has already a theology and a
prophet of his own, and sees no reason why he should exchange them
for those which you have to offer. Perhaps he will show you more
or less openly that he pities your ignorance and wonders that you
have not been able to ADVANCE from Christianity to Mahometanism.
In his opinion--I am supposing that he is a man of education--Moses
and Christ were great prophets in their day, and consequently he is
accustomed to respect their memory; but he is profoundly convinced
that however appropriate they were for their own times, they have
been entirely superseded by Mahomet, precisely as we believe that
Judaism was superseded by Christianity. Proud of his superior
knowledge, he regards you as a benighted polytheist, and may
perhaps tell you that the Orthodox Christians with whom he comes in
contact have three Gods and a host of lesser deities called saints,
that they pray to idols called Icons, and that they keep their holy
days by getting drunk. In vain you endeavour to explain to him
that saints and Icons are not essential parts of Christianity, and
that habits of intoxication have no religious significance. On
these points he may make concessions to you, but the doctrine of
the Trinity remains for him a fatal stumbling-block. "You
Christians," he w