( PDF ) Russia

Download PDF

ads:

Russia

Donald Mackenzie Wallace

The Project Gutenberg Etext of Russia by Donald Mackenzie Wallace

the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!!

Please take a look at the important information in this header.

We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an

electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this.

**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*

Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and

further information is included below. We need your donations.

Russia

by Donald Mackenzie Wallace

June, 1998 [Etext #1349]

The Project Gutenberg Etext of Russia by Donald Mackenzie Wallace

******This file should be named rsdmw10.txt or rsdmw10.zip******

Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, rsdmw11.txt.

VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, rsdmw10a.txt.

This etext was prepared by Donald Lainson, charlie@idirect.com.

We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance

of the official release dates, for time for better editing.

Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till

midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.

The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at

Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A

preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment

and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an

up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes

ads:

Livros Grátis

http://www.livrosgratis.com.br

Milhares de livros grátis para download.

in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has

a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a

look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a

new copy has at least one byte more or less.

Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The

fifty hours is one conservative estimate for how long it we take

to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright

searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This

projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value

per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2

million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-two text

files per month, or 384 more Etexts in 1997 for a total of 1000+

If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the

total should reach over 100 billion Etexts given away.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext

Files by the December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000=Trillion]

This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,

which is only 10% of the present number of computer users. 2001

should have at least twice as many computer users as that, so it

will require us reaching less than 5% of the users in 2001.

We need your donations more than ever!

All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are

tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie-

Mellon University).

For these and other matters, please mail to:

Project Gutenberg

P. O. Box 2782

Champaign, IL 61825

When all other email fails try our Executive Director:

Michael S. Hart <[email protected]m>

We would prefer to send you this information by email

(Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail).

******

If you have an FTP program (or emulator), please

FTP directly to the Project Gutenberg archives:

[Mac users, do NOT point and click. . .type]

ftp uiarchive.cso.uiuc.edu

password: your@login

cd etext/etext90 through /etext96

or cd etext/articles [get suggest gut for more information]

dir [to see files]

ads:

get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]

GET INDEX?00.GUT

for a list of books

and

GET NEW GUT for general information

and

MGET GUT* for newsletters.

**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor**

(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***

Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.

They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with

your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from

someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our

fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement

disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how

you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT

By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm

etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept

this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive

a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by

sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person

you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical

medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS

This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-

tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor

Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at

Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other

things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright

on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and

distribute it in the United States without permission and

without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth

below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext

under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable

efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain

works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any

medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other

things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or

corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other

intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged

disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer

codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES

But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,

[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this

etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all

liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including

legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR

UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,

INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE

OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE

POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of

receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)

you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that

time to the person you received it from. If you received it

on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and

such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement

copy. If you received it electronically, such person may

choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to

receive it electronically.

THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER

WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS

TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT

LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A

PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or

the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the

above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you

may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY

You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors,

officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost

and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or

indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause:

[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification,

or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"

You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by

disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this

"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,

or:

[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this

requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the

etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however,

if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable

binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,

including any form resulting from conversion by word pro-

cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as

*EITHER*:

[*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and

does *not* contain characters other than those

intended by the author of the work, although tilde

(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may

be used to convey punctuation intended by the

author, and additional characters may be used to

indicate hypertext links; OR

[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at

no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent

form by the program that displays the etext (as is

the case, for instance, with most word processors);

[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at

no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the

etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC

or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this

"Small Print!" statement.

[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the

net profits you derive calculated using the method you

already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you

don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are

payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon

University" within the 60 days following each

date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare)

your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?

The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time,

scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty

free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution

you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg

Association / Carnegie-Mellon University".

*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*

RUSSIA

Donald Mackenzie Wallace

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 will say, "once had a great prophet called Jisous,

who is mentioned with respect in the Koran, but you falsified your

sacred writings and took to worshipping him, and now you declare

that he is the equal of Allah. Far from us be such blasphemy!

There is but one God, and Mahomet is His prophet."

A worthy Christian missionary, who had laboured long and zealously

among a Mussulman population, once called me sharply to account for

having expressed the opinion that Mahometans are very rarely

converted to Christianity. When I brought him down from the region

of vague general statements and insisted on knowing how many cases

he had met with in his own personal experience during sixteen years

of missionary work, he was constrained to admit that he had know

only one: and when I pressed him farther as to the disinterested

sincerity of the convert in question his reply was not altogether

satisfactory.

The policy of religious non-intervention has not always been

practised by the Government. Soon after the conquest of the

Khanate of Kazan in the sixteenth century, the Tsars of Muscovy

attempted to convert their new subjects from Mahometanism to

Christianity. The means employed were partly spiritual and partly

administrative, but the police-officers seem to have played a more

important part than the clergy. In this way a certain number of

Tartars were baptised; but the authorities were obliged to admit

that the new converts "shamelessly retain many horrid Tartar

customs, and neither hold nor know the Christian faith." When

spiritual exhortations failed, the Government ordered its officials

to "pacify, imprison, put in irons, and thereby UNTEACH and

frighten from the Tartar faith those who, though baptised, do not

obey the admonitions of the Metropolitan." These energetic

measures proved as ineffectual as the spiritual exhortations; and

Catherine II. adopted a new method, highly characteristic of her

system of administration. The new converts--who, be it remembered,

were unable to read and write--were ordered by Imperial ukaz to

sign a written promise to the effect that "they would completely

forsake their infidel errors, and, avoiding all intercourse with

unbelievers, would hold firmly and unwaveringly the Christian faith

and its dogmas"*--of which latter, we may add, they had not the

slightest knowledge. The childlike faith in the magical efficacy

of stamped paper here displayed was not justified. The so-called

"baptised Tartars" are at the present time as far from being

Christians as they were in the sixteenth century. They cannot

openly profess Mahometanism, because men who have been once

formally admitted into the National Church cannot leave it without

exposing themselves to the severe pains and penalties of the

criminal code, but they strongly object to be Christianised.

* "Ukaz Kazanskoi dukhovnoi Konsistorii." Anno 1778.

On this subject I have found a remarkable admission in a

semiofficial article, published as recently as 1872.* "It is a

fact worthy of attention," says the writer, "that a long series of

evident apostasies coincides with the beginning of measures to

confirm the converts in the Christian faith. There must be,

therefore, some collateral cause producing those cases of apostasy

precisely at the moment when the contrary might be expected."

There is a delightful naivete in this way of stating the fact. The

mysterious cause vaguely indicated is not difficult to find. So

long as the Government demanded merely that the supposed converts

should be inscribed as Christians in the official registers, there

was no official apostasy; but as soon as active measures began to

be taken "to confirm the converts," a spirit of hostility and

fanaticism appeared among the Mussulman population, and made those

who were inscribed as Christians resist the propaganda.

* "Zhurnal Ministerstva Narodnago Prosveshtcheniya." June, 1872.

It may safely be said that Christians are impervious to Islam, and

genuine Mussulmans impervious to Christianity; but between the two

there are certain tribes, or fractions of tribes, which present a

promising field for missionary enterprise. In this field the

Tartars show much more zeal than the Russians, and possess certain

advantages over their rivals. The tribes of Northeastern Russia

learn Tartar much more easily than Russian, and their geographical

position and modes of life bring them in contact with Russians much

less than with Tartars. The consequence is that whole villages of

Tcheremiss and Votiaks, officially inscribed as belonging to the

Greek Orthodox Church, have openly declared themselves Mahometans;

and some of the more remarkable conversions have been commemorated

by popular songs, which are sung by young and old. Against this

propaganda the Orthodox ecclesiastical authorities do little or

nothing. Though the criminal code contains severe enactments

against those who fall away from the Orthodox Church, and still

more against those who produce apostasy,* the enactments are rarely

put in force. Both clergy and laity in the Russian Church are, as

a rule, very tolerant where no political questions are involved.

The parish priest pays attention to apostasy only when it

diminishes his annual revenues, and this can be easily avoided by

the apostate's paying a small yearly sum. If this precaution be

taken, whole villages may be converted to Islam without the higher

ecclesiastical authorities knowing anything of the matter.

* A person convicted of converting a Christian to Islamism is

sentenced, according to the criminal code ( 184), to the loss of?

all civil rights, and to imprisonment with hard labour for a term

varying from eight to ten years.

Whether the barrier that separates Christians and Mussulmans in

Russia, as elsewhere, will ever be broken down by education, I do

not know; but I may remark that hitherto the spread of education

among the Tartars has tended rather to imbue them with fanaticism.

If we remember that theological education always produces

intolerance, and that Tartar education is almost exclusively

theological, we shall not be surprised to find that a Tartar's

religious fanaticism is generally in direct proportion to the

amount of his intellectual culture. The unlettered Tartar,

unspoiled by learning falsely so called, and knowing merely enough

of his religion to perform the customary ordinances prescribed by

the Prophet, is peaceable, kindly, and hospitable towards all men;

but the learned Tartar, who has been taught that the Christian is a

kiafir (infidel) and a mushrik (polytheist), odious in the sight of

Allah, and already condemned to eternal punishment, is as

intolerant and fanatical as the most bigoted Roman Catholic or

Calvinist. Such fanatics are occasionally to be met with in the

eastern provinces, but they are few in number, and have little

influence on the masses. From my own experience I can testify that

during the whole course of my wanderings I have nowhere received

more kindness and hospitality than among the uneducated Mussulman

Bashkirs. Even here, however, Islam opposes a strong barrier to

Russification.

Though no such barrier existed among the pagan Finnish tribes, the

work of Russification among them is still, as I have already

indicated, far from complete. Not only whole villages, but even

many entire districts, are still very little affected by Russian

influence. This is to be explained partly by geographical

conditions. In regions which have a poor soil, and are intersected

by no navigable river, there are few or no Russian settlers, and

consequently the Finns have there preserved intact their language

and customs; whilst in those districts which present more

inducements to colonisation, the Russian population is more

numerous, and the Finns less conservative. It must, however, be

admitted that geographical conditions do not completely explain the

facts. The various tribes, even when placed in the same

conditions, are not equally susceptible to foreign influence. The

Mordva, for instance, are infinitely less conservative than the

Tchuvash. This I have often noticed, and my impression has been

confirmed by men who have had more opportunities of observation.

For the present we must attribute this to some occult ethnological

peculiarity, but future investigations may some day supply a more

satisfactory explanation. Already I have obtained some facts which

appear to throw light on the subject. The Tchuvash have certain

customs which seem to indicate that they were formerly, if not

avowed Mahometans, at least under the influence of Islam, whilst we

have no reason to suppose that the Mordva ever passed through that

school.

The absence of religious fanaticism greatly facilitated Russian

colonisation in these northern regions, and the essentially

peaceful disposition of the Russian peasantry tended in the same

direction. The Russian peasant is admirably fitted for the work of

peaceful agricultural colonisation. Among uncivilised tribes he is

good-natured, long-suffering, conciliatory, capable of bearing

extreme hardships, and endowed with a marvellous power of adapting

himself to circumstances. The haughty consciousness of personal

and national superiority habitually displayed by Englishmen of all

ranks when they are brought in contact with races which they look

upon as lower in the scale of humanity than themselves, is entirely

foreign to his character. He has no desire to rule, and no wish to

make the natives hewers of wood and drawers of water. All he

desires is a few acres of land which he and his family can

cultivate; and so long as he is allowed to enjoy these he is not

likely to molest his neighbours. Had the colonists of the Finnish

country been men of Anglo-Saxon race, they would in all probability

have taken possession of the land and reduced the natives to the

condition of agricultural labourers. The Russian colonists have

contented themselves with a humbler and less aggressive mode of

action; they have settled peaceably among the native population,

and are rapidly becoming blended with it. In many districts the

so-called Russians have perhaps more Finnish than Slavonic blood in

their veins.

But what has all this to do, it may be asked, with the

aforementioned Volkerwanderung, or migration of peoples, during the

Dark Ages? More than may at first sight appear. Some of the so-

called migrations were, I suspect, not at all migrations in the

ordinary sense of the term, but rather gradual changes, such as

those which have taken place, and are still taking place, in

Northern Russia. A thousand years ago what is now known as the

province of Yaroslavl was inhabited by Finns, and now it is

occupied by men who are commonly regarded as pure Slays. But it

would be an utter mistake to suppose that the Finns of this

district migrated to those more distant regions where they are now

to be found. In reality they formerly occupied, as I have said,

the whole of Northern Russia, and in the province of Yaroslavl they

have been transformed by Slav infiltration. In Central Europe the

Slavs may be said in a certain sense to have retreated, for in

former times they occupied the whole of Northern Germany as far as

the Elbe. But what does the word "retreat" mean in this case? It

means probably that the Slays were gradually Teutonised, and then

absorbed by the Teutonic race. Some tribes, it is true, swept over

a part of Europe in genuine nomadic fashion, and endeavoured

perhaps to expel or exterminate the actual possessors of the soil.

This kind of migration may likewise be studied in Russia. But I

must leave the subject till I come to speak of the southern

provinces.

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."

Country life in Russia is pleasant enough in summer or in winter,

but between summer and winter there is an intermediate period of

several weeks when the rain and mud transform a country-house into

something very like a prison. To escape this durance vile I

determined in the month of October to leave Ivanofka, and chose as

my headquarters for the next few months the town of Novgorod--the

old town of that name, not to be confounded with Nizhni Novgorod--

i.e., Lower Novgorod, on the Volga--where the great annual fair is

held.

For this choice there were several reasons. I did not wish to go

to St. Petersburg or Moscow, because I foresaw that in either of

those cities my studies would certainly be interrupted. In a

quiet, sleepy provincial town I should have much more chance of

coming in contact with people who could not speak fluently any

West-European languages, and much better opportunities for studying

native life and local administration. Of the provincial capitals,

Novgorod was the nearest, and more interesting than most of its

rivals; for it has had a curious history, much older than that of

St. Petersburg or even of Moscow, and some traces of its former

greatness are still visible. Though now a town of third-rate

importance--a mere shadow of its former self--it still contains

about 21,000 inhabitants, and is the administrative centre of the

large province in which it is situated.

About eighty miles before reaching St. Petersburg the Moscow

railway crosses the Volkhof, a rapid, muddy river which connects

Lake Ilmen with Lake Ladoga. At the point of intersection I got on

board a small steamer and sailed up stream towards Lake Ilmen for

about fifty miles.* The journey was tedious, for the country was

flat and monotonous, and the steamer, though it puffed and snorted

inordinately, did not make more than nine knots. Towards sunset

Novgorod appeared on the horizon. Seen thus at a distance in the

soft twilight, it seemed decidedly picturesque. On the east bank

lay the greater part of the town, the sky line of which was

agreeably broken by the green roofs and pear-shaped cupolas of many

churches. On the opposite bank rose the Kremlin. Spanning the

river was a long, venerable stone bridge, half hidden by a

temporary wooden one, which was doing duty for the older structure

while the latter was being repaired. A cynical fellow-passenger

assured me that the temporary structure was destined to become

permanent, because it yielded a comfortable revenue to certain

officials, but this sinister prediction has not been verified.

* The journey would now be made by rail, but the branch line which

runs near the bank of the river had not been constructed at that

time.

That part of Novgorod which lies on the eastern bank of the river,

and in which I took up my abode for several months, contains

nothing that is worthy of special mention. As is the case in most

Russian towns, the streets are straight, wide, and ill-paved, and

all run parallel or at right angles to each other. At the end of

the bridge is a spacious market-place, flanked on one side by the

Town-house. Near the other side stand the houses of the Governor

and of the chief military authority of the district. The only

other buildings of note are the numerous churches, which are mostly

small, and offer nothing that is likely to interest the student of

architecture. Altogether this part of the town is unquestionably

commonplace. The learned archaeologist may detect in it some

traces of the distant past, but the ordinary traveller will find

little to arrest his attention.

If now we cross over to the other side of the river, we are at once

confronted by something which very few Russian towns possess--a

kremlin, or citadel. This is a large and slightly-elevated

enclosure, surrounded by high brick walls, and in part by the

remains of a moat. Before the days of heavy artillery these walls

must have presented a formidable barrier to any besieging force,

but they have long ceased to have any military significance, and

are now nothing more than an historical monument. Passing through

the gateway which faces the bridge, we find ourselves in a large

open space. To the right stands the cathedral--a small, much-

venerated church, which can make no pretensions to architectural

beauty--and an irregular group of buildings containing the

consistory and the residence of the Archbishop. To the left is a

long symmetrical range of buildings containing the Government

offices and the law courts. Midway between this and the cathedral,

in the centre of the great open space, stands a colossal monument,

composed of a massive circular stone pedestal and an enormous

globe, on and around which cluster a number of emblematic and

historical figures. This curious monument, which has at least the

merit of being original in design, was erected in 1862, in

commemoration of Russia's thousandth birthday, and is supposed to

represent the history of Russia in general and of Novgorod in

particular during the last thousand years. It was placed here

because Novgorod is the oldest of Russian towns, and because

somewhere in the surrounding country occurred the incident which is

commonly recognised as the foundation of the Russian Empire. The

incident in question is thus described in the oldest chronicle:

"At that time, as the southern Slavonians paid tribute to the

Kozars, so the Novgorodian Slavonians suffered from the attacks of

the Variags. For some time the Variags exacted tribute from the

Novgorodian Slavonians and the neighbouring Finns; then the

conquered tribes, by uniting their forces, drove out the

foreigners. But among the Slavonians arose strong internal

dissensions; the clans rose against each other. Then, for the

creation of order and safety, they resolved to call in princes from

a foreign land. In the year 862 Slavonic legates went away beyond

the sea to the Variag tribe called Rus, and said, 'Our land is

great and fruitful, but there is no order in it; come and reign and

rule over us.' Three brothers accepted the invitation, and

appeared with their armed followers. The eldest of these, Rurik,

settled in Novgorod; the second, Sineus, at Byelo-ozero; and the

third, Truvor, in Isborsk. From them our land is called Rus.

After two years the brothers of Rurik died. He alone began to rule

over the Novgorod district, and confided to his men the

administration of the principal towns."

This simple legend has given rise to a vast amount of learned

controversy, and historical investigators have fought valiantly

with each other over the important question, Who were those armed

men of Rus? For a long time the commonly received opinion was that

they were Normans from Scandinavia. The Slavophils accepted the

legend literally in this sense, and constructed upon it an

ingenious theory of Russian history. The nations of the West, they

said, were conquered by invaders, who seized the country and

created the feudal system for their own benefit; hence the history

of Western Europe is a long tale of bloody struggles between

conquerors and conquered, and at the present day the old enmity

still lives in the political rivalry of the different social

classes. The Russo-Slavonians, on the contrary, were not

conquered, but voluntarily invited a foreign prince to come and

rule over them! Hence the whole social and political development

of Russia has been essentially peaceful, and the Russian people

know nothing of social castes or feudalism. Though this theory

afforded some nourishment for patriotic self-satisfaction, it

displeased extreme patriots, who did not like the idea that order

was first established in their country by men of Teutonic race.

These preferred to adopt the theory that Rurik and his companions

were Slavonians from the shores of the Baltic.

Though I devoted to the study of this question more time and labour

than perhaps the subject deserved, I have no intention of inviting

the reader to follow me through the tedious controversy. Suffice

it to say that, after careful consideration, and with all due

deference to recent historians, I am inclined to adopt the old

theory, and to regard the Normans of Scandinavia as in a certain

sense the founders of the Russian Empire. We know from other

sources that during the ninth century there was a great exodus from

Scandinavia. Greedy of booty, and fired with the spirit of

adventure, the Northmen, in their light, open boats, swept along

the coasts of Germany, France, Spain, Greece, and Asia Minor,

pillaging the towns and villages near the sea, and entering into

the heart of the country by means of the rivers. At first they

were mere marauders, and showed everywhere such ferocity and

cruelty that they came to be regarded as something akin to plagues

and famines, and the faithful added a new petition to the Litany,

"From the wrath and malice of the Normans, O Lord, deliver us!"

But towards the middle of the century the movement changed its

character. The raids became military invasions, and the invaders

sought to conquer the lands which they had formerly plundered, "ut

acquirant sibi spoliando regna quibus possent vivere pace

perpetua." The chiefs embraced Christianity, married the daughters

or sisters of the reigning princes, and obtained the conquered

territories as feudal grants. Thus arose Norman principalities in

the Low Countries, in France, in Italy, and in Sicily; and the

Northmen, rapidly blending with the native population, soon showed

as much political talent as they had formerly shown reckless and

destructive valour.

It would have been strange indeed if these adventurers, who

succeeded in reaching Asia Minor and the coasts of North America,

should have overlooked Russia, which lay, as it were, at their very

doors. The Volkhof, flowing through Novgorod, formed part of a

great waterway which afforded almost uninterrupted water-

communication between the Baltic and the Black Sea; and we know

that some time afterwards the Scandinavians used this route in

their journeys to Constantinople. The change which the

Scandinavian movement underwent elsewhere is clearly indicated by

the Russian chronicles: first, the Variags came as collectors of

tribute, and raised so much popular opposition that they were

expelled, and then they came as rulers, and settled in the country.

Whether they really came on invitation may be doubted, but that

they adopted the language, religion, and customs of the native

population does not militate against the assertion that they were

Normans. On the contrary, we have here rather an additional

confirmation, for elsewhere the Normans did likewise. In the North

of France they adopted almost at once the French language and

religion, and the son and successor of the famous Rollo was

sometimes reproached with being more French than Norman.*

*Strinnholm, "Die Vikingerzuge" (Hamburg, 1839), I., p. 135.

Though it is difficult to decide how far the legend is literally

true, there can be no possible doubt that the event which it more

or less accurately describes had an important influence on Russian

history. From that time dates the rapid expansion of the Russo-

Slavonians--a movement that is still going on at the present day.

To the north, the east, and the south new principalities were

formed and governed by men who all claimed to be descendants of

Rurik, and down to the end of the sixteenth century no Russian

outside of this great family ever attempted to establish

independent sovereignty.

For six centuries after the so-called invitation of Rurik the city

on the Volkhof had a strange, checkered history. Rapidly it

conquered the neighbouring Finnish tribes, and grew into a powerful

independent state, with a territory extending to the Gulf of

Finland, and northwards to the White Sea. At the same time its

commercial importance increased, and it became an outpost of the

Hanseatic League. In this work the descendants of Rurik played an

important part, but they were always kept in strict subordination

to the popular will. Political freedom kept pace with commercial

prosperity. What means Rurik employed for establishing and

preserving order we know not, but the chronicles show that his

successors in Novgorod possessed merely such authority as was

freely granted them by the people. The supreme power resided, not

in the prince, but in the assembly of the citizens called together

in the market-place by the sound of the great bell. This assembly

made laws for the prince as well as for the people, entered into

alliances with foreign powers, declared war, and concluded peace,

imposed taxes, raised troops, and not only elected the magistrates,

but also judged and deposed them when it thought fit. The prince

was little more than the hired commander of the troops and the

president of the judicial administration. When entering on his

functions he had to take a solemn oath that he would faithfully

observe the ancient laws and usages, and if he failed to fulfil his

promise he was sure to be summarily deposed and expelled. The

people had an old rhymed proverb, "Koli khud knyaz, tak v gryaz!"

"If the prince is bad, into the mud with him!"), and they

habitually acted according to it. So unpleasant, indeed, was the

task of ruling those sturdy, stiff-necked burghers, that some

princes refused to undertake it, and others, having tried it for a

time, voluntarily laid down their authority and departed. But

these frequent depositions and abdications--as many as thirty took

place in the course of a single century--did not permanently

disturb the existing order of things. The descendants of Rurik

were numerous, and there were always plenty of candidates for the

vacant post. The municipal republic continued to grow in strength

and in riches, and during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries

it proudly styled itself "Lord Novgorod the Great" (Gospodin

Velilki Novgorod).

"Then came a change, as all things human change." To the east

arose the principality of Moscow--not an old, rich municipal

republic, but a young, vigorous State, ruled by a line of crafty,

energetic, ambitious, and unscrupulous princes of the Rurik stock,

who were freeing the country from the Tartar yoke and gradually

annexing by fair means and foul the neighbouring principalities to

their own dominions. At the same time, and in a similar manner,

the Lithuanian Princes to the westward united various small

principalities and formed a large independent State. Thus Novgorod

found itself in a critical position. Under a strong Government it

might have held its own against these rivals and successfully

maintained its independence, but its strength was already

undermined by internal dissensions. Political liberty had led to

anarchy. Again and again on that great open space where the

national monument now stands, and in the market-place on the other

side of the river, scenes of disorder and bloodshed took place, and

more than once on the bridge battles were fought by contending

factions. Sometimes it was a contest between rival families, and

sometimes a struggle between the municipal aristocracy, who sought

to monopolise the political power, and the common people, who

wished to have a large share in the administration. A State thus

divided against itself could not long resist the aggressive

tendencies of powerful neighbours. Artful diplomacy could but

postpone the evil day, and it required no great political foresight

to predict that sooner or later Novgorod must become Lithuanian or

Muscovite. The great families inclined to Lithuania, but the

popular party and the clergy, disliking Roman Catholicism, looked

to Moscow for assistance, and the Grand Princes of Muscovy

ultimately won the prize.

The barbarous way in which the Grand Princes effected the

annexation shows how thoroughly they had imbibed the spirit of

Tartar statesmanship. Thousands of families were transported to

Moscow, and Muscovite families put in their places; and when, in

spite of this, the old spirit revived, Ivan the Terrible determined

to apply the method of physical extermination which he had found so

effectual in breaking the power of his own nobles. Advancing with

a large army, which met with no resistance, he devastated the

country with fire and sword, and during a residence of five weeks

in the town he put the inhabitants to death with a ruthless

ferocity which has perhaps never been surpassed even by Oriental

despots. If those old walls could speak they would have many a

horrible tale to tell. Enough has been preserved in the chronicles

to give us some idea of this awful time. Monks and priests were

subjected to the Tartar punishment called pravezh, which consisted

in tying the victim to a stake, and flogging him daily until a

certain sum of money was paid for his release. The merchants and

officials were tortured with fire, and then thrown from the bridge

with their wives and children into the river. Lest any of them

should escape by swimming, boatfuls of soldiers despatched those

who were not killed by the fall. At the present day there is a

curious bubbling immediately below the bridge, which prevents the

water from freezing in winter, and according to popular belief this

is caused by the spirits of the terrible Tsar's victims. Of those

who were murdered in the villages there is no record, but in the

town alone no less than 60,000 human beings are said to have been

butchered--an awful hecatomb on the altar of national unity and

autocratic power!

This tragic scene, which occurred in 1570, closes the history of

Novgorod as an independent State. Its real independence had long

since ceased to exist, and now the last spark of the old spirit was

extinguished. The Tsars could not suffer even a shadow of

political independence to exist within their dominions.

In the old days, when many Hanseatic merchants annually visited the

city, and when the market-place, the bridge, and the Kremlin were

often the scene of violent political struggles, Novgorod must have

been an interesting place to live in; but now its glory has

departed, and in respect of social resources it is not even a

first-rate provincial town. Kief, Kharkof, and other towns which

are situated at a greater distance from the capital, in districts

fertile enough to induce the nobles to farm their own land, are in

their way little semi-independent centres of civilisation. They

contain a theatre, a library, two or three clubs, and large houses

belonging to rich landed proprietors, who spend the summer on their

estates and come into town for the winter months. These

proprietors, together with the resident officials, form a numerous

society, and during the winter, dinner-parties, balls, and other

social gatherings are by no means infrequent. In Novgorod the

society is much more limited. It does not, like Kief, Kharkof, and

Kazan, possess a university, and it contains no houses belonging to

wealthy nobles. The few proprietors of the province who live on

their estates, and are rich enough to spend part of the year in

town, prefer St. Petersburg for their winter residence. The

society, therefore, is composed exclusively of the officials and of

the officers who happen to be quartered in the town or the

immediate vicinity.

Of all the people whose acquaintance I made at Novgorod, I can

recall only two men who did not occupy some official position,

civil or military. One of these was a retired doctor, who was

attempting to farm on scientific principles, and who, I believe,

soon afterwards gave up the attempt and migrated elsewhere. The

other was a Polish bishop who had been compromised in the

insurrection of 1863, and was condemned to live here under police

supervision. This latter could scarcely be said to belong to the

society of the place; though he sometimes appeared at the

unceremonious weekly receptions given by the Governor, and was

invariably treated by all present with marked respect, he could not

but feel that he was in a false position, and he was rarely or

never seen in other houses.

The official circle of a town like Novgorod is sure to contain a

good many people of average education and agreeable manners, but it

is sure to be neither brilliant nor interesting. Though it is

constantly undergoing a gradual renovation by the received system

of frequently transferring officials from one town to another, it

preserves faithfully, in spite of the new blood which it thus

receives, its essentially languid character. When a new official

arrives he exchanges visits with all the notables, and for a few

days he produces quite a sensation in the little community. If he

appears at social gatherings he is much talked to, and if he does

not appear he is much talked about. His former history is

repeatedly narrated, and his various merits and defects assiduously

discussed.

If he is married, and has brought his wife with him, the field of

comment and discussion is very much enlarged. The first time that

Madame appears in society she is the "cynosure of neighbouring

eyes." Her features, her complexion, her hair, her dress, and her

jewellery are carefully noted and criticised. Perhaps she has

brought with her, from the capital or from abroad, some dresses of

the newest fashion. As soon as this is discovered she at once

becomes an object of special curiosity to the ladies, and of

envious jealousy to those who regard as a personal grievance the

presence of a toilette finer or more fashionable than their own.

Her demeanour, too, is very carefully observed. If she is friendly

and affable in manner, she is patronised; if she is distant and

reserved, she is condemned as proud and pretentious. In either

case she is pretty sure to form a close intimacy with some one of

the older female residents, and for a few weeks the two ladies are

inseparable, till some incautious word or act disturbs the new-born

friendship, and the devoted friends become bitter enemies.

Voluntarily or involuntarily the husbands get mixed up in the

quarrel. Highly undesirable qualities are discovered in the

characters of all parties concerned, and are made the subject of

unfriendly comment. Then the feud subsides, and some new feud of a

similar kind comes to occupy the public attention. Mrs. A. wonders

how her friends Mr. and Mrs. B. can afford to lose considerable

sums every evening at cards, and suspects that they are getting

into debt or starving themselves and their children; in her humble

opinion they would do well to give fewer supper-parties, and to

refrain from poisoning their guests. The bosom friend to whom this

is related retails it directly or indirectly to Mrs. B., and Mrs.

B. naturally retaliates. Here is a new quarrel, which for some

time affords material for conversation.

When there is no quarrel, there is sure to be a bit of scandal

afloat. Though Russian provincial society is not at all prudish,

and leans rather to the side of extreme leniency, it cannot

entirely overlook les convenances. Madame C. has always a large

number of male admirers, and to this there can be no reasonable

objection so long as her husband does not complain, but she really

parades her preference for Mr. X. at balls and parties a little too

conspicuously. Then there is Madame D., with the big dreamy eyes.

How can she remain in the place after her husband was killed in a

duel by a brother officer? Ostensibly the cause of the quarrel was

a trifling incident at the card-table, but every one knows that in

reality she was the cause of the deadly encounter. And so on, and

so on. In the absence of graver interests society naturally

bestows inordinate attention on the private affairs of its members;

and quarrelling, backbiting, and scandal-mongery help indolent

people to kill the time that hangs heavily on their hands.

Potent as these instruments are, they are not sufficient to kill

all the leisure hours. In the forenoons the gentlemen are occupied

with their official duties, whilst the ladies go out shopping or

pay visits, and devote any time that remains to their household

duties and their children; but the day's work is over about four

o'clock, and the long evening remains to be filled up. The siesta

may dispose of an hour or an hour and a half, but about seven

o'clock some definite occupation has to be found. As it is

impossible to devote the whole evening to discussing the ordinary

news of the day, recourse is almost invariably had to card-playing,

which is indulged in to an extent that we had no conception of in

England until Bridge was imported. Hour after hour the Russians of

both sexes will sit in a hot room, filled with a constantly-renewed

cloud of tobacco-smoke--in the production of which most of the

ladies take part--and silently play "Preference," "Yarolash," or

Bridge. Those who for some reason are obliged to be alone can

amuse themselves with "Patience," in which no partner is required.

In the other games the stakes are commonly very small, but the

sittings are often continued so long that a player may win or lose

two or three pounds sterling. It is no unusual thing for gentlemen

to play for eight or nine hours at a time. At the weekly club

dinners, before coffee had been served, nearly all present used to

rush off impatiently to the card-room, and sit there placidly from

five o'clock in the afternoon till one or two o'clock in the

morning! When I asked my friends why they devoted so much time to

this unprofitable occupation, they always gave me pretty much the

same answer: "What are we to do? We have been reading or writing

official papers all day, and in the evening we like to have a

little relaxation. When we come together we have very little to

talk about, for we have all read the daily papers and nothing more.

The best thing we can do is to sit down at the card-table, where we

can spend our time pleasantly, without the necessity of talking."

In addition to the daily papers, some people read the monthly

periodicals--big, thick volumes, containing several serious

articles on historical and social subjects, sections of one or two

novels, satirical sketches, and a long review of home and foreign

politics on the model of those in the Revue des Deux Mondes.

Several of these periodicals are very ably conducted, and offer to

their readers a large amount of valuable information; but I have

noticed that the leaves of the more serious part often remain

uncut. The translation of a sensation novel by the latest French

or English favourite finds many more readers than an article by an

historian or a political economist. As to books, they seem to be

very little read, for during all the time I lived in Novgorod I

never discovered a bookseller's shop, and when I required books I

had to get them sent from St. Petersburg. The local

administration, it is true, conceived the idea of forming a museum

and circulating library, but in my time the project was never

realised. Of all the magnificent projects that are formed in

Russia, only a very small percentage come into existence, and these

are too often very short-lived. The Russians have learned

theoretically what are the wants of the most advanced civilisation,

and are ever ready to rush into the grand schemes which their

theoretical knowledge suggests; but very few of them really and

permanently feel these wants, and consequently the institutions

artificially formed to satisfy them very soon languish and die. In

the provincial towns the shops for the sale of gastronomic

delicacies spring up and flourish, whilst shops for the sale of

intellectual food are rarely to be met with.

About the beginning of December the ordinary monotony of Novgorod

life is a little relieved by the annual Provincial Assembly, which

sits daily for two or three weeks and discusses the economic wants

of the province.* During this time a good many lauded proprietors,

who habitually live on their estates or in St. Petersburg, collect

in the town, and enliven a little the ordinary society. But as

Christmas approaches the deputies disperse, and again the town

becomes enshrouded in that "eternal stillness" (vetchnaya tishina)

which a native poet has declared to be the essential characteristic

of Russian provincial life.

* Of these Assemblies I shall have more to say when I come to

describe the local self-government.

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.

Those who wish to enjoy the illusions produced by scene painting

and stage decorations should never go behind the scenes. In like

manner he who wishes to preserve the delusion that Russian

provincial towns are picturesque should never enter them, but

content himself with viewing them from a distance.

However imposing they may look when seen from the outside, they

will be found on closer inspection, with very few exceptions, to be

little more than villages in disguise. If they have not a

positively rustic, they have at least a suburban, appearance. The

streets are straight and wide, and are either miserably paved or

not paved at all. Trottoirs are not considered indispensable. The

houses are built of wood or brick, generally one-storied, and

separated from each other by spacious yards. Many of them do not

condescend to turn their facades to the street. The general

impression produced is that the majority of the burghers have come

from the country, and have brought their country-houses with them.

There are few or no shops with merchandise tastefully arranged in

the window to tempt the passer-by. If you wish to make purchases

you must go to the Gostinny Dvor,* or Bazaar, which consists of

long, symmetrical rows of low-roofed, dimly-lighted stores, with a

colonnade in front. This is the place where merchants most do

congregate, but it presents nothing of that bustle and activity

which we are accustomed to associate with commercial life. The

shopkeepers stand at their doors or loiter about in the immediate

vicinity waiting for customers. From the scarcity of these latter

I should say that when sales are effected the profits must be

enormous.

* These words mean literally the Guests' Court or Yard. The

Ghosti--a word which is etymologically the same as our "host" and

"guest"--were originally the merchants who traded with other towns

or other countries.

In the other parts of the town the air of solitude and languor is

still more conspicuous. In the great square, or by the side of the

promenade--if the town is fortunate enough to have one--cows or

horses may be seen grazing tranquilly, without being at all

conscious of the incongruity of their position. And, indeed, it

would be strange if they had any such consciousness, for it does

not exist in the minds either of the police or of the inhabitants.

At night the streets may be lighted merely with a few oil-lamps,

which do little more than render the darkness visible, so that

cautious citizens returning home late often provide themselves with

lanterns. As late as the sixties the learned historian, Pogodin,

then a town-councillor of Moscow, opposed the lighting of the city

with gas on the ground that those who chose to go out at night

should carry their lamps with them. The objection was overruled,

and Moscow is now fairly well lit, but the provincial towns are

still far from being on the same level. Some retain their old

primitive arrangements, while others enjoy the luxury of electric

lighting.

The scarcity of large towns in Russia is not less remarkable than

their rustic appearance. According to the last census (1897) the

number of towns, officially so-called, is 1,321, but about three-

fifths of them have under 5,000 inhabitants; only 104 have over

25,000, and only 19 over 100,000. These figures indicate plainly

that the urban element of the population is relatively small, and

it is declared by the official statisticians to be only 14 per

cent., as against 72 per cent. in Great Britain, but it is now

increasing rapidly. When the first edition of this work was

published, in 1877, European Russia in the narrower sense of the

term--excluding Finland, the Baltic Provinces, Lithuania, Poland,

and the Caucasus--had only 11 towns with a population of over

50,000, and now there are 34; that is to say, the number of such

towns has more than trebled. In the other portions of the country

a similar increase has taken place. The towns which have become

important industrial and commercial centres have naturally grown

most rapidly. For example, in a period of twelve years (1885-97)

the populations of Lodz, of Ekaterinoslaf, of Baku, of Yaroslavl,

and of Libau, have more than doubled. In the five largest towns of

the Empire--St. Petersburg, Moscow, Warsaw, Odessa and Lodz--the

aggregate population rose during the same twelve years from

2,423,000 to 3,590,000, or nearly 50 per cent. In ten other towns,

with populations varying from 50,000 to 282,000, the aggregate rose

from 780,000 to 1,382,000, or about 77 per cent.

That Russia should have taken so long to assimilate herself in this

respect to Western Europe is to be explained by the geographical

and political conditions. Her population was not hemmed in by

natural or artificial frontiers strong enough to restrain their

expansive tendencies. To the north, the east, and the southeast

there was a boundless expanse of fertile, uncultivated land,

offering a tempting field for emigration; and the peasantry have

ever shown themselves ready to take advantage of their

opportunities. Instead of improving their primitive system of

agriculture, which requires an enormous area and rapidly exhausts

the soil, they have always found it easier and more profitable to

emigrate and take possession of the virgin land beyond. Thus the

territory--sometimes with the aid of, and sometimes in spite of,

the Government--has constantly expanded, and has already reached

the Polar Ocean, the Pacific, and the northern offshoots of the

Himalayas. The little district around the sources of the Dnieper

has grown into a mighty empire, comprising one-seventh of the land

surface of the globe. Prolific as the Russian race is, its power

of reproduction could not keep pace with its territorial expansion,

and consequently the country is still very thinly peopled.

According to the latest census (1897) in the whole empire there are

under 130 millions of inhabitants, and the average density of

population is only about fifteen to the English square mile. Even

the most densely populated provinces, including Moscow with its

988,610 inhabitants, cannot show more than 189 to the English

square mile, whereas England has about 400. A people that has such

an abundance of land, and can support itself by agriculture, is not

naturally disposed to devote itself to industry, or to congregate

in large cities.

For many generations there were other powerful influences working

in the same direction. Of these the most important was serfage,

which was not abolished till 1861. That institution, and the

administrative system of which it formed an essential part, tended

to prevent the growth of the towns by hemming the natural movements

of the population. Peasants, for example, who learned trades, and

who ought to have drifted naturally into the burgher class, were

mostly retained by the master on his estate, where artisans of all

sorts were daily wanted, and the few who were sent to seek work in

the towns were not allowed to settle there permanently.

Thus the insignificance of the Russian towns is to be attributed

mainly to two causes. The abundance of land tended to prevent the

development of industry, and the little industry which did exist

was prevented by serfage from collecting in the towns. But this

explanation is evidently incomplete. The same causes existed

during the Middle Ages in Central Europe, and yet, in spite of

them, flourishing cities grew up and played an important part in

the social and political history of Germany. In these cities

collected traders and artisans, forming a distinct social class,

distinguished from the nobles on the one hand, and the surrounding

peasantry on the other, by peculiar occupations, peculiar aims,

peculiar intellectual physiognomy, and peculiar moral conceptions.

Why did these important towns and this burgher class not likewise

come into existence in Russia, in spite of the two preventive

causes above mentioned?

To discuss this question fully it would be necessary to enter into

certain debated points of mediaeval history. All I can do here is

to indicate what seems to me the true explanation.

In Central Europe, all through the Middle Ages, a perpetual

struggle went on between the various political factors of which

society was composed, and the important towns were in a certain

sense the products of this struggle. They were preserved and

fostered by the mutual rivalry of the Sovereign, the Feudal

Nobility, and the Church; and those who desired to live by trade or

industry settled in them in order to enjoy the protection and

immunities which they afforded. In Russia there was never any

political struggle of this kind. As soon as the Grand Princes of

Moscow, in the sixteenth century, threw off the yoke of the

Tartars, and made themselves Tsars of all Russia, their power was

irresistible and uncontested. Complete masters of the situation,

they organised the country as they thought fit. At first their

policy was favourable to the development of the towns. Perceiving

that the mercantile and industrial classes might be made a rich

source of revenue, they separated them from the peasantry, gave

them the exclusive right of trading, prevented the other classes

from competing with them, and freed them from the authority of the

landed proprietors. Had they carried out this policy in a

cautious, rational way, they might have created a rich burgher

class; but they acted with true Oriental short-sightedness, and

defeated their own purpose by imposing inordinately heavy taxes,

and treating the urban population as their serfs. The richer

merchants were forced to serve as custom-house officers--often at a

great distance from their domiciles*--and artisans were yearly

summoned to Moscow to do work for the Tsars without remuneration.

* Merchants from Yaroslavl, for instance, were sent to Astrakhan to

collect the custom-dues.

Besides this, the system of taxation was radically defective, and

the members of the local administration, who received no pay and

were practically free from control, were merciless in their

exactions. In a word, the Tsars used their power so stupidly and

so recklessly that the industrial and trading population, instead

of fleeing to the towns to secure protection, fled from them to

escape oppression. At length this emigration from the towns

assumed such dimensions that it was found necessary to prevent it

by administrative and legislative measures; and the urban

population was legally fixed in the towns as the rural population

was fixed to the soil. Those who fled were brought back as

runaways, and those who attempted flight a second time were ordered

to be flogged and transported to Siberia.*

* See the "Ulozhenie" (i.e. the laws of Alexis, father of Peter the

Great), chap. xix. 13.

With the eighteenth century began a new era in the history of the

towns and of the urban population. Peter the Great observed,

during his travels in Western Europe, that national wealth and

prosperity reposed chiefly on the enterprising, educated middle

classes, and he attributed the poverty of his own country to the

absence of this burgher element. Might not such a class be created

in Russia? Peter unhesitatingly assumed that it might, and set

himself at once to create it in a simple, straightforward way.

Foreign artisans were imported into his dominions and foreign

merchants were invited to trade with his subjects; young Russians

were sent abroad to learn the useful arts; efforts were made to

disseminate practical knowledge by the translation of foreign books

and the foundation of schools; all kinds of trade were encouraged,

and various industrial enterprises were organised. At the same

time the administration of the towns was thoroughly reorganised

after the model of the ancient free-towns of Germany. In place of

the old organisation, which was a slightly modified form of the

rural Commune, they received German municipal institutions, with

burgomasters, town councils, courts of justice, guilds for the

merchants, trade corporations (tsekhi) for the artisans, and an

endless list of instructions regarding the development of trade and

industry, the building of hospitals, sanitary precautions, the

founding of schools, the dispensation of justice, the organisation

of the police, and similar matters.

Catherine II. followed in the same track. If she did less for

trade and industry, she did more in the way of legislating and

writing grandiloquent manifestoes. In the course of her historical

studies she had learned, as she proclaims in one of her

manifestoes, that "from remotest antiquity we everywhere find the

memory of town-builders elevated to the same level as the memory of

legislators, and we see that heroes, famous for their victories,

hoped by town-building to give immortality to their names." As the

securing of immortality for her own name was her chief aim in life,

she acted in accordance with historical precedent, and created 216

towns in the short space of twenty-three years. This seems a great

work, but it did not satisfy her ambition. She was not only a

student of history, but was at the same time a warm admirer of the

fashionable political philosophy of her time. That philosophy paid

much attention to the tiers-etat, which was then acquiring in

France great political importance, and Catherine thought that as

she had created a Noblesse on the French model, she might also

create a bourgeoisie. For this purpose she modified the municipal

organisation created by her great predecessor, and granted to all

the towns an Imperial Charter. This charter remained without

essential modification until the publication of the new

Municipality Law in 1870.

The efforts of the Government to create a rich, intelligent tiers-

etat were not attended with much success. Their influence was

always more apparent in official documents than in real life. The

great mass of the population remained serfs, fixed to the soil,

whilst the nobles--that is to say, all who possessed a little

education--were required for the military and civil services.

Those who were sent abroad to learn the useful arts learned little,

and made little use of the knowledge which they acquired. On their

return to their native country they very soon fell victims to the

soporific influence of the surrounding social atmosphere. The

"town-building" had as little practical result. It was an easy

matter to create any number of towns in the official sense of the

term. To transform a village into a town, it was necessary merely

to prepare an izba, or log-house, for the district court, another

for the police-office, a third for the prison, and so on. On an

appointed day the Governor of the province arrived in the village,

collected the officials appointed to serve in the newly-constructed

or newly-arranged log-houses, ordered a simple religious ceremony

to be performed by the priest, caused a formal act to be drawn up,

and then declared the town to be "opened." All this required very

little creative effort; to create a spirit of commercial and

industrial enterprise among the population was a more difficult

matter and could not be effected by Imperial ukaz.

To animate the newly-imported municipal institutions, which had no

root in the traditions and habits of the people, was a task of

equal difficulty. In the West these institutions had been slowly

devised in the course of centuries to meet real, keenly-felt,

practical wants. In Russia they were adopted for the purpose of

creating those wants which were not yet felt. Let the reader

imagine our Board of Trade supplying the masters of fishing-smacks

with accurate charts, learned treatises on navigation, and detailed

instructions for the proper ventilation of ships' cabins, and he

will have some idea of the effect which Peter's legislation had

upon the towns. The office-bearers, elected against their will,

were hopelessly bewildered by the complicated procedure, and were

incapable of understanding the numerous ukazes which prescribed to

them their multifarious duties and threatened the most merciless

punishments for sins of omission and commission. Soon, however, it

was discovered that the threats were not nearly so dreadful as they

seemed; and accordingly those municipal authorities who were to

protect and enlighten the burghers, "forgot the fear of God and the

Tsar," and extorted so unblushingly that it was found necessary to

place them under the control of Government officials.

The chief practical result of the efforts made by Peter and

Catherine to create a bourgeoisie was that the inhabitants of the

towns were more systematically arranged in categories for the

purpose of taxation, and that the taxes were increased. All those

parts of the new administration which had no direct relation to the

fiscal interests of the Government had very little vitality in

them. The whole system had been arbitrarily imposed on the people,

and had as motive only the Imperial will. Had that motive power

been withdrawn and the burghers left to regulate their own

municipal affairs, the system would immediately have collapsed.

Rathhaus, burgomasters, guilds, aldermen, and all the other

lifeless shadows which had been called into existence by Imperial

ukaz would instantly have vanished into space. In this fact we

have one of the characteristic traits of Russian historical

development compared with that of Western Europe. In the West

monarchy had to struggle with municipal institutions to prevent

them from becoming too powerful; in Russia, it had to struggle with

them to prevent them from committing suicide or dying of inanition.

According to Catherine's legislation, which remained in force until

1870, and still exists in some of its main features, the towns were

divided into three categories: (1) Government towns (gubernskiye

goroda)--that is to say, the chief towns of provinces, or

governments (gubernii)--in which are concentrated the various

organs of provincial administration; (2) district towns (uyezdniye

goroda), in which resides the administration of the districts

(uyezdi) into which the provinces are divided; and (3)

supernumerary towns (zashtatniye goroda), which have no particular

significance in the territorial administration.

In all these the municipal organisation is the same. Leaving out

of consideration those persons who happen to reside in the towns,

but in reality belong to the Noblesse, the clergy, or the lower

ranks of officials, we may say that the town population is composed

of three groups: the merchants (kuptsi), the burghers in the

narrower sense of the term (meshtchanye), and the artisans

(tsekhoviye). These categories are not hereditary castes, like the

nobles, the clergy, and the peasantry. A noble may become a

merchant, or a man may be one year a burgher, the next year an

artisan, and the third year a merchant, if he changes his

occupation and pays the necessary dues. But the categories form,

for the time being, distinct corporations, each possessing a

peculiar organisation and peculiar privileges and obligations.

Of these three groups the first in the scale of dignity is that of

the merchants. It is chiefly recruited from the burghers and the

peasantry. Any one who wishes to engage in commerce inscribes

himself in one of the three guilds, according to the amount of his

capital and the nature of the operations in which he wishes to

embark, and as soon as he has paid the required dues he becomes

officially a merchant. As soon as he ceases to pay these dues he

ceases to be a merchant in the legal sense of the term, and returns

to the class to which he formerly belonged. There are some

families whose members have belonged to the merchant class for

several generations, and the law speaks about a certain "velvet-

book" (barkhatnaya kniga) in which their names should be inscribed,

but in reality they do not form a distinct category, and they

descend at once from their privileged position as soon as they

cease to pay the annual guild dues.

The artisans form the connecting link between the town population

and the peasantry, for peasants often enrol themselves in the

trades-corporations, or tsekhi, without severing their connection

with the rural Communes to which they belong. Each trade or

handicraft constitutes a tsekh, at the head of which stands an

elder and two assistants, elected by the members; and all the

tsekhi together form a corporation under an elected head

(remeslenny golova) assisted by a council composed of the elders of

the various tsekhi. It is the duty of this council and its

president to regulate all matters connected with the tsekhi, and to

see that the multifarious regulations regarding masters,

journeymen, and apprentices are duly observed.

The nondescript class, composed of those who are inscribed as

permanent inhabitants of the towns, but who do not belong to any

guild or tsekh, constitutes what is called the burghers in the

narrower sense of the term. Like the other two categories, they

form a separate corporation, with an elder and an administrative

bureau.

Some idea of the relative numerical strength of these three

categories may be obtained from the following figures. Thirty

years ago in European Russia the merchant class (including wives

and children) numbered about 466,000, the burghers about 4,033,000,

and the artisans about 260,000. The numbers according to the last

census are not yet available.

In 1870 the entire municipal administration was reorganised on

modern West-European principles, and the Town Council (gorodskaya

duma), which formed under the previous system the connecting link

between the old-fashioned corporations, and was composed

exclusively of members of these bodies, became a genuine

representative body composed of householders, irrespective of the

social class to which they might belong. A noble, provided he was

a house-proprietor, could become Town Councillor or Mayor, and in

this way a certain amount of vitality and a progressive spirit were

infused into the municipal administration. As a consequence of

this change the schools, hospitals, and other benevolent

institutions were much improved, the streets were kept cleaner and

somewhat better paved, and for a time it seemed as if the towns in

Russia might gradually rise to the level of those of Western

Europe. But the charm of novelty, which so often works wonders in

Russia, soon wore off. After a few years of strenuous effort the

best citizens no longer came forward as candidates, and the office-

bearers selected no longer displayed zeal and intelligence in the

discharge of their duties. In these circumstances the Government

felt called upon again to intervene. By a decree dated June 11,

1892, it introduced a new series of reforms, by which the municipal

self-government was placed more under the direction and control of

the centralised bureaucracy, and the attendance of the Town

Councillors at the periodical meetings was declared to be

obligatory, recalcitrant members being threatened with reprimands

and fines.

This last fact speaks volumes for the low vitality of the

institutions and the prevalent popular apathy with regard to

municipal affairs. Nor was the unsatisfactory state of things much

improved by the new reforms; on the contrary, the increased

interference of the regular officials tended rather to weaken the

vitality of the urban self government, and the so-called reform was

pretty generally condemned as a needlessly reactionary measure. We

have here, in fact, a case of what has often occurred in the

administrative history of the Russian Empire since the time of

Peter the Great, and to which I shall again have occasion to refer.

The central authority, finding itself incompetent to do all that is

required of it, and wishing to make a display of liberalism,

accords large concessions in the direction of local autonomy; and

when it discovers that the new institutions do not accomplish all

that was expected of them, and are not quite so subservient and

obsequious as is considered desirable, it returns in a certain

measure to the old principles of centralised bureaucracy.

The great development of trade and industry in recent years has of

course enriched the mercantile classes, and has introduced into

them a more highly educated element, drawn chiefly from the

Noblesse, which formerly eschewed such occupations; but it has not

yet affected very deeply the mode of life of those who have sprung

from the old merchant families and the peasantry. When a merchant,

contractor, or manufacturer of the old type becomes wealthy, he

builds for himself a fine house, or buys and thoroughly repairs the

house of some ruined noble, and spends money freely on parquetry

floors, large mirrors, malachite tables, grand pianos by the best

makers, and other articles of furniture made of the most costly

materials. Occasionally--especially on the occasion of a marriage

or a death in the family--he will give magnificent banquets, and

expend enormous sums on gigantic sterlets, choice sturgeons,

foreign fruits, champagne, and all manner of costly delicacies.

But this lavish, ostentatious expenditure does not affect the

ordinary current of his daily life. As you enter those gaudily

furnished rooms you can perceive at a glance that they are not for

ordinary use. You notice a rigid symmetry and an indescribable

bareness which inevitably suggest that the original arrangements of

the upholsterer have never been modified or supplemented. The

truth is that by far the greater part of the house is used only on

state occasions. The host and his family live down-stairs in

small, dirty rooms, furnished in a very different, and for them

more comfortable, style. At ordinary times the fine rooms are

closed, and the fine furniture carefully covered.

If you make a visite de politesse after an entertainment, you will

probably have some difficulty in gaining admission by the front

door. When you have knocked or rung several times, some one will

come round from the back regions and ask you what you want. Then

follows another long pause, and at last footsteps are heard

approaching from within. The bolts are drawn, the door is opened,

and you are led up to a spacious drawing-room. At the wall

opposite the windows there is sure to be a sofa, and before it an

oval table. At each end of the table, and at right angles to the

sofa, there will be a row of three arm-chairs. The other chairs

will be symmetrically arranged round the room. In a few minutes

the host will appear, in his long double-breasted black coat and

well-polished long boots. His hair is parted in the middle, and

his beard shows no trace of scissors or razor.

After the customary greetings have been exchanged, glasses of tea,

with slices of lemon and preserves, or perhaps a bottle of

champagne, are brought in by way of refreshments. The female

members of the family you must not expect to see, unless you are an

intimate friend; for the merchants still retain something of that

female seclusion which was in vogue among the upper classes before

the time of Peter the Great. The host himself will probably be an

intelligent, but totally uneducated and decidedly taciturn, man.

About the weather and the crops he may talk fluently enough, but he

will not show much inclination to go beyond these topics. You may,

perhaps, desire to converse with him on the subject with which he

is best acquainted--the trade in which he is himself engaged; but

if you make the attempt, you will certainly not gain much

information, and you may possibly meet with such an incident as

once happened to my travelling companion, a Russian gentleman who

had been commissioned by two learned societies to collect

information regarding the grain trade. When he called on a

merchant who had promised to assist him in his investigation, he

was hospitably received; but when he began to speak about the grain

trade of the district the merchant suddenly interrupted him, and

proposed to tell him a story. The story was as follows:

Once on a time a rich landed proprietor had a son, who was a

thoroughly spoilt child; and one day the boy said to his father

that he wished all the young serfs to come and sing before the door

of the house. After some attempts at dissuasion the request was

granted, and the young people assembled; but as soon as they began

to sing, the boy rushed out and drove them away.

When the merchant had told this apparently pointless story at great

length, and with much circumstantial detail, he paused a little,

poured some tea into his saucer, drank it off, and then inquired,

"Now what do you think was the reason of this strange conduct?"

My friend replied that the riddle surpassed his powers of

divination.

"Well," said the merchant, looking hard at him, with a knowing

grin, "there was no reason; and all the boy could say was, 'Go

away, go away! I've changed my mind; I've changed my mind'"

(poshli von; otkhotyel).

There was no possibility of mistaking the point of the story. My

friend took the hint and departed.

The Russian merchant's love of ostentation is of a peculiar kind--

something entirely different from English snobbery. He may delight

in gaudy reception-rooms, magnificent dinners, fast trotters,

costly furs; or he may display his riches by princely donations to

churches, monasteries, or benevolent institutions: but in all this

he never affects to be other than he really is. He habitually

wears a costume which designates plainly his social position; he

makes no attempt to adopt fine manners or elegant tastes; and he

never seeks to gain admission to what is called in Russia la

societe. Having no desire to seem what he is not, he has a plain,

unaffected manner, and sometimes a quiet dignity which contrasts

favourably with the affected manner of those nobles of the lower

ranks who make pretensions to being highly educated and strive to

adopt the outward forms of French culture. At his great dinners,

it is true, the merchant likes to see among his guests as many

"generals"--that is to say, official personages--as possible, and

especially those who happen to have a grand cordon; but he never

dreams of thereby establishing an intimacy with these personages,

or of being invited by them in return. It is perfectly understood

by both parties that nothing of the kind is meant. The invitation

is given and accepted from quite different motives. The merchant

has the satisfaction of seeing at his table men of high official

rank, and feels that the consideration which he enjoys among people

of his own class is thereby augmented. If he succeeds in obtaining

the presence of three generals, he obtains a victory over a rival

who cannot obtain more than two. The general, on his side, gets a

first-rate dinner, a la russe, and acquires an undefined right to

request subscriptions for public objects or benevolent

institutions.

Of course this undefined right is commonly nothing more than a mere

tacit understanding, but in certain cases the subject is expressly

mentioned. I know of one case in which a regular bargain was made.

A Moscow magnate was invited by a merchant to a dinner, and

consented to go in full uniform, with all his decorations, on

condition that the merchant should subscribe a certain sum to a

benevolent institution in which he was particularly interested. It

is whispered that such bargains are sometimes made, not on behalf

of benevolent institutions, but simply in the interest of the

gentleman who accepts the invitation. I cannot believe that there

are many official personages who would consent to let themselves

out as table decorations, but that it may happen is proved by the

following incident, which accidentally came to my knowledge. A

rich merchant of the town of T---- once requested the Governor of

the Province to honour a family festivity with his presence, and

added that he would consider it a special favour if the

"Governoress" would enter an appearance. To this latter request

his Excellency made many objections, and at last let the petitioner

understand that her Excellency could not possibly be present,

because she had no velvet dress that could bear comparison with

those of several merchants' wives in the town. Two days after the

interview a piece of the finest velvet that could be procured in

Moscow was received by the Governor from an unknown donor, and his

wife was thus enabled to be present at the festivity, to the

complete satisfaction of all parties concerned.

It is worthy of remark that the merchants recognise no aristocracy

but that of official rank. Many merchants would willingly give

twenty pounds for the presence of an "actual State Councillor" who

perhaps never heard of his grandfather, but who can show a grand

cordon; whilst they would not give twenty pence for the presence of

an undecorated Prince without official rank, though he might be

able to trace his pedigree up to the half-mythical Rurik. Of the

latter they would probably say, "Kto ikh znact?" (Who knows what

sort of a fellow he is?) The former, on the contrary, whoever his

father and grandfather may have been, possesses unmistakable marks

of the Tsar's favour, which, in the merchant's opinion, is

infinitely more important than any rights or pretensions founded on

hereditary titles or long pedigrees.

Some marks of Imperial favour the old-fashioned merchants strive to

obtain for themselves. They do not dream of grand cordons--that is

far beyond their most sanguine expectations--but they do all in

their power to obtain those lesser decorations which are granted to

the mercantile class. For this purpose the most common expedient

is a liberal subscription to some benevolent institution, and

occasionally a regular bargain is made. I know of at least one

instance where the kind of decoration was expressly stipulated.

The affair illustrates so well the commercial character of these

transactions that I venture to state the facts as related to me by

the official chiefly concerned. A merchant subscribed to a society

which enjoyed the patronage of a Grand Duchess a considerable sum

of money, under the express condition that he should receive in

return a St. Vladimir Cross. Instead of the desired decoration,

which was considered too much for the sum subscribed, a cross of

St. Stanislas was granted; but the donor was dissatisfied with the

latter and demanded that his money should be returned to him. The

demand had to be complied with, and, as an Imperial gift cannot be

retracted, the merchant had his Stanislas Cross for nothing.

This traffic in decorations has had its natural result. Like paper

money issued in too large quantities, the decorations have fallen

in value. The gold medals which were formerly much coveted and

worn with pride by the rich merchants--suspended by a ribbon round

the neck--are now little sought after. In like manner the

inordinate respect for official personages has considerably

diminished. Fifty years ago the provincial merchants vied with

each other in their desire to entertain any great dignitary who

honoured their town with a visit, but now they seek rather to avoid

this expensive and barren honour. When they do accept the honour,

they fulfil the duties of hospitality in a most liberal spirit. I

have sometimes, when living as an honoured guest in a rich

merchant's house, found it difficult to obtain anything simpler

than sterlet, sturgeon, and champagne.

The two great blemishes on the character of the Russian merchants

as a class are, according to general opinion, their ignorance and

their dishonesty. As to the former of these there cannot possibly

be any difference of opinion. Many of them can neither read nor

write, and are forced to keep their accounts in their memory, or by

means of ingenious hieroglyphics, intelligible only to the

inventor. Others can decipher the calendar and the lives of the

saints, can sign their names with tolerable facility, and can make

the simpler arithmetical calculations with the help of the stchety,

a little calculating instrument, composed of wooden balls strung on

brass wires, which resembles the "abaca" of the old Romans, and is

universally used in Russia. It is only the minority who understand

the mysteries of regular book-keeping, and of these very few can

make any pretensions to being educated men.

All this, however, is rapidly undergoing a radical change.

Children are now much better educated than their parents, and the

next generation will doubtless make further progress, so that the

old-fashioned type above described is destined to disappear.

Already there are not a few of the younger generation--especially

among the wealthy manufacturers of Moscow--who have been educated

abroad, who may be described as tout a fait civilises, and whose

mode of life differs little from that of the richer nobles; but

they remain outside fashionable society, and constitute a "set" of

their own.

As to the dishonesty which is said to be so common among the

Russian commercial classes, it is difficult to form an accurate

judgment. That an enormous amount of unfair dealing does exist

there can be no possible doubt, but in this matter a foreigner is

likely to be unduly severe. We are apt to apply unflinchingly our

own standard of commercial morality, and to forget that trade in

Russia is only emerging from that primitive condition in which

fixed prices and moderate profits are entirely unknown. And when

we happen to detect positive dishonesty, it seems to us especially

heinous, because the trickery employed is more primitive and

awkward than that to which we are accustomed. Trickery in weighing

and measuring, for instance, which is by no means uncommon in

Russia, is likely to make us more indignant than those ingenious

methods of adulteration which are practised nearer home, and are

regarded by many as almost legitimate. Besides this, foreigners

who go to Russia and embark in speculations without possessing any

adequate knowledge of the character, customs, and language of the

people positively invite spoliation, and ought to blame themselves

rather than the people who profit by their ignorance.

All this, and much more of the same kind, may be fairly urged in

mitigation of the severe judgments which foreign merchants commonly

pass on Russian commercial morality, but these judgments cannot be

reversed by such argumentation. The dishonesty and rascality which

exist among the merchants are fully recognised by the Russians

themselves. In all moral affairs the lower classes in Russia are

very lenient in their judgments, and are strongly disposed, like

the Americans, to admire what is called in Transatlantic

phraseology "a smart man," though the smartness is known to contain

a large admixture of dishonesty; and yet the vox populi in Russia

emphatically declares that the merchants as a class are

unscrupulous and dishonest. There is a rude popular play in which

the Devil, as principal dramatis persona, succeeds in cheating all

manner and conditions of men, but is finally overreached by a

genuine Russian merchant. When this play is acted in the Carnival

Theatre in St. Petersburg the audience invariably agrees with the

moral of the plot.

If this play were acted in the southern towns near the coast of the

Black Sea it would be necessary to modify it considerably, for

here, in company with Jews, Greeks, and Armenians, the Russian

merchants seem honest by comparison. As to Greeks and Armenians, I

know not which of the two nationalities deserves the palm, but it

seems that both are surpassed by the Children of Israel. "How

these Jews do business," I have heard a Russian merchant of this

region exclaim, "I cannot understand. They buy up wheat in the

villages at eleven roubles per tchetvert, transport it to the coast

at their own expense, and sell it to the exporters at ten roubles!

And yet they contrive to make a profit! It is said that the

Russian trader is cunning, but here 'our brother' [i.e., the

Russian] can do nothing." The truth of this statement I have had

abundant opportunities of confirming by personal investigations on

the spot.

If I might express a general opinion regarding Russian commercial

morality, I should say that trade in Russia is carried on very much

on the same principle as horse-dealing in England. A man who

wishes to buy or sell must trust to his own knowledge and

acuteness, and if he gets the worst of a bargain or lets himself be

deceived, he has himself to blame. Commercial Englishmen on

arriving in Russia rarely understand this, and when they know it

theoretically they are too often unable, from their ignorance of

the language, the laws, and the customs of the people, to turn

their theoretical knowledge to account. They indulge, therefore,

at first in endless invectives against the prevailing dishonesty;

but gradually, when they have paid what Germans call Lehrgeld, they

accommodate themselves to circumstances, take large profits to

counterbalance bad debts, and generally succeed--if they have

sufficient energy, mother-wit, and capital--in making a very

handsome income.

The old race of British merchants, however, is rapidly dying out,

and I greatly fear that the rising generation will not be equally

successful. Times have changed. It is no longer possible to amass

large fortunes in the old easy-going fashion. Every year the

conditions alter, and the competition increases. In order to

foresee, understand, and take advantage of the changes, one must

have far more knowledge of the country than the men of the old

school possessed, and it seems to me that the young generation have

still less of that knowledge than their predecessors. Unless some

change takes place in this respect, the German merchants, who have

generally a much better commercial education and are much better

acquainted with their adopted country, will ultimately, I believe,

expel their British rivals. Already many branches of commerce

formerly carried on by Englishmen have passed into their hands.

It must not be supposed that the unsatisfactory organisation of the

Russian commercial world is the result of any radical peculiarity

of the Russian character. All new countries have to pass through a

similar state of things, and in Russia there are already

premonitory symptoms of a change for the better. For the present,

it is true, the extensive construction of railways and the rapid

development of banks and limited liability companies have opened up

a new and wide field for all kinds of commercial swindling; but, on

the other hand, there are now in every large town a certain number

of merchants who carry on business in the West-European manner, and

have learnt by experience that honesty is the best policy. The

success which many of these have obtained will doubtless cause

their example to be followed. The old spirit of caste and routine

which has long animated the merchant class is rapidly disappearing,

and not a few nobles are now exchanging country life and the

service of the State for industrial and commercial enterprises. In

this way is being formed the nucleus of that wealthy, enlightened

bourgeoisie which Catherine endeavoured to create by legislation;

but many years must elapse before this class acquires sufficient

social and political significance to deserve the title of a tiers-

etat.

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.

When I had spent a couple of years or more in the Northern and

North-Central provinces--the land of forests and of agriculture

conducted on the three-field system, with here and there a town of

respectable antiquity--I determined to visit for purposes of

comparison and contrast the Southeastern region, which possesses no

forests nor ancient towns, and corresponds to the Far West of the

United States of America. My point of departure was Yaroslavl, a

town on the right bank of the Volga to the northeast of Moscow--and

thence I sailed down the river during three days on a large

comfortable steamer to Samara, the chief town of the province or

"government" of the name. Here I left the steamer and prepared to

make a journey into the eastern hinterland.

Samara is a new town, a child of the last century. At the time of

my first visit, now thirty years ago, it recalled by its unfinished

appearance the new towns of America. Many of the houses were of

wood. The streets were still in such a primitive condition that

after rain they were almost impassable from mud, and in dry, gusty

weather they generated thick clouds of blinding, suffocating dust.

Before I had been many days in the place I witnessed a dust-

hurricane, during which it was impossible at certain moments to see

from my window the houses on the other side of the street. Amidst

such primitive surroundings the colossal new church seemed a little

out of keeping, and it occurred to my practical British mind that

some of the money expended on its construction might have been more

profitably employed. But the Russians have their own ideas of the

fitness of things. Religious after their own fashion, they

subscribe money liberally for ecclesiastical purposes--especially

for the building and decoration of their churches. Besides this,

the Government considers that every chief town of a province should

possess a cathedral.

In its early days Samara was one of the outposts of Russian

colonisation, and had often to take precautions against the raids

of the nomadic tribes living in the vicinity; but the agricultural

frontier has since been pushed far forward to the east and south,

and the province was until lately, despite occasional droughts, one

of the most productive in the Empire. The town is the chief market

of this region, and therein lies its importance. The grain is

brought by the peasants from great distances, and stored in large

granaries by the merchants, who send it to Moscow or St.

Petersburg. In former days this was a very tedious operation. The

boats containing the grain were towed by horses or stout peasants

up the rivers and through the canals for hundreds of miles. Then

came the period of "cabestans"--unwieldly machines propelled by

means of anchors and windlasses. Now these primitive methods of

transport have disappeared. The grain is either despatched by rail

or put into gigantic barges, which are towed up the river by

powerful tug-steamers to some point connected with the great

network of railways.

When the traveller has visited the Cathedral and the granaries he

has seen all the lions--not very formidable lions, truly--of the

place. He may then inspect the kumyss establishments, pleasantly

situated near the town. He will find there a considerable number

of patients--mostly consumptive--who drink enormous quantities of

fermented mare's-milk, and who declare that they receive great

benefit from this modern health-restorer.

What interested me more than the lions of the town or the suburban

kumyss establishments were the offices of the local administration,

where I found in the archives much statistical and other

information of the kind I was in search of, regarding the economic

condition of the province generally, and of the emancipated

peasantry in particular. Having filled my note-book with material

of this sort, I proceeded to verify and complete it by visiting

some characteristic villages and questioning the inhabitants. For

the student of Russian affairs who wishes to arrive at real, as

distinguished from official, truth, this is not an altogether

superfluous operation.

When I had thus made the acquaintance of the sedentary agricultural

population in several districts I journeyed eastwards with the

intention of visiting the Bashkirs, a Tartar tribe which still

preserved--so at least I was assured--its old nomadic habits. My

reasons for undertaking this journey were twofold. In the first

place I was desirous of seeing with my own eyes some remnants of

those terrible nomadic tribes which had at one time conquered

Russia and long threatened to overrun Europe--those Tartar hordes

which gained, by their irresistible force and relentless cruelty,

the reputation of being "the scourge of God." Besides this, I had

long wished to study the conditions of pastoral life, and

congratulated myself on having found a convenient opportunity of

doing so.

As I proceeded eastwards I noticed a change in the appearance of

the villages. The ordinary wooden houses, with their high sloping

roofs, gradually gave place to flat-roofed huts, built of a

peculiar kind of unburnt bricks, composed of mud and straw. I

noticed, too, that the population became less and less dense, and

the amount of fallow land proportionately greater. The peasants

were evidently richer than those near the Volga, but they

complained--as the Russian peasant always does--that they had not

land enough. In answer to my inquiries why they did not use the

thousands of acres that were lying fallow around them, they

explained that they had already raised crops on that land for

several successive years, and that consequently they must now allow

it to "rest."

In one of the villages through which I passed I met with a very

characteristic little incident. The village was called Samovolnaya

Ivanofka--that is to say, "Ivanofka the Self-willed" or "the Non-

authorised." Whilst our horses were being changed my travelling

companion, in the course of conversation with a group of peasants,

inquired about the origin of this extraordinary name, and

discovered a curious bit of local history. The founders of the

village had settled on the land without the permission of the

absentee owner, and obstinately resisted all attempts at eviction.

Again and again troops had been sent to drive them away, but as

soon as the troops retired these "self-willed" people returned and

resumed possession, till at last the proprietor, who lived in St.

Petersburg or some other distant place, became weary of the contest

and allowed them to remain. The various incidents were related

with much circumstantial detail, so that the narration lasted

perhaps half an hour. All this time I listened attentively, and

when the story was finished I took out my note-book in order to jot

down the facts, and asked in what year the affair had happened. No

answer was given to my question. The peasants merely looked at

each other in a significant way and kept silence. Thinking that my

question had not been understood, I asked it a second time,

repeating a part of what had been related. To my astonishment and

utter discomfiture they all declared that they had never related

anything of the sort! In despair I appealed to my friend, and

asked him whether my ears had deceived me--whether I was labouring

under some strange hallucination. Without giving me any reply he

simply smiled and turned away.

When we had left the village and were driving along in our

tarantass the mystery was satisfactorily cleared up. My friend

explained to me that I had not at all misunderstood what had been

related, but that my abrupt question and the sight of my note-book

had suddenly aroused the peasants' suspicions. "They evidently

suspected," he continued, "that you were a tchinovnik, and that you

wished to use to their detriment the knowledge you had acquired.

They thought it safer, therefore, at once to deny it all. You

don't yet understand the Russian muzhik!"

In this last remark I was obliged to concur, but since that time I

have come to know the muzhik better, and an incident of the kind

would now no longer surprise me. From a long series of

observations I have come to the conclusion that the great majority

of the Russian peasants, when dealing with the authorities,

consider the most patent and barefaced falsehoods as a fair means

of self-defence. Thus, for example, when a muzhik is implicated in

a criminal affair, and a preliminary investigation is being made,

he probably begins by constructing an elaborate story to explain

the facts and exculpate himself. The story may be a tissue of

self-evident falsehoods from beginning to end, but he defends it

valiantly as long as possible. When he perceives that the position

which he has taken up is utterly untenable, he declares openly that

all he has said is false, and that he wishes to make a new

declaration. This second declaration may have the same fate as the

former one, and then he proposes a third. Thus groping his way, he

tries various stories till he finds one that seems proof against

all objections. In the fact of his thus telling lies there is of

course nothing remarkable, for criminals in all parts of the world

have a tendency to deviate from the truth when they fall into the

hands of justice. The peculiarity is that he retracts his

statements with the composed air of a chess-player who requests his

opponent to let him take back an inadvertent move. Under the old

system of procedure, which was abolished in the sixties, clever

criminals often contrived by means of this simple device to have

their trial postponed for many years.

Such incidents naturally astonish a foreigner, and he is apt, in

consequence, to pass a very severe judgment on the Russian

peasantry in general. The reader may remember Karl Karl'itch's

remarks on the subject. These remarks I have heard repeated in

various forms by Germans in all parts of the country, and there

must be a certain amount of truth in them, for even an eminent

Slavophil once publicly admitted that the peasant is prone to

perjury.* It is necessary, however, as it seems to me, to draw a

distinction. In the ordinary intercourse of peasants among

themselves, or with people in whom they have confidence, I do not

believe that the habit of lying is abnormally developed. It is

only when the muzhik comes in contact with authorities that he

shows himself an expert fabricator of falsehoods. In this there is

nothing that need surprise us. For ages the peasantry were exposed

to the arbitrary power and ruthless exactions of those who were

placed over them; and as the law gave them no means of legally

protecting themselves, their only means of self-defence lay in

cunning and deceit.

* Kireyefski, in the Russakaya Beseda.

We have here, I believe, the true explanation of that "Oriental

mendacity" about which Eastern travellers have written so much. It

is simply the result of a lawless state of society. Suppose a

truth-loving Englishman falls into the hands of brigands or

savages. Will he not, if he have merely an ordinary moral

character, consider himself justified in inventing a few falsehoods

in order to effect his escape? If so, we have no right to condemn

very severely the hereditary mendacity of those races which have

lived for many generations in a position analogous to that of the

supposed Englishman among brigands. When legitimate interests

cannot be protected by truthfulness and honesty, prudent people

always learn to employ means which experience has proved to be more

effectual. In a country where the law does not afford protection,

the strong man defends himself by his strength, the weak by cunning

and duplicity. This fully explains the fact that in Turkey the

Christians are less truthful than the Mahometans.

But we have wandered a long way from the road to Bashkiria. Let us

therefore return at once.

Of all the journeys which I made in Russia this was one of the most

agreeable. The weather was bright and warm, without being

unpleasantly hot; the roads were tolerably smooth; the tarantass,

which had been hired for the whole journey, was nearly as

comfortable as a tarantass can be; good milk, eggs, and white bread

could be obtained in abundance; there was not much difficulty in

procuring horses in the villages through which we passed, and the

owners of them were not very extortionate in their demands. But

what most contributed to my comfort was that I was accompanied by

an agreeable, intelligent young Russian, who kindly undertook to

make all the necessary arrangements, and I was thereby freed from

those annoyances and worries which are always encountered in

primitive countries where travelling is not yet a recognised

institution. To him I left the entire control of our movements,

passively acquiescing in everything, and asking no questions as to

what was coming. Taking advantage of my passivity, he prepared for

me one evening a pleasant little surprise.

About sunset we had left a village called Morsha, and shortly

afterwards, feeling drowsy, and being warned by my companion that

we should have a long, uninteresting drive, I had lain down in the

tarantass and gone to sleep. On awaking I found that the tarantass

had stopped, and that the stars were shining brightly overhead. A

big dog was barking furiously close at hand, and I heard the voice

of the yamstchik informing us that we had arrived. I at once sat

up and looked about me, expecting to see a village of some kind,

but instead of that I perceived a wide open space, and at a short

distance a group of haystacks. Close to the tarantass stood two

figures in long cloaks, armed with big sticks, and speaking to each

other in an unknown tongue. My first idea was that we had been

somehow led into a trap, so I drew my revolver in order to be ready

for all emergencies. My companion was still snoring loudly by my

side, and stoutly resisted all my efforts to awaken him.

"What's this?" I said, in a gruff, angry voice, to the yamstchik.

"Where have you taken us to?"

"To where I was ordered, master!"

For the purpose of getting a more satisfactory explanation I took

to shaking my sleepy companion, but before he had returned to

consciousness the moon shone out brightly from behind a thick bank

of clouds, and cleared up the mystery. The supposed haystacks

turned out to be tents. The two figures with long sticks, whom I

had suspected of being brigands, were peaceable shepherds, dressed

in the ordinary Oriental khalat, and tending their sheep, which

were grazing close by. Instead of being in an empty hay-field, as

I had imagined, we had before us a regular Tartar aoul, such as I

had often read about. For a moment I felt astonished and

bewildered. It seemed to me that I had fallen asleep in Europe and

woke up in Asia!

In a few minutes we were comfortably installed in one of the tents,

a circular, cupola-shaped erection, of about twelve feet in

diameter, composed of a frame-work of light wooden rods covered

with thick felt. It contained no furniture, except a goodly

quantity of carpets and pillows, which had been formed into a bed

for our accommodation. Our amiable host, who was evidently

somewhat astonished at our unexpected visit, but refrained from

asking questions, soon bade us good-night and retired. We were

not, however, left alone. A large number of black beetles remained

and gave us a welcome in their own peculiar fashion. Whether they

were provided with wings, or made up for the want of flying

appliances by crawling up the sides of the tent and dropping down

on any object they wished to reach, I did not discover, but certain

it is that they somehow reached our heads--even when we were

standing upright--and clung to our hair with wonderful tenacity.

Why they should show such a marked preference for human hair we

could not conjecture, till it occurred to us that the natives

habitually shaved their heads, and that these beetles must

naturally consider a hair-covered cranium a curious novelty

deserving of careful examination. Like all children of nature they

were decidedly indiscreet and troublesome in their curiosity, but

when the light was extinguished they took the hint and departed.

When we awoke next morning it was broad daylight, and we found a

crowd of natives in front of the tent. Our arrival was evidently

regarded as an important event, and all the inhabitants of the aoul

were anxious to make our acquaintance. First our host came

forward. He was a short, slimly-built man, of middle age, with a

grave, severe expression, indicating an unsociable disposition. We

afterwards learned that he was an akhun*--that is to say, a minor

officer of the Mahometan ecclesiastical administration, and at the

same time a small trader in silken and woollen stuffs. With him

came the mullah, or priest, a portly old gentleman with an open,

honest face of the European type, and a fine grey beard. The other

important members of the little community followed. They were all

swarthy in colour, and had the small eyes and prominent cheek-bones

which are characteristic of the Tartar races, but they had little

of that flatness of countenance and peculiar ugliness which

distinguish the pure Mongol. All of them, with the exception of

the mullah, spoke a little Russian, and used it to assure us that

we were welcome. The children remained respectfully in the

background, and the women, with laces veiled, eyed us furtively

from the doors of the tents.

* I presume this is the same word as akhund, well known on the

Northwest frontier of India, where it was applied specially to the

late ruler of Svat.

The aoul consisted of about twenty tents, all constructed on the

same model, and scattered about in sporadic fashion, without the

least regard to symmetry. Close by was a watercourse, which

appears on some maps as a river, under the name of Karalyk, but

which was at that time merely a succession of pools containing a

dark-coloured liquid. As we more than suspected that these pools

supplied the inhabitants with water for culinary purposes, the

sight was not calculated to whet our appetites. We turned away

therefore hurriedly, and for want of something better to do we

watched the preparations for dinner. These were decidedly

primitive. A sheep was brought near the door of our tent, and

there killed, skinned, cut up into pieces, and put into an immense

pot, under which a fire had been kindled.

The dinner itself was not less primitive than the manner of

preparing it. The table consisted of a large napkin spread in the

middle of the tent, and the chairs were represented by cushions, on

which we sat cross-legged. There were no plates, knives, forks,

spoons, or chopsticks. Guests were expected all to eat out of a

common wooden bowl, and to use the instruments with which Nature

had provided them. The service was performed by the host and his

son. The fare was copious, but not varied--consisting entirely of

boiled mutton, without bread or other substitute, and a little

salted horse-flesh thrown in as an entree.

To eat out of the same dish with half-a-dozen Mahometans who accept

their Prophet's injunction about ablutions in a highly figurative

sense, and who are totally unacquainted with the use of forks and

spoons, is not an agreeable operation, even if one is not much

troubled with religious prejudices; but with these Bashkirs

something worse than this has to be encountered, for their

favourite method of expressing their esteem and affection for one

with whom they are eating consists in putting bits of mutton, and

sometimes even handfuls of hashed meat, into his month! When I

discovered this unexpected peculiarity in Bashkir manners and

customs, I almost regretted that I had made a favourable impression

upon my new acquaintances.

When the sheep had been devoured, partly by the company in the tent

and partly by a nondescript company outside--for the whole aoul

took part in the festivities--kumyss was served in unlimited

quantities. This beverage, as I have already explained, is mare's

milk fermented; but what here passed under the name was very

different from the kumyss I had tasted in the establissements of

Samara. There it was a pleasant effervescing drink, with only the

slightest tinge of acidity; here it was a "still" liquid, strongly

resembling very thin and very sour butter-milk. My Russian friend

made a wry face on first tasting it, and I felt inclined at first

to do likewise, but noticing that his grimaces made an unfavourable

impression on the audience, I restrained my facial muscles, and

looked as if I liked it. Very soon I really came to like it, and

learned to "drink fair" with those who had been accustomed to it

from their childhood. By this feat I rose considerably in the

estimation of the natives; for if one does not drink kumyss one

cannot be sociable in the Bashkir sense of the term, and by

acquiring the habit one adopts an essential principle of Bashkir

nationality. I should certainly have preferred having a cup of it

to myself, but I thought it well to conform to the habits of the

country, and to accept the big wooden bowl when it was passed

round. In return my friends made an important concession in my

favour: they allowed me to smoke as I pleased, though they

considered that, as the Prophet had refrained from tobacco,

ordinary mortals should do the same.

Whilst the "loving-cup" was going round I distributed some small

presents which I had brought for the purpose, and then proceeded to

explain the object of my visit. In the distant country from which

I came--far away to the westward--I had heard of the Bashkirs as a

people possessing many strange customs, but very kind and

hospitable to strangers. Of their kindness and hospitality I had

already learned something by experience, and I hoped they would

allow me to learn something of their mode of life, their customs,

their songs, their history, and their religion, in all of which I

assured them my distant countrymen took a lively interest.

This little after-dinner speech was perhaps not quite in accordance

with Bashkir etiquette, but it made a favourable impression. There

was a decided murmur of approbation, and those who understood

Russian translated my words to their less accomplished brethren. A

short consultation ensued, and then there was a general shout of

"Abdullah! Abdullah!" which was taken up and repeated by those

standing outside.

In a few minutes Abdullah appeared, with a big, half-picked bone in

his hand, and the lower part of his face besmeared with grease. He

was a short, thin man, with a dark, sallow complexion, and a look

of premature old age; but the suppressed smile that played about

his mouth and a tremulous movement of his right eye-lid showed

plainly that he had not yet forgotten the fun and frolic of youth.

His dress was of richer and more gaudy material, but at the same

time more tawdry and tattered, than that of the others. Altogether

he looked like an artiste in distressed circumstances, and such he

really was. At a word and a sign from the host he laid aside his

bone and drew from under his green silk khalat a small wind-

instrument resembling a flute or flageolet. On this he played a

number of native airs. The first melodies which he played reminded

me of a Highland pibroch--at one moment low, solemn, and plaintive,

then gradually rising into a soul-stirring, martial strain, and

again descending to a plaintive wail. The amount of expression

which he put into his simple instrument was truly marvellous.

Then, passing suddenly from grave to gay, he played a series of

light, merry airs, and some of the younger onlookers got up and

performed a dance as boisterous and ungraceful as an Irish jig.

This Abdullah turned out to be for me a most valuable acquaintance.

He was a kind of Bashkir troubadour, well acquainted not only with

the music, but also with the traditions, the history, the

superstitions, and the folk-lore of his people. By the akhun and

the mullah he was regarded as a frivolous, worthless fellow, who

had no regular, respectable means of gaining a livelihood, but

among the men of less rigid principles he was a general favourite.

As he spoke Russian fluently I could converse with him freely

without the aid of an interpreter, and he willingly placed his

store of knowledge at my disposal. When in the company of the

akhun he was always solemn and taciturn, but as soon as he was

relieved of that dignitary's presence he became lively and

communicative.

Another of my new acquaintances was equally useful to me in another

way. This was Mehemet Zian, who was not so intelligent as

Abdullah, but much more sympathetic. In his open, honest face, and

kindly, unaffected manner there was something so irresistibly

attractive that before I had known him twenty-four hours a sort of

friendship had sprung up between us. He was a tall, muscular,

broad-shouldered man, with features that suggested a mixture of

European blood. Though already past middle age, he was still wiry

and active--so active that he could, when on horseback, pick a

stone off the ground without dismounting. He could, however, no

longer perform this feat at full gallop, as he had been wont to do

in his youth. His geographical knowledge was extremely limited and

inaccurate--his mind being in this respect like those old Russian

maps in which the nations of the earth and a good many peoples who

had never more than a mythical existence are jumbled together in

hopeless confusion--but his geographical curiosity was insatiable.

My travelling-map--the first thing of the kind he had ever seen--

interested him deeply. When he found that by simply examining it

and glancing at my compass I could tell him the direction and

distance of places he knew, his face was like that of a child who

sees for the first time a conjuror's performance; and when I

explained the trick to him, and taught him to calculate the

distance to Bokhara--the sacred city of the Mussulmans of that

region--his delight was unbounded. Gradually I perceived that to

possess such a map had become the great object of his ambition.

Unfortunately I could not at once gratify him as I should have

wished, because I had a long journey before me and I had no other

map of the region, but I promised to find ways and means of sending

him one, and I kept my word by means of a native of the Karalyk

district whom I discovered in Samara. I did not add a compass

because I could not find one in the town, and it would have been of

little use to him: like a true child of nature he always knew the

cardinal points by the sun or the stars. Some years later I had

the satisfaction of learning that the map had reached its

destination safely, through no less a personage than Count Tolstoy.

One evening at the home of a friend in Moscow I was presented to

the great novelist, and as soon as he heard my name he said: "Oh! I

know you already, and I know your friend Mehemet Zian. When I

passed a night this summer in his aoul he showed me a map with your

signature on the margin, and taught me how to calculate the

distance to Bokhara!"

If Mehemet knew little of foreign countries he was thoroughly well

acquainted with his own, and repaid me most liberally for my

elementary lessons in geography. With him I visited the

neighbouring aouls. In all of them he had numerous acquaintances,

and everywhere we were received with the greatest hospitality,

except on one occasion when we paid a visit of ceremony to a famous

robber who was the terror of the whole neighbourhood. Certainly he

was one of the most brutalised specimens of humanity I have ever

encountered. He made no attempt to be amiable, and I felt inclined

to leave his tent at once; but I saw that my friend wanted to

conciliate him, so I restrained my feelings and eventually

established tolerably good relations with him. As a rule I avoided

festivities, partly because I knew that my hosts were mostly poor

and would not accept payment for the slaughtered sheep, and partly

because I had reason to apprehend that they would express to me

their esteem and affection more Bashkirico; but in kumyss-drinking,

the ordinary occupation of these people when they have nothing to

do, I had to indulge to a most inordinate extent. On these

expeditions Abdullah generally accompanied us, and rendered

valuable service as interpreter and troubadour. Mehemet could

express himself in Russian, but his vocabulary failed him as soon

as the conversation ran above very ordinary topics; Abdullah, on

the contrary, was a first-rate interpreter, and under the influence

of his musical pipe and lively talkativeness new acquaintances

became sociable and communicative. Poor Abdullah! He was a kind

of universal genius; but his faded, tattered khalat showed only too

plainly that in Bashkiria, as in more civilised countries,

universal genius and the artistic temperament lead to poverty

rather than to wealth.

I have no intention of troubling the reader with the miscellaneous

facts which, with the assistance of these two friends, I succeeded

in collecting--indeed, I could not if I would, for the notes I then

made were afterwards lost--but I wish to say a few words about the

actual economic condition of the Bashkirs. They are at present

passing from pastoral to agricultural life; and it is not a little

interesting to note the causes which induce them to make this

change, and the way in which it is made.

Philosophers have long held a theory of social development

according to which men were at first hunters, then shepherds, and

lastly agriculturists. How far this theory is in accordance with

reality we need not for the present inquire, but we may examine an

important part of it and ask ourselves the question, Why did

pastoral tribes adopt agriculture? The common explanation is that

they changed their mode of life in consequence of some ill-defined,

fortuitous circumstances. A great legislator arose amongst them

and taught them to till the soil, or they came in contact with an

agricultural race and adopted the customs of their neighbours.

Such explanations must appear unsatisfactory to any one who has

lived with a pastoral people. Pastoral life is so incomparably

more agreeable than the hard lot of the agriculturist, and so much

more in accordance with the natural indolence of human nature, that

no great legislator, though he had the wisdom of a Solon and the

eloquence of a Demosthenes, could possibly induce his fellow-

countrymen to pass voluntarily from the one to the other. Of all

the ordinary means of gaining a livelihood--with the exception

perhaps of mining--agriculture is the most laborious, and is never

voluntarily adopted by men who have not been accustomed to it from

their childhood. The life of a pastoral race, on the contrary, is

a perennial holiday, and I can imagine nothing except the prospect

of starvation which could induce men who live by their flocks and

herds to make the transition to agricultural life.

The prospect of starvation is, in fact, the cause of the

transition--probably in all cases, and certainly in the case of the

Bashkirs. So long as they had abundance of pasturage they never

thought of tilling the soil. Their flocks and herds supplied them

with all that they required, and enabled them to lead a tranquil,

indolent existence. No great legislator arose among them to teach

them the use of the plough and the sickle, and when they saw the

Russian peasants on their borders laboriously ploughing and

reaping, they looked on them with compassion, and never thought of

following their example. But an impersonal legislator came to

them--a very severe and tyrannical legislator, who would not brook

disobedience--I mean Economic Necessity. By the encroachments of

the Ural Cossacks on the east, and by the ever-advancing wave of

Russian colonisation from the north and west, their territory had

been greatly diminished. With diminution of the pasturage came

diminution of the live stock, their sole means of subsistence. In

spite of their passively conservative spirit they had to look about

for some new means of obtaining food and clothing--some new mode of

life requiring less extensive territorial possessions. It was only

then that they began to think of imitating their neighbours. They

saw that the neighbouring Russian peasant lived comfortably on

thirty or forty acres of land, whilst they possessed a hundred and

fifty acres per male, and were in danger of starvation.

The conclusion to be drawn from this was self-evident--they ought

at once to begin ploughing and sowing. But there was a very

serious obstacle to the putting of this principle in practice.

Agriculture certainly requires less land than sheep-farming, but it

requires very much more labour, and to hard work the Bashkirs were

not accustomed. They could bear hardships and fatigues in the

shape of long journeys on horseback, but the severe, monotonous

labour of the plough and the sickle was not to their taste. At

first, therefore, they adopted a compromise. They had a portion of

their land tilled by Russian peasants, and ceded to these a part of

the produce in return for the labour expended; in other words, they

assumed the position of landed proprietors, and farmed part of

their land on the metayage system.

The process of transition had reached this point in several aouls

which I visited. My friend Mehemet Zian showed me at some distance

from the tents his plot of arable land, and introduced me to the

peasant who tilled it--a Little-Russian, who assured me that the

arrangement satisfied all parties. The process of transition

cannot, however, stop here. The compromise is merely a temporary

expedient. Virgin soil gives very abundant harvests, sufficient to

support both the labourer and the indolent proprietor, but after a

few years the soil becomes exhausted and gives only a very moderate

revenue. A proprietor, therefore, must sooner or later dispense

with the labourers who take half of the produce as their

recompense, and must himself put his hand to the plough.

Thus we see the Bashkirs are, properly speaking, no longer a purely

pastoral, nomadic people. The discovery of this fact caused me

some little disappointment, and in the hope of finding a tribe in a

more primitive condition I visited the Kirghiz of the Inner Horde,

who occupy the country to the southward, in the direction of the

Caspian. Here for the first time I saw the genuine Steppe in the

full sense of the term--a country level as the sea, with not a

hillock or even a gentle undulation to break the straight line of

the horizon, and not a patch of cultivation, a tree, a bush, or

even a stone, to diversify the monotonous expanse.

Traversing such a region is, I need scarcely say, very weary work--

all the more as there are no milestones or other landmarks to show

the progress you are making. Still, it is not so overwhelmingly

wearisome as might be supposed. In the morning you may watch the

vast lakes, with their rugged promontories and well-wooded banks,

which the mirage creates for your amusement. Then during the

course of the day there are always one or two trifling incidents

which arouse you for a little from your somnolence. Now you descry

a couple of horsemen on the distant horizon, and watch them as they

approach; and when they come alongside you may have a talk with

them if you know the language or have an interpreter; or you may

amuse yourself with a little pantomime, if articulate speech is

impossible. Now you encounter a long train of camels marching

along with solemn, stately step, and speculate as to the contents

of the big packages with which they are laden. Now you encounter

the carcass of a horse that has fallen by the wayside, and watch

the dogs and the steppe eagles fighting over their prey; and if you

are murderously inclined you may take a shot with your revolver at

these great birds, for they are ignorantly brave, and will

sometimes allow you to approach within twenty or thirty yards. At

last you perceive--most pleasant sight of all--a group of haystack-

shaped tents in the distance; and you hurry on to enjoy the

grateful shade, and quench your thirst with "deep, deep draughts"

of refreshing kumyss.

During my journey through the Kirghiz country I was accompanied by

a Russian gentleman, who had provided himself with a circular

letter from the hereditary chieftain of the Horde, a personage who

rejoiced in the imposing name of Genghis Khan,* and claimed to be a

descendant of the great Mongol conqueror. This document assured us

a good reception in the aouls through which we passed. Every

Kirghis who saw it treated it with profound respect, and professed

to put all his goods and chattels at our service. But in spite of

this powerful recommendation we met with none of the friendly

cordiality and communicativeness which I had found among the

Bashkirs. A tent with an unlimited quantity of cushions was always

set apart for our accommodation; the sheep were killed and boiled

for our dinner, and the pails of kumyss were regularly brought for

our refreshment; but all this was evidently done as a matter of

duty and not as a spontaneous expression of hospitality. When we

determined once or twice to prolong our visit beyond the term

originally announced, I could perceive that our host was not at all

delighted by the change of our plans. The only consolation we had

was that those who entertained us made no scruples about accepting

payment for the food and shelter supplied.

* I have adopted the ordinary English spelling of this name. The

Kirghiz and the Russians pronounce it "Tchinghiz."

From all this I have no intention of drawing the conclusion that

the Kirghiz are, as a people, inhospitable or unfriendly to

strangers. My experience of them is too limited to warrant any

such inference. The letter of Genghis Khan insured us all the

accommodation we required, but it at the same time gave us a

certain official character not at all favourable to the

establishment of friendly relations. Those with whom we came in

contact regarded us as Russian officials, and suspected us of

having some secret designs. As I endeavoured to discover the

number of their cattle, and to form an approximate estimate of

their annual revenue, they naturally feared--having no conception

of disinterested scientific curiosity--that these data were being

collected for the purpose of increasing the taxes, or with some

similar intention of a sinister kind. Very soon I perceived

clearly that any information we might here collect regarding the

economic conditions of pastoral life would not be of much value,

and I postponed my proposed studies to a more convenient season.

The Kirghiz are, ethnographically speaking, closely allied to the

Bashkirs, but differ from them both in physiognomy and language.

Their features approach much nearer the pure Mongol type, and their

language is a distinct dialect, which a Bashkir or a Tartar of

Kazan has some difficulty in understanding. They are professedly

Mahometans, but their Mahometanism is not of a rigid kind, as may

be seen by the fact that their women do not veil their faces even

in the presence of Ghiaours--a laxness of which the Ghiaour will

certainly not approve if he happen to be sensitive to female beauty

and ugliness. Their mode of life differs from that of the

Bashkirs, but they have proportionately more land and are

consequently still able to lead a purely pastoral life. Near their

western frontier, it is true, they annually let patches of land to

the Russian peasants for the purpose of raising crops; but these

encroachments can never advance very far, for the greater part of

their territory is unsuited to agriculture, on account of a large

admixture of salt in the soil. This fact will have an important

influence on their future. Unlike the Bashkirs, who possess good

arable land, and are consequently on the road to become

agriculturists, they will in all probability continue to live

exclusively by their flocks and herds.

To the southwest of the Lower Volga, in the flat region lying to

the north of the Caucasus, we find another pastoral tribe, the

Kalmyks, differing widely from the two former in language, in

physiognomy, and in religion. Their language, a dialect of the

Mongolian, has no close affinity with any other language in this

part of the world. In respect of religion they are likewise

isolated, for they are Buddhists, and have consequently no co-

religionists nearer than Mongolia or Thibet. But it is their

physiognomy that most strikingly distinguishes them from the

surrounding peoples, and stamps them as Mongols of the purest

water. There is something almost infra-human in their ugliness.

They show in an exaggerated degree all those repulsive traits which

we see toned down and refined in the face of an average Chinaman;

and it is difficult, when we meet them for the first time, to

believe that a human soul lurks behind their expressionless,

flattened faces and small, dull, obliquely set eyes. If the Tartar

and Turkish races are really descended from ancestors of that type,

then we must assume that they have received in the course of time a

large admixture of Aryan or Semitic blood.

But we must not be too hard on the poor Kalmyks, or judge of their

character by their unprepossessing appearance. They are by no

means so unhuman as they look. Men who have lived among them have

assured me that they are decidedly intelligent, especially in all

matters relating to cattle, and that they are--though somewhat

addicted to cattle-lifting and other primitive customs not

tolerated in the more advanced stages of civilisation--by no means

wanting in some of the better qualities of human nature.

Formerly there was a fourth pastoral tribe in this region--the

Nogai Tartars. They occupied the plains to the north of the Sea of

Azof, but they are no longer to be found there. Shortly after the

Crimean war they emigrated to Turkey, and their lands are now

occupied by Russian, German, Bulgarian, and Montenegrin colonists.

Among the pastoral tribes of this region the Kalmyks are recent

intruders. They first appeared in the seventeenth century, and

were long formidable on account of their great numbers and compact

organisation; but in 1771 the majority of them suddenly struck

their tents and retreated to their old home in the north of the

Celestial Empire. Those who remained were easily pacified, and

have long since lost, under the influence of unbroken peace and a

strong Russian administration, their old warlike spirit. Their

latest military exploits were performed during the last years of

the Napoleonic wars, and were not of a very serious kind; a troop

of them accompanied the Russian army, and astonished Western Europe

by their uncouth features, their strange costume, and their

primitive accoutrements, among which their curious bows and arrows

figured conspicuously.

The other pastoral tribes which I have mentioned--Bashkirs,

Kirghiz, and Nogai Tartars--are the last remnants of the famous

marauders who from time immemorial down to a comparatively recent

period held the vast plains of Southern Russia. The long struggle

between them and the agricultural colonists from the northwest,

closely resembling the long struggle between the Red-skins and the

white settlers on the prairies of North America, forms an important

page of Russian history.

For centuries the warlike nomads stoutly resisted all encroachments

on their pasture-grounds, and considered cattle-lifting,

kidnapping, and pillage as a legitimate and honorable occupation.

"Their raids," says an old Byzantine writer, "are as flashes of

lightning, and their retreat is at once heavy and light--heavy from

booty and light from the swiftness of their movements. For them a

peaceful life is a misfortune, and a convenient opportunity for war

is the height of felicity. Worst of all, they are more numerous

than bees in spring, their numbers are uncountable." "Having no

fixed place of abode," says another Byzantine authority, "they seek

to conquer all lands and colonise none. They are flying people,

and therefore cannot be caught. As they have neither towns nor

villages, they must be hunted like wild beasts, and can be fitly

compared only to griffins, which beneficent Nature has banished to

uninhabited regions." As a Persian distich, quoted by Vambery, has

it--

"They came, conquered, burned,

pillaged, murdered, and went."

Their raids are thus described by an old Russian chronicler: "They

burn the villages, the farmyards, and the churches. The land is

turned by them into a desert, and the overgrown fields become the

lair of wild beasts. Many people are led away into slavery; others

are tortured and killed, or die from hunger and thirst. Sad,

weary, stiff from cold, with faces wan from woe, barefoot or naked,

and torn by the thistles, the Russian prisoners trudge along

through an unknown country, and, weeping, say to one another, 'I am

from such a town, and I from such a village.'" And in harmony with

the monastic chroniclers we hear the nameless Slavonic Ossian

wailing for the fallen sons of Rus: "In the Russian land is rarely

heard the voice of the husbandman, but often the cry of the

vultures, fighting with each other over the bodies of the slain;

and the ravens scream as they fly to the spoil."

In spite of the stubborn resistance of the nomads the wave of

colonisation moved steadily onwards until the first years of the

thirteenth century, when it was suddenly checked and thrown back.

A great Mongolian horde from Eastern Asia, far more numerous and

better organized than the local nomadic tribes, overran the whole

country, and for more than two centuries Russia was in a certain

sense ruled by Mongol Khans. As I wish to speak at some length of

this Mongol domination, I shall devote to it a separate chapter.

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.

The Tartar invasion, with its direct and indirect consequences, is

a subject which has more than a mere antiquarian interest. To the

influence of the Mongols are commonly attributed many peculiarities

in the actual condition and national character of the Russians of

the present day, and some writers would even have us believe that

the men whom we call Russians are simply Tartars half disguised by

a thin varnish of European civilisation. It may be well,

therefore, to inquire what the Tartar or Mongol domination really

was, and how far it affected the historical development and

national character of the Russian people.

The story of the conquest may be briefly told. In 1224 the

chieftains of the Poloftsi--one of those pastoral tribes which

roamed on the Steppe and habitually carried on a predatory warfare

with the Russians of the south--sent deputies to Mistislaf the

Brave, Prince of Galicia, to inform him that their country had been

invaded from the southeast by strong, cruel enemies called

Tartars*--strange-looking men with brown faces, eyes small and wide

apart, thick lips, broad shoulders, and black hair. "Today," said

the deputies, "they have seized our country, and tomorrow they will

seize yours if you do not help us."

* The word is properly "Tatar," and the Russians write and

pronounce it in this way, but I have preferred to retain the better

known form.

Mistislaf had probably no objection to the Poloftsi being

annihilated by some tribe stronger and fiercer than themselves, for

they gave him a great deal of trouble by their frequent raids; but

he perceived the force of the argument about his own turn coming

next, and thought it wise to assist his usually hostile neighbours.

For the purpose of warding off the danger he called together the

neighbouring Princes, and urged them to join him in an expedition

against the new enemy. The expedition was undertaken, and ended in

disaster. On the Kalka, a small river falling into the Sea of

Azof, the Russian host met the invaders, and was completely routed.

The country was thereby opened to the victors, but they did not

follow up their advantage. After advancing for some distance they

suddenly wheeled round and disappeared.

Thus ended unexpectedly the first visit of these unwelcome

strangers. Thirteen years afterwards they returned, and were not

so easily got rid of. An enormous horde crossed the River Ural and

advanced into the heart of the country, pillaging, burning,

devastating, and murdering. Nowhere did they meet with serious

resistance. The Princes made no attempt to combine against the

common enemy. Nearly all the principal towns were laid in ashes,

and the inhabitants were killed or carried off as slaves. Having

conquered Russia, they advanced westward, and threw all Europe into

alarm. The panic reached even England, and interrupted, it is

said, for a time the herring fishing on the coast. Western Europe,

however, escaped their ravages. After visiting Poland, Hungary,

Bulgaria, Servia, and Dalmatia, they retreated to the Lower Volga,

and the Russian Princes were summoned thither to do homage to the

victorious Khan.

At first the Russians had only very vague notions as to who this

terrible enemy was. The old chronicler remarks briefly: "For our

sins unknown peoples have appeared. No one knows who they are or

whence they have come, or to what race and faith they belong. They

are commonly called Tartars, but some call them Tauermen, and

others Petchenegs. Who they really are is known only to God, and

perhaps to wise men deeply read in books." Some of these "wise men

deeply read in books" supposed them to be the idolatrous Moabites

who had in Old Testament times harassed God's chosen people, whilst

others thought that they must be the descendants of the men whom

Gideon had driven out, of whom a revered saint had prophesied that

they would come in the latter days and conquer the whole earth,

from the East even unto the Euphrates, and from the Tigris even

unto the Black Sea.

We are now happily in a position to dispense with such vague

ethnographical speculations. From the accounts of several European

travellers who visited Tartary about that time, and from the

writings of various Oriental historians, we know a great deal about

these barbarians who conquered Russia and frightened the Western

nations.

The vast region lying to the east of Russia, from the basin of the

Volga to the shores of the Pacific Ocean, was inhabited then, as it

is still, by numerous Tartar and Mongol tribes. These two terms

are often regarded as identical and interchangeable, but they

ought, I think, to be distinguished. From the ethnographic, the

linguistic, and the religious point of view they differ widely from

each other. The Kazan Tartars, the Bashkirs, the Kirghiz, in a

word, all the tribes in the country stretching latitudinally from

the Volga to Kashgar, and longitudinally from the Persian frontier,

the Hindu Kush and the Northern Himalaya, to a line drawn east and

west through the middle of Siberia, belong to the Tartar group;

whereas those further eastward, occupying Mongolia and Manchuria,

are Mongol in the stricter sense of the term.

A very little experience enables the traveller to distinguish

between the two. Both of them have the well-known characteristics

of the Northern Asiatic--the broad flat face, yellow skin, small,

obliquely set eyes, high cheekbones, thin, straggling beard; but

these traits are more strongly marked, more exaggerated, if we may

use such an expression, in the Mongol than in the Tartar. Thus the

Mongol is, according to our conceptions, by far the uglier of the

two, and the man of Tartar race, when seen beside him, appears

almost European by comparison. The distinction is confirmed by a

study of their languages. All the Tartar languages are closely

allied, so that a person of average linguistic talent who has

mastered one of them, whether it be the rude Turki of Central Asia

or the highly polished Turkish of Stambul, can easily acquire any

of the others; whereas even an extensive acquaintance with the

Tartar dialects will be of no practical use to him in learning a

language of the Mongol group. In their religions likewise the two

races differ. The Mongols are as a rule Shamanists or Buddhists,

while the Tartars are Mahometans. Some of the Mongol invaders, it

is true, adopted Mahometanism from the conquered Tartar tribes, and

by this change of religion, which led naturally to intermarriage,

their descendants became gradually blended with the older

population; but the broad line of distinction was not permanently

effaced.

It is often supposed, even by people who profess to be acquainted

with Russian history, that Mongols and Tartars alike first came

westward to the frontiers of Europe with Genghis Khan. This is

true of the Mongols, but so far as the Tartars are concerned it is

an entire mistake. From time immemorial the Tartar tribes roamed

over these territories. Like the Russians, they were conquered by

the Mongol invaders and had long to pay tribute, and when the

Mongol empire crumbled to pieces by internal dissensions and

finally disappeared before the victorious advance of the Russians,

the Tartars reappeared from the confusion without having lost,

notwithstanding an intermixture doubtless of Mongol blood, their

old racial characteristics, their old dialects, and their old

tribal organisation.

The germ of the vast horde which swept over Asia and advanced into

the centre of Europe was a small pastoral tribe of Mongols living

in the hilly country to the north of China, near the sources of the

Amur. This tribe was neither more warlike nor more formidable than

its neighbours till near the close of the twelfth century, when

there appeared in it a man who is described as "a mighty hunter

before the Lord." Of him and his people we have a brief

description by a Chinese author of the time: "A man of gigantic

stature, with broad forehead and long beard, and remarkable for his

bravery. As to his people, their faces are broad, flat, and four-

cornered, with prominent cheek-bones; their eyes have no upper

eyelashes; they have very little hair in their beards and

moustaches; their exterior is very repulsive." This man of

gigantic stature was no other than Genghis Khan. He began by

subduing and incorporating into his army the surrounding tribes,

conquered with their assistance a great part of Northern China, and

then, leaving one of his generals to complete the conquest of the

Celestial Empire, he led his army westward with the ambitious

design of conquering the whole world. "As there is but one God in

heaven," he was wont to say, "so there should be but one ruler on

earth"; and this one universal ruler he himself aspired to be.

A European army necessarily diminishes in force and its existence

becomes more and more imperilled as it advances from its base of

operations into a foreign and hostile country. Not so a horde like

that of Genghis Khan in a country such as that which it had to

traverse. It needed no base of operations, for it took with it its

flocks, its tents, and all its worldly goods. Properly speaking,

it was not an army at all, but rather a people in movement. The

grassy Steppes fed the flocks, and the flocks fed the warriors; and

with such a simple commissariat system there was no necessity for

keeping up communications with the point of departure. Instead of

diminishing in numbers, the horde constantly increased as it moved

forwards. The nomadic tribes which it encountered on its way,

composed of men who found a home wherever they found pasture and

drinking-water, required little persuasion to make them join the

onward movement. By means of this terrible instrument of conquest

Genghis succeeded in creating a colossal Empire, stretching from

the Carpathians to the eastern shores of Asia, and from the Arctic

Ocean to the Himalayas.

Genghis was no mere ruthless destroyer; he was at the same time one

of the greatest administrators the world has ever seen. But his

administrative genius could not work miracles. His vast Empire,

founded on conquest and composed of the most heterogeneous

elements, had no principle of organic life in it, and could not

possibly be long-lived. It had been created by him, and it

perished with him. For some time after his death the dignity of

Grand Khan was held by some one of his descendants, and the

centralised administration was nominally preserved; but the local

rulers rapidly emancipated themselves from the central authority,

and within half a century after the death of its founder the great

Mongol Empire was little more than "a geographical expression."

With the dismemberment of the short-lived Empire the danger for

Eastern Europe was by no means at an end. The independent hordes

were scarcely less formidable than the Empire itself. A grandson

of Genghis formed on the Russian frontier a new State, commonly

known as Kiptchak, or the Golden Horde, and built a capital called

Serai, on one of the arms of the Lower Volga. This capital, which

has since so completely disappeared that there is some doubt as to

its site, is described by Ibn Batuta, who visited it in the

fifteenth century, as a very great, populous, and beautiful city,

possessing many mosques, fine market-places, and broad streets, in

which were to be seen merchants from Babylon, Egypt, Syria, and

other countries. Here lived the Khans of the Golden Horde, who

kept Russia in subjection for two centuries.

In conquering Russia the Mongols had no wish to possess themselves

of the soil, or to take into their own hands the local

administration. What they wanted was not land, of which they had

enough and to spare, but movable property which they might enjoy

without giving up their pastoral, nomadic life. They applied,

therefore, to Russia the same method of extracting supplies as they

had used in other countries. As soon as their authority had been

formally acknowledged they sent officials into the country to

number the inhabitants and to collect an amount of tribute

proportionate to the population. This was a severe burden for the

people, not only on account of the sum demanded, but also on

account of the manner in which it was raised. The exactions and

cruelty of the tax-gatherers led to local insurrections, and the

insurrections were of course always severely punished. But there

was never any general military occupation of the country or any

wholesale confiscations of land, and the existing political

organisation was left undisturbed. The modern method of dealing

with annexed provinces was totally unknown to the Mongols. The

Khans never thought of attempting to denationalise their Russian

subjects. They demanded simply an oath of allegiance from the

Princes* and a certain sum of tribute from the people. The

vanquished were allowed to retain their land, their religion, their

language, their courts of justice, and all their other

institutions.

* During the Mongol domination Russia was composed of a large

number of independent principalities.

The nature of the Mongol domination is well illustrated by the

policy which the conquerors adopted towards the Russian Church.

For more than half a century after the conquest the religion of the

Tartars was a mixture of Buddhism and Paganism, with traces of

Sabaeism or fire-worship. During this period Christianity was more

than simply tolerated. The Grand Khan Kuyuk caused a Christian

chapel to be erected near his domicile, and one of his successors,

Khubilai, was in the habit of publicly taking part in the Easter

festivals. In 1261 the Khan of the Golden Horde allowed the

Russians to found a bishopric in his capital, and several members

of his family adopted Christianity. One of them even founded a

monastery, and became a saint of the Russian Church! The Orthodox

clergy were exempted from the poll-tax, and in the charters granted

to them it was expressly declared that if any one committed

blasphemy against the faith of the Russians he should be put to

death. Some time afterwards the Golden Horde was converted to

Islam, but the Khans did not on that account change their policy.

They continued to favour the clergy, and their protection was long

remembered. Many generations later, when the property of the

Church was threatened by the autocratic power, refractory

ecclesiastics contrasted the policy of the Orthodox Sovereign with

that of the "godless Tartars," much to the advantage of the latter.

At first there was and could be very little mutual confidence

between the conquerors and the conquered. The Princes anxiously

looked for an opportunity of throwing off the galling yoke, and the

people chafed under the exactions and cruelty of the tribute-

collectors, whilst the Khans took precautions to prevent

insurrection, and threatened to devastate the country if their

authority was not respected. But in the course of time this mutual

distrust and hostility greatly lessened. When the Princes found by

experience that all attempts at resistance were fruitless, they

became reconciled to their new position, and instead of seeking to

throw off the Khan's authority, they tried to gain his favour, in

the hope of forwarding their personal interests. For this purpose

they paid frequent visits to the Tartar Suzerain, made rich

presents to his wives and courtiers, received from him charters

confirming their authority, and sometimes even married members of

his family. Some of them used the favour thus acquired for

extending their possessions at the expense of neighbouring Princes

of their own race, and did not hesitate to call in Tartar hordes to

their assistance. The Khans, in their turn, placed greater

confidence in their vassals, entrusted them with the task of

collecting the tribute, recalled their own officials who were a

constant eyesore to the people, and abstained from all interference

in the internal affairs of the principalities so long as the

tribute was regularly paid. The Princes acted, in short, as the

Khan's lieutenants, and became to a certain extent Tartarised.

Some of them carried this policy so far that they were reproached

by the people with "loving beyond measure the Tartars and their

language, and with giving them too freely land, and gold, and goods

of every kind."

Had the Khans of the Golden Horde been prudent, far-seeing

statesmen, they might have long retained their supremacy over

Russia. In reality they showed themselves miserably deficient in

political talent. Seeking merely to extract from the country as

much tribute as possible, they overlooked all higher

considerations, and by this culpable shortsightedness prepared

their own political ruin. Instead of keeping all the Russian

Princes on the same level and thereby rendering them all equally

feeble, they were constantly bribed or cajoled into giving to one

or more of their vassals a pre-eminence over the others. At first

this pre-eminence consisted in little more than the empty title of

Grand Prince; but the vassals thus favoured soon transformed the

barren distinction into a genuine power by arrogating to themselves

the exclusive right of holding direct communications with the

Horde, and compelling the minor Princes to deliver to them the

Mongol tribute. If any of the lesser Princes refused to

acknowledge this intermediate authority, the Grand Prince could

easily crush them by representing them at the Horde as rebels.

Such an accusation would cause the accused to be summoned before

the Supreme Tribunal, where the procedure was extremely summary and

the Grand Prince had always the means of obtaining a decision in

his own favour.

Of the Princes who strove in this way to increase their influence,

the most successful were the Grand Princes of Moscow. They were

not a chivalrous race, or one with which the severe moralist can

sympathise, but they were largely endowed with cunning, tact, and

perseverance, and were little hampered by conscientious scruples.

Having early discovered that the liberal distribution of money at

the Tartar court was the surest means of gaining favour, they lived

parsimoniously at home and spent their savings at the Horde. To

secure the continuance of the favour thus acquired, they were ready

to form matrimonial alliances with the Khan's family, and to act

zealously as his lieutenants. When Novgorod, the haughty,

turbulent republic, refused to pay the yearly tribute, they quelled

the insurrection and punished the leaders; and when the inhabitants

of Tver rose against the Tartars and compelled their Prince to make

common cause with them, the wily Muscovite hastened to the Tartar

court and received from the Khan the revolted principality, with

50,000 Tartars to support his authority.

Thus those cunning Moscow Princes "loved the Tartars beyond

measure" so long as the Khan was irresistibly powerful, but as his

power waned they stood forth as his rivals. When the Golden Horde,

like the great Empire of which it had once formed a part, fell to

pieces in the fifteenth century, these ambitious Princes read the

signs of the times, and put themselves at the head of the

liberation movement, which was at first unsuccessful, but

ultimately freed the country from the hated yoke.

From this brief sketch of the Mongol domination the reader will

readily understand that it did not leave any deep, lasting

impression on the people. The invaders never settled in Russia

proper, and never amalgamated with the native population. So long

as they retained their semi-pagan, semi-Buddhistic religion, a

certain number of their notables became Christians and were

absorbed by the Russian Noblesse; but as soon as the Horde adopted

Islam this movement was arrested. There was no blending of the two

races such as has taken place--and is still taking place--between

the Russian peasantry and the Finnish tribes of the North. The

Russians remained Christians, and the Tartars remained Mahometans;

and this difference of religion raised an impassable barrier

between the two nationalities.

It must, however, be admitted that the Tartar domination, though it

had little influence on the life and habits of the people, had a

considerable influence on the political development of the nation.

At the time of the conquest Russia was composed of a large number

of independent principalities, all governed by descendants of

Rurik. As these principalities were not geographical or

ethnographical units, but mere artificial, arbitrarily defined

districts, which were regularly subdivided or combined according to

the hereditary rights of the Princes, it is highly probable that

they would in any case have been sooner or later united under one

sceptre; but it is quite certain that the policy of the Khans

helped to accelerate this unification and to create the autocratic

power which has since been wielded by the Tsars. If the

principalities had been united without foreign interference we

should probably have found in the united State some form of

political organisation corresponding to that which existed in the

component parts--some mixed form of government, in which the

political power would have been more or less equally divided

between the Tsar and the people. The Tartar rule interrupted this

normal development by extinguishing all free political life. The

first Tsars of Muscovy were the political descendants, not of the

old independent Princes, but of the Mongol Khans. It may be said,

therefore, that the autocratic power, which has been during the

last four centuries out of all comparison the most important factor

in Russian history, was in a certain sense created by the Mongol

domination.

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.

No sooner had the Grand Princes of Moscow thrown off the Mongol

yoke and become independent Tsars of Muscovy than they began that

eastward territorial expansion which has been going on steadily

ever since, and which culminated in the occupation of Talienwan and

Port Arthur. Ivan the Terrible conquered the Khanates of Kazan and

Astrakhan (1552-54) and reduced to nominal subjection the Bashkir

and Kirghiz tribes in the vicinity of the Volga, but he did not

thereby establish law and order on the Steppe. The lawless tribes

retained their old pastoral mode of life and predatory habits, and

harassed the Russian agricultural population of the outlying

provinces in the same way as the Red Indians in America used to

harass the white colonists of the Far West. A large section of the

Horde, inhabiting the Crimea and the Steppe to the north of the

Black Sea, escaped annexation by submitting to the Ottoman Turks

and becoming tributaries of the Sultan.

The Turks were at that time a formidable power, with which the

Tsars of Muscovy were too weak to cope successfully, and the Khan

of the Crimea could always, when hard pressed by his northern

neighbours, obtain assistance from Constantinople. This potentate

exercised a nominal authority over the pastoral tribes which roamed

on the Steppe between the Crimea and the Russian frontier, but he

had neither the power nor the desire to control their aggressive

tendencies. Their raids in Russian and Polish territory ensured,

among other advantages, a regular and plentiful supply of slaves,

which formed the chief article of export from Kaffa--the modern

Theodosia--and from the other seaports of the coast.

Of this slave trade, which flourished down to 1783, when the Crimea

was finally conquered and annexed by Russia, we have a graphic

account by an eye-witness, a Lithuanian traveller of the sixteenth

century. "Ships from Asia," he says, "bring arms, clothes, and

horses to the Crimean Tartars, and start on the homeward voyage

laden with slaves. It is for this kind of merchandise alone that

the Crimean markets are remarkable. Slaves may be always had for

sale as a pledge or as a present, and every one rich enough to have

a horse deals in them. If a man wishes to buy clothes, arms, or

horses, and does not happen to have at the moment any slaves, he

takes on credit the articles required, and makes a formal promise

to deliver at a certain time a certain number of people of our

blood--being convinced that he can get by that time the requisite

number. And these promises are always accurately fulfilled, as if

those who made them had always a supply of our people in their

courtyards. A Jewish money-changer, sitting at the gate of Tauris

and seeing constantly the countless multitude of our countrymen led

in as captives, asked us whether there still remained any people in

our land, and whence came such a multitude of them. The stronger

of these captives, branded on the forehead and cheeks and manacled

or fettered, are tortured by severe labour all day, and are shut up

in dark cells at night. They are kept alive by small quantities of

food, composed chiefly of the flesh of animals that have died--

putrid, covered with maggots, disgusting even to dogs. Women, who

are more tender, are treated in a different fashion; some of them

who can sing and play are employed to amuse the guests at

festivals.

"When the slaves are led out for sale they walk to the marketplace

in single file, like storks on the wing, in whole dozens, chained

together by the neck, and are there sold by auction. The

auctioneer shouts loudly that they are 'the newest arrivals,

simple, and not cunning, lately captured from the people of the

kingdom (Poland), and not from Muscovy'; for the Muscovite race,

being crafty and deceitful, does not bring a good price. This kind

of merchandise is appraised with great accuracy in the Crimea, and

is bought by foreign merchants at a high price, in order to be sold

at a still higher rate to blacker nations, such as Saracens,

Persians, Indians, Arabs, Syrians, and Assyrians. When a purchase

is made the teeth are examined, to see that they are neither few

nor discoloured. At the same time the more hidden parts of the

body are carefully inspected, and if a mole, excrescence, wound, or

other latent defect is discovered, the bargain is rescinded. But

notwithstanding these investigations the cunning slave-dealers and

brokers succeed in cheating the buyers; for when they have valuable

boys and girls, they do not at once produce them, but first fatten

them, clothe them in silk, and put powder and rouge on their

cheeks, so as to sell them at a better price. Sometimes beautiful

and perfect maidens of our nation bring their weight in gold. This

takes place in all the towns of the peninsula, but especially in

Kaffa."*

* Michalonis Litvani, "De moribus Tartarorum Fragmina," X.,

Basilliae, 1615.

To protect the agricultural population of the Steppe against the

raids of these thieving, cattle-lifting, kidnapping neighbours, the

Tsars of Muscovy and the Kings of Poland built forts, constructed

palisades, dug trenches, and kept up a regular military cordon.

The troops composing this cordon were called Cossacks; but these

were not the "Free Cossacks" best known to history and romance.

These latter lived beyond the frontier on the debatable land which

lay between the two hostile races, and there they formed self-

governing military communities. Each one of the rivers flowing

southwards--the Dnieper, the Don, the Volga, and the Yaik or Ural--

was held by a community of these Free Cossacks, and no one, whether

Christian or Tartar, was allowed to pass through their territory

without their permission.

Officially the Free Cossacks were Russians, for they professed to

be champions of Orthodox Christianity, and--with the exception of

those of the Dnieper--loyal subjects of the Tsar; but in reality

they were something different. Though they were Russian by origin,

language, and sympathy, the habit of kidnapping Tartar women

introduced among them a certain admixture of Tartar blood. Though

self-constituted champions of Christianity and haters of Islam,

they troubled themselves very little with religion, and did not

submit to the ecclesiastical authorities. As to their religious

status, it cannot be easily defined. Whilst professing allegiance

and devotion to the Tsar, they did not think it necessary to obey

him, except in so far as his orders suited their own convenience.

And the Tsar, it must be confessed, acted towards them in a similar

fashion. When he found it convenient he called them his faithful

subjects; and when complaints were made to him about their raids in

Turkish territory, he declared that they were not his subjects, but

runaways and brigands, and that the Sultan might punish them as he

saw fit. At the same time, the so-called runaways and brigands

regularly received supplies and ammunition from Moscow, as is amply

proved by recently-published documents. Down to the middle of the

seventeenth century the Cossacks of the Dnieper stood in a similar

relation to the Polish kings; but at that time they threw off their

allegiance to Poland, and became subjects of the Tsars of Muscovy.

Of these semi-independent military communities, which formed a

continuous barrier along the southern and southeastern frontier,

the most celebrated were the Zaporovians* of the Dnieper, and the

Cossacks of the Don.

* The name "Zaporovians," by which they are known in the West, is a

corruption of the Russian word Zaporozhtsi, which means "Those who

live beyond the rapids."

The Zaporovian Commonwealth has been compared sometimes to ancient

Sparta, and sometimes to the mediaeval Military Orders, but it had

in reality quite a different character. In Sparta the nobles kept

in subjection a large population of slaves, and were themselves

constantly under the severe discipline of the magistrates. These

Cossacks of the Dnieper, on the contrary, lived by fishing,

hunting, and marauding, and knew nothing of discipline, except in

time of war. Amongst all the inhabitants of the Setch--so the

fortified camp was called--there reigned the most perfect equality.

The common saying, "Bear patiently, Cossack; you will one day be

Ataman!" was often realised; for every year the office-bearers laid

down the insignia of office in presence of the general assembly,

and after thanking the brotherhood for the honour they had enjoyed,

retired to their former position of common Cossack. At the

election which followed this ceremony any member could be chosen

chief of his kuren, or company, and any chief of a kuren could be

chosen Ataman.

The comparison of these bold Borderers with the mediaeval Military

Orders is scarcely less forced. They call themselves, indeed,

Lytsars--a corruption of the Russian word Ritsar, which is in its

turn a corruption of the German Ritter--talked of knightly honour

(lytsarskaya tchest'), and sometimes proclaimed themselves the

champions of Greek Orthodoxy against the Roman Catholicism of the

Poles and the Mahometanism of the Tartars; but religion occupied in

their minds a very secondary place. Their great object in life was

the acquisition of booty. To attain this object they lived in

intermittent warfare with the Tartars, lifted their cattle,

pillaged their aouls, swept the Black Sea in flotillas of small

boats, and occasionally sacked important coast towns, such as Varna

and Sinope. When Tartar booty could not be easily obtained, they

turned their attention to the Slavonic populations; and when hard

pressed by Christian potentates, they did not hesitate to put

themselves under the protection of the Sultan.

The Cossacks of the Don, of the Volga, and of the Ural had a

somewhat different organisation. They had no fortified camp like

the Setch, but lived in villages, and assembled as necessity

demanded. As they were completely beyond the sphere of Polish

influence, they knew nothing about "knightly honour" and similar

conceptions of Western chivalry; they even adopted many Tartar

customs, and loved in time of peace to strut about in gorgeous

Tartar costumes. Besides this, they were nearly all emigrants from

Great Russia, and mostly Old Ritualists or Sectarians, whilst the

Zaporovians were Little Russians and Orthodox.

These military communities rendered valuable service to Russia.

The best means of protecting the southern frontier was to have as

allies a large body of men leading the same kind of life and

capable of carrying on the same kind of warfare as the nomadic

marauders; and such a body of men were the Free Cossacks. The

sentiment of self-preservation and the desire of booty kept them

constantly on the alert. By sending out small parties in all

directions, by "procuring tongues"--that is to say, by kidnapping

and torturing straggling Tartars with a view to extracting

information from them--and by keeping spies in the enemy's

territory, they were generally apprised beforehand of any intended

incursion. When danger threatened, the ordinary precautions were

redoubled. Day and night patrols kept watch at the points where

the enemy was expected, and as soon as sure signs of his approach

were discovered a pile of tarred barrels prepared for the purpose

was fired to give the alarm. Rapidly the signal was repeated at

one point of observation after another, and by this primitive

system of telegraphy in the course of a few hours the whole

district was up in arms. If the invaders were not too numerous,

they were at once attacked and driven back. If they could not be

successfully resisted, they were allowed to pass; but a troop of

Cossacks was sent to pillage their aouls in their absence, whilst

another and larger force was collected, in order to intercept them

when they were returning home laden with booty. Thus many a

nameless battle was fought on the trackless Steppe, and many brave

men fell unhonoured and unsung:

"Illacrymabiles

Urgentur ignotique longa

Nocte, carent quia vate sacro."

Notwithstanding these valuable services, the Cossack communities

were a constant source of diplomatic difficulties and political

dangers. As they paid very little attention to the orders of the

Government, they supplied the Sultan with any number of casi belli,

and were often ready to turn their arms against the power to which

they professed allegiance. During "the troublous times," for

example, when the national existence was endangered by civil strife

and foreign invasion, they overran the country, robbing, pillaging,

and burning as they were wont to do in the Tartar aouls. At a

later period the Don Cossacks twice raised formidable

insurrections--first under Stenka Razin (1670), and secondly under

Pugatchef (1773)--and during the war between Peter the Great and

Charles XII. of Sweden the Zaporovians took the side of the Swedish

king.

The Government naturally strove to put an end to this danger, and

ultimately succeeded. All the Cossacks were deprived of their

independence, but the fate of the various communities was

different. Those of the Volga were transfered to the Terek, where

they had abundant occupation in guarding the frontier against the

incursions of the Eastern Caucasian tribes. The Zaporovians held

tenaciously to their "Dnieper liberties," and resisted all

interference, till they were forcibly disbanded in the time of

Catherine II. The majority of them fled to Turkey, where some of

their descendants are still to be found, and the remainder were

settled on the Kuban, where they could lead their old life by

carrying on an irregular warfare with the tribes of the Western

Caucasus. Since the capture of Shamyl and the pacification of the

Caucasus, this Cossack population of the Kuban and the Terek,

extending in an unbroken line from the Sea of Azof to the Caspian,

have been able to turn their attention to peaceful pursuits, and

now raise large quantities of wheat for exportation; but they still

retain their martial bearing, and some of them regret the good old

times when a brush with the Circassians was an ordinary occurrence

and the work of tilling the soil was often diversified with a more

exciting kind of occupation.

The Cossacks of the Ural and the Don have been allowed to remain in

their old homes, but they have been deprived of their independence

and self-government, and their social organisation has been

completely changed. The boisterous popular assemblies which

formerly decided all public affairs have been abolished, and the

custom of choosing the Ataman and other office-bearers by popular

election has been replaced by a system of regular promotion,

according to rules elaborated in St. Petersburg. The officers and

their families now compose a kind of hereditary aristocracy which

has succeeded in appropriating, by means of Imperial grants, a

large portion of the land which was formerly common property. As

the Empire expanded in Asia the system of protecting the parties by

Cossack colonists was extended eastwards, so now there is a belt of

Cossack territory stretching almost without interruption from the

banks of the Don to the coast of the Pacific. It is divided into

eleven sections, in each of which is settled a Cossack corps with a

separate administration.

When universal military service was introduced, in 1873, the

Cossacks were brought under the new law, but in order to preserve

their military traditions and habits they were allowed to retain,

with certain modifications, their old organisation, rights, and

privileges. In return for a large amount of fertile land and

exemption from direct taxation, they have to equip themselves at

their own expense, and serve for twenty years, of which three are

spent in preparatory training, twelve in the active army, and five

in the reserve. This system gives to the army a contingent of

about 330,000 men--divided into 890 squadrons and 108 infantry

companies--with 236 guns.

The Cossacks in active service are to be met with in all parts of

the Empire, from the Prussian to the Chinese frontier. In the

Asiatic Provinces their services are invaluable. Capable of

enduring an incredible amount of fatigue and all manner of

privations, they can live and thrive in conditions which would soon

disable regular troops. The capacity of self-adaptation, which is

characteristic of the Russian people generally, is possessed by

them in the highest degree. When placed on some distant Asiatic

frontier they can at once transform themselves into squatters--

building their own houses, raising crops of grain, and living as

colonists without neglecting their military duties.

I have sometimes heard it asserted by military men that the Cossack

organisation is an antiquated institution, and that the soldiers

which it produces, however useful they may be in Central Asia,

would be of little service in regular European warfare. Whether

this view, which received some confirmation in the Russo-Turkish

War of 1877-78, is true or false I cannot pretend to say, for it is

a subject on which a civilian has no right to speak; but I may

remark that the Cossacks themselves are not by any means of that

opinion. They regard themselves as the most valuable troops which

the Tsar possesses, believing themselves capable of performing

anything within the bounds of human possibility, and a good deal

that lies beyond that limit. More than once Don Cossacks have

assured me that if the Tsar had allowed them to fit out a flotilla

of small boats during the Crimean War they would have captured the

British fleet, as their ancestors used to capture Turkish galleys

on the Black Sea!

In old times, throughout the whole territory of the Don Cossacks,

agriculture was prohibited on pain of death. It is generally

supposed that this measure was adopted with a view to preserve the

martial spirit of the inhabitants, but it may be explained

otherwise. The great majority of the Cossacks, averse to all

regular, laborious occupations, wished to live by fishing, hunting,

cattle-breeding, and marauding, but there was always amongst them a

considerable number of immigrants--runaway serfs from the interior--

who had been accustomed to live by agriculture. These latter

wished to raise crops on the fertile virgin soil, and if they had

been allowed to do so they would to some extent have spoiled the

pastures. We have here, I believe, the true reason for the above-

mentioned prohibition, and this view is strongly confirmed by

analogous facts which I have observed in another locality. In the

Kirghiz territory the poorer inhabitants of the aouls near the

frontier, having few or no cattle, wish to let part of the common

land to the neighbouring Russian peasantry for agricultural

purposes; but the richer inhabitants, who possess flocks and herds,

strenuously oppose this movement, and would doubtless prohibit it

under pain of death if they had the power, because all agricultural

encroachments diminish the pasture-land.

Whatever was the real reason of the prohibition, practical

necessity proved in the long run too strong for the anti-

agriculturists. As the population augmented and the opportunities

for marauding decreased, the majority had to overcome their

repugnance to husbandry; and soon large patches of ploughed land or

waving grain were to be seen in the vicinity of the stanitsas, as

the Cossack villages are termed. At first there was no attempt to

regulate this new use of the ager publicus. Each Cossack who

wished to raise a crop ploughed and sowed wherever he thought fit,

and retained as long as he chose the land thus appropriated; and

when the soil began to show signs of exhaustion he abandoned his

plot and ploughed elsewhere. But this unregulated use of the

Communal property could not long continue. As the number of

agriculturists increased, quarrels frequently arose, and sometimes

terminated in bloodshed. Still worse evils appeared when markets

were created in the vicinity, and it became possible to sell the

grain for exportation. In some stanitsas the richer families

appropriated enormous quantities of the common land by using

several teams of oxen, or by hiring peasants in the nearest

villages to come and plough for them; and instead of abandoning the

land after raising two or three crops they retained possession of

it, and came to regard it as their private property. Thus the

whole of the arable land, or at least the best part of it, became

actually, if not legally, the private property of a few families,

whilst the less energetic or less fortunate inhabitants of the

stanitsa had only parcels of comparatively barren soil, or had no

land whatever, and became mere agricultural labourers.

After a time this injustice was remedied. The landless members

justly complained that they had to bear the same burdens as those

who possessed the land, and that therefore they ought to enjoy the

same privileges. The old spirit of equality was still strong

amongst them, and they ultimately succeeded in asserting their

rights. In accordance with their demands the appropriated land was

confiscated by the Commune, and the system of periodical

redistributions was introduced. By this system each adult male

possesses a share of the land.

These facts tend to throw light on some of the dark questions of

social development in its early stages.

So long as a village community leads a purely pastoral life, and

possesses an abundance of land, there is no reason why the

individuals or the families of which it is composed should divide

the land into private lots, and there are very potent reasons why

they should not adopt such a course. To give the division of the

land any practical significance, it would be necessary to raise

fences of some kind, and these fences, requiring for their

construction a certain amount of labour, would prove merely a

useless encumbrance, for it is much more convenient that all the

sheep and cattle should graze together. If there is a scarcity of

pasture, and consequently a conflict of interest among the

families, the enjoyment of the common land will be regulated not by

raising fences, but by simply limiting the number of sheep and

cattle which each family is entitled to put upon the pasturage, as

is done in many Russian villages at the present day. When any one

desires to keep more sheep and cattle than the maximum to which he

is entitled, he pays to the others a certain compensation. Thus,

we see, in pastoral life the dividing of the common land is

unnecessary and inexpedient, and consequently private property in

land is not likely to come into existence.

With the introduction of agriculture appears a tendency to divide

the land among the families composing the community, for each

family living by husbandry requires a definite portion of the soil.

If the land suitable for agricultural purposes be plentiful, each

head of a family may be allowed to take possession of as much of it

as he requires, as was formerly done in the Cossack stanitsas; if,

on the contrary, the area of arable land is small, as is the case

in some Bashkir aouls, there will probably be a regular allotment

of it among the families.

With the tendency to divide the land into definite portions arises

a conflict between the principle of communal and the principle of

private property. Those who obtain definite portions of the soil

are in general likely to keep them and transmit them to their

descendants. In a country, however, like the Steppe--and it is

only of such countries that I am at present speaking--the nature of

the soil and the system of agriculture militate against this

conversion of simple possession into a right of property. A plot

of land is commonly cultivated for only three or four years in

succession. It is then abandoned for at least double that period,

and the cultivators remove to some other portion of the communal

territory. After a time, it is true, they return to the old

portion, which has been in the meantime lying fallow; but as the

soil is tolerably equal in quality, the families or individuals

have no reason to desire the precise plots which they formerly

possessed. Under such circumstances the principle of private

property in the land is not likely to strike root; each family

insists on possessing a certain QUANTITY rather than a certain PLOT

of land, and contents itself with a right of usufruct, whilst the

right of property remains in the hands of the Commune; and it must

not be forgotten that the difference between usufruct and property

here is of great practical importance, for so long as the Commune

retains the right of property it may re-allot the land in any way

it thinks fit.

As the population increases and land becomes less plentiful, the

primitive method of agriculture above alluded to gives place to a

less primitive method, commonly known as "the three-field system,"

according to which the cultivators do not migrate periodically from

one part of the communal territory to another, but till always the

same fields, and are obliged to manure the plots which they occupy.

The principle of communal property rarely survives this change, for

by long possession the families acquire a prescriptive right to the

portions which they cultivate, and those who manure their land well

naturally object to exchange it for land which has been held by

indolent, improvident neighbours. In Russia, however, this change

has not destroyed the principle of communal property. Though the

three-field system has been in use for many generations in the

central provinces, the communal principle, with its periodical re-

allotment of the land, still remains intact.

For the student of sociology the past history and actual condition

of the Don Cossacks present many other features equally interesting

and instructive. He may there see, for instance, how an

aristocracy can be created by military promotion, and how serfage

may originate and become a recognised institution without any

legislative enactment. If he takes an interest in peculiar

manifestations of religious thought and feeling, he will find a

rich field of investigation in the countless religious sects; and

if he is a collector of quaint old customs, he will not lack

occupation.

One curious custom, which has very recently died out, I may here

mention by way of illustration. As the Cossacks knew very little

about land-surveying, and still less about land-registration, the

precise boundary between two contiguous yurts--as the communal land

of a stanitsa was called--was often a matter of uncertainty and a

fruitful source of disputes. When the boundary was once

determined, the following method of registering it was employed.

All the boys of the two stanitsas were collected and driven in a

body like sheep to the intervening frontier. The whole population

then walked along the frontier that had been agreed upon, and at

each landmark a number of boys were soundly whipped and allowed to

run home! This was done in the hope that the victims would

remember, as long as they lived, the spot where they had received

their unmerited castigation.* The device, I have been assured, was

generally very effective, but it was not always quite successful.

Whether from the castigation not being sufficiently severe, or from

some other defect in the method, it sometimes happened that

disputes afterwards arose, and the whipped boys, now grown up to

manhood, gave conflicting testimony. When such a case occurred the

following expedient was adopted. One of the oldest inhabitants was

chosen as arbiter, and made to swear on the Scriptures that he

would act honestly to the best of his knowledge; then taking an

Icon in his hand, he walked along what he believed to be the old

frontier. Whether he made mistakes or not, his decision was

accepted by both parties and regarded as final. This custom

existed in some stanitsas down to the year 1850, when the

boundaries were clearly determined by Government officials.

* A custom of this kind, I am told, existed not very long ago in

England and is still spoken of as "the beating of the bounds."

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.

In European Russia the struggle between agriculture and nomadic

barbarism is now a thing of the past, and the fertile Steppe, which

was for centuries a battle-ground of the Aryan and Turanian races,

has been incorporated into the dominions of the Tsar. The nomadic

tribes have been partly driven out and partly pacified and parked

in "reserves," and the territory which they so long and so

stubbornly defended is now studded with peaceful villages and

tilled by laborious agriculturists.

In traversing this region the ordinary tourist will find little to

interest him. He will see nothing which he can possibly dignify by

the name of scenery, and he may journey on for many days without

having any occasion to make an entry in his note-book. If he

should happen, however, to be an ethnologist and linguist, he may

find occupation, for he will here meet with fragments of many

different races and a variety of foreign tongues.

This ethnological variety is the result of a policy inaugurated by

Catherine II. So long as the southern frontier was pushed forward

slowly, the acquired territory was regularly filled up by Russian

peasants from the central provinces who were anxious to obtain more

land and more liberty than they enjoyed in their native villages;

but during "the glorious age of Catherine" the frontier was pushed

forward so rapidly that the old method of spontaneous emigration no

longer sufficed to people the annexed territory. The Empress had

recourse, therefore, to organised emigration from foreign

countries. Her diplomatic representatives in Western Europe tried

to induce artisans and peasants to emigrate to Russia, and special

agents were sent to various countries to supplement the efforts of

the diplomatists. Thousands accepted the invitation, and were for

the most part settled on the land which had been recently the

pasture-ground of the nomadic hordes.

This policy was adopted by succeeding sovereigns, and the

consequence of it has been that Southern Russia now contains a

variety of races such as is to be found, perhaps, nowhere else in

Europe. The official statistics of New Russia alone--that is to

say, the provinces of Ekaterinoslaf, Tauride, Kherson, and

Bessarabia--enumerate the following nationalities: Great Russians,

Little Russians, Poles, Servians, Montenegrins, Bulgarians,

Moldavians, Germans, English, Swedes, Swiss, French, Italians,

Greeks, Armenians, Tartars, Mordwa, Jews, and Gypsies. The

religions are almost equally numerous. The statistics speak of

Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholics, Gregorians, Lutherans, Calvinists,

Anglicans, Mennonites, Separatists, Pietists, Karaim Jews,

Talmudists, Mahometans, and numerous Russian sects, such as the

Molokanye and the Skoptsi or Eunuchs. America herself could

scarcely show a more motley list in her statistics of population.

It is but fair to state that the above list, though literally

correct, does not give a true idea of the actual population. The

great body of the inhabitants are Russian and Orthodox, whilst

several of the nationalities named are represented by a small

number of souls--some of them, such as the French, being found

exclusively in the towns. Still, the variety even in the rural

population is very great. Once, in the space of three days, and

using only the most primitive means of conveyance, I visited

colonies of Greeks, Germans, Servians, Bulgarians, Montenegrins,

and Jews.

Of all the foreign colonists the Germans are by far the most

numerous. The object of the Government in inviting them to settle

in the country was that they should till the unoccupied land and

thereby increase the national wealth, and that they should at the

same time exercise a civilising influence on the Russian peasantry

in their vicinity. In this latter respect they have totally failed

to fulfil their mission. A Russian village, situated in the midst

of German colonies, shows generally, so far as I could observe, no

signs of German influence. Each nationality lives more majorum,

and holds as little communication as possible with the other. The

muzhik observes carefully--for he is very curious--the mode of life

of his more advanced neighbours, but he never thinks of adopting

it. He looks upon Germans almost as beings of a different world--

as a wonderfully cunning and ingenious people, who have been

endowed by Providence with peculiar qualities not possessed by

ordinary Orthodox humanity. To him it seems in the nature of

things that Germans should live in large, clean, well-built houses,

in the same way as it is in the nature of things that birds should

build nests; and as it has probably never occurred to a human being

to build a nest for himself and his family, so it never occurs to a

Russian peasant to build a house on the German model. Germans are

Germans, and Russians are Russians--and there is nothing more to be

said on the subject.

This stubbornly conservative spirit of the peasantry who live in

the neighbourhood of Germans seems to give the lie direct to the

oft-repeated and universally believed assertion that Russians are

an imitative people strongly disposed to adopt the manners and

customs of any foreigners with whom they may come in contact. The

Russian, it is said, changes his nationality as easily as he

changes his coat, and derives great satisfaction from wearing some

nationality that does not belong to him; but here we have an

important fact which appears to prove the contrary.

The truth is that in this matter we must distinguish between the

Noblesse and the peasantry. The nobles are singularly prone to

adopt foreign manners, customs, and institutions; the peasants, on

the contrary, are as a rule decidedly conservative. It must not,

however, be supposed that this proceeds from a difference of race;

the difference is to be explained by the past history of the two

classes. Like all other peoples, the Russians are strongly

conservative so long as they remain in what may be termed their

primitive moral habitat--that is to say, so long as external

circumstances do not force them out of their accustomed traditional

groove. The Noblesse were long ago violently forced out of their

old groove by the reforming Tsars, and since that time they have

been so constantly driven hither and thither by foreign influences

that they have never been able to form a new one. Thus they easily

enter upon any new path which seems to them profitable or

attractive. The great mass of the people, on the contrary, too

heavy to be thus lifted out of the guiding influence of custom and

tradition, are still animated with a strongly conservative spirit.

In confirmation of this view I may mention two facts which have

often attracted my attention. The first is that the Molokanye--a

primitive Evangelical sect of which I shall speak at length in the

next chapter--succumb gradually to German influence; by becoming

heretics in religion they free themselves from one of the strongest

bonds attaching them to the past, and soon become heretics in

things secular. The second fact is that even the Orthodox peasant,

when placed by circumstances in some new sphere of activity,

readily adopts whatever seems profitable. Take, for example, the

peasants who abandon agriculture and embark in industrial

enterprises; finding themselves, as it were, in a new world, in

which their old traditional notions are totally inapplicable, they

have no hesitation in adopting foreign ideas and foreign

inventions. And when once they have chosen this new path, they are

much more "go-ahead" than the Germans. Freed alike from the

trammels of hereditary conceptions and from the prudence which

experience generates, they often give a loose rein to their

impulsive character, and enter freely on the wildest speculations.

The marked contrast presented by a German colony and a Russian

village in close proximity with each other is often used to

illustrate the superiority of the Teutonic over the Slavonic race,

and in order to make the contrast more striking, the Mennonite

colonies are generally taken as the representatives of the Germans.

Without entering here on the general question, I must say that this

method of argumentation is scarcely fair. The Mennonites, who

formerly lived in the neighbourhood of Danzig and emigrated from

Prussia in order to escape the military conscription, brought with

them to their new home a large store of useful technical knowledge

and a considerable amount of capital, and they received a quantity

of land very much greater than the Russian peasants possess.

Besides this, they enjoyed until very recently several valuable

privileges. They were entirely exempted from military service and

almost entirely exempted from taxation. Altogether their lines

fell in very pleasant places. In material and moral well-being

they stand as far above the majority of the ordinary German

colonists as these latter do above their Russian neighbours. Even

in the richest districts of Germany their prosperity would attract

attention. To compare these rich, privileged, well-educated

farmers with the poor, heavily taxed, uneducated peasantry, and to

draw from the comparison conclusions concerning the capabilities of

the two races, is a proceeding so absurd that it requires no

further comment.

To the wearied traveller who has been living for some time in

Russian villages, one of these Mennonite colonies seems an earthly

paradise. In a little hollow, perhaps by the side of a

watercourse, he suddenly comes on a long row of high-roofed houses

half concealed in trees. The trees may be found on closer

inspection to be little better than mere saplings; but after a long

journey on the bare Steppe, where there is neither tree nor bush of

any kind, the foliage, scant as it is, appears singularly inviting.

The houses are large, well arranged, and kept in such thoroughly

good repair that they always appear to be newly built. The rooms

are plainly furnished, without any pretensions to elegance, but

scrupulously clean. Adjoining the house are the stable and byre,

which would not disgrace a model farm in Germany or England. In

front is a spacious courtyard, which has the appearance of being

swept several times a day, and behind there is a garden well

stocked with vegetables. Fruit trees and flowers are not very

plentiful, for the climate is not favourable to them.

The inhabitants are honest, frugal folk, somewhat sluggish of

intellect and indifferent to things lying beyond the narrow limits

of their own little world, but shrewd enough in all matters which

they deem worthy of their attention. If you arrive amongst them as

a stranger you may be a little chilled by the welcome you receive,

for they are exclusive, reserved, and distrustful, and do not much

like to associate with those who do not belong to their own sect;

but if you can converse with them in their mother tongue and talk

about religious matters in an evangelical tone, you may easily

overcome their stiffness and exclusiveness. Altogether such a

village cannot be recommended for a lengthened sojourn, for the

severe order and symmetry which everywhere prevail would soon prove

irksome to any one having no Dutch blood in his veins;* but as a

temporary resting-place during a pilgrimage on the Steppe, when the

pilgrim is longing for a little cleanliness and comfort, it is very

agreeable.

* The Mennonites were originally Dutchmen. Persecuted for their

religious views in the sixteenth century, a large number of them

accepted an invitation to settle in West Prussia, where they helped

to drain the great marshes between Danzig, Elbing, and Marienburg.

Here in the course of time they forgot their native language.

Their emigration to Russia began in 1789.

The fact that these Mennonites and some other German colonies have

succeeded in rearing a few sickly trees has suggested to some

fertile minds the idea that the prevailing dryness of the climate,

which is the chief difficulty with which the agriculturist of that

region has to contend, might be to some extent counteracted by

arboriculture on a large scale. This scheme, though it has been

seriously entertained by one of his Majesty's ministers, must seem

hardly practicable to any one who knows how much labour and money

the colonists have expended in creating that agreeable shade which

they love to enjoy in their leisure hours. If climate is affected

at all by the existence or non-existence of forests--a point on

which scientific men do not seem to be entirely agreed--any

palpable increase of the rainfall can be produced only by forests

of enormous extent, and it is hardly conceivable that these could

be artificially produced in Southern Russia. It is quite possible,

however, that local ameliorations may be effected. During a visit

to the province of Voronezh in 1903 I found that comparatively

small plantations diminished the effects of drought in their

immediate vicinity by retaining the moisture for a time in the soil

and the surrounding atmosphere.

After the Mennonites and other Germans, the Bulgarian colonists

deserve a passing notice. They settled in this region much more

recently, on the land that was left vacant by the exodus of the

Nogai Tartars after the Crimean War. If I may judge of their

condition by a mere flying visit, I should say that in agriculture

and domestic civilisation they are not very far behind the majority

of German colonists. Their houses are indeed small--so small that

one of them might almost be put into a single room of a Mennonite's

house; but there is an air of cleanliness and comfort about them

that would do credit to a German housewife.

In spite of all this, these Bulgarians were, I could easily

perceive, by no means delighted with their new home. The cause of

their discontent, so far as I could gather from the few laconic

remarks which I extracted from them, seemed to be this: Trusting to

the highly coloured descriptions furnished by the emigration agents

who had induced them to change the rule of the Sultan for the

authority of the Tsar, they came to Russia with the expectation of

finding a fertile and beautiful Promised Land. Instead of a land

flowing with milk and honey, they received a tract of bare Steppe

on which even water could be obtained only with great difficulty--

with no shade to protect them from the heat of summer and nothing

to shelter them from the keen northern blasts that often sweep over

those open plains. As no adequate arrangements had been made for

their reception, they were quartered during the first winter on the

German colonists, who, being quite innocent of any Slavophil

sympathies, were probably not very hospitable to their uninvited

guests. To complete their disappointment, they found that they

could not cultivate the vine, and that their mild, fragrant

tobacco, which is for them a necessary of life, could be obtained

only at a very high price. So disconsolate were they under this

cruel disenchantment that, at the time of my visit, they talked of

returning to their old homes in Turkey.

As an example of the less prosperous colonists, I may mention the

Tartar-speaking Greeks in the neighbourhood of Mariupol, on the

northern shore of the Sea of Azof. Their ancestors lived in the

Crimea, under the rule of the Tartar Khans, and emigrated to Russia

in the time of Catherine II., before Crim Tartary was annexed to

the Russian Empire. They have almost entirely forgotten their old

language, but have preserved their old faith. In adopting the

Tartar language they have adopted something of Tartar indolence and

apathy, and the natural consequence is that they are poor and

ignorant.

But of all the colonists of this region the least prosperous are

the Jews. The Chosen People are certainly a most intelligent,

industrious, frugal race, and in all matters of buying, selling,

and bartering they are unrivalled among the nations of the earth,

but they have been too long accustomed to town life to be good

tillers of the soil. These Jewish colonies were founded as an

experiment to see whether the Israelite could be weaned from his

traditionary pursuits and transferred to what some economists call

the productive section of society. The experiment has failed, and

the cause of the failure is not difficult to find. One has merely

to look at these men of gaunt visage and shambling gait, with their

loop-holed slippers, and black, threadbare coats reaching down to

their ankles, to understand that they are not in their proper

sphere. Their houses are in a most dilapidated condition, and

their villages remind one of the abomination of desolation spoken

of by Daniel the Prophet. A great part of their land is left

uncultivated or let to colonists of a different race. What little

revenue they have is derived chiefly from trade of a more or less

clandestine nature.*

* Mr. Arnold White, who subsequently visited some of these Jewish

Colonies in connection with Baron Hirsch's colonisation scheme,

assured me that he found them in a much more prosperous condition.

As Scandinavia was formerly called officina gentium--a workshop in

which new nations were made--so we may regard Southern Russia as a

workshop in which fragments of old nations are being melted down to

form a new, composite whole. It must be confessed, however, that

the melting process has as yet scarcely begun.

National peculiarities are not obliterated so rapidly in Russia as

in America or in British colonies. Among the German colonists in

Russia the process of assimilation is hardly perceptible. Though

their fathers and grandfathers may have been born in the new

country, they would consider it an insult to be called Russians.

They look down upon the Russian peasantry as poor, ignorant, lazy,

and dishonest, fear the officials on account of their tyranny and

extortion, preserve jealously their own language and customs,

rarely speak Russian well--sometimes not at all--and never

intermarry with those from whom they are separated by nationality

and religion. The Russian influence acts, however, more rapidly on

the Slavonic colonists--Servians, Bulgarians, Montenegrins--who

profess the Greek Orthodox faith, learn more easily the Russian

language, which is closely allied to their own, have no

consciousness of belonging to a Culturvolk, and in general possess

a nature much more pliable than the Teutonic.

The Government has recently attempted to accelerate the fusing

process by retracting the privileges granted to the colonists and

abolishing the peculiar administration under which they were

placed. These measures--especially the universal military service--

may eventually diminish the extreme exclusiveness of the Germans;

the youths, whilst serving in the army, will at least learn the

Russian language, and may possibly imbibe something of the Russian

spirit. But for the present this new policy has aroused a strong

feeling of hostility and greatly intensified the spirit of

exclusiveness. In the German colonies I have often overheard

complaints about Russian tyranny and uncomplimentary remarks about

the Russian national character.

The Mennonites consider themselves specially aggrieved by the so-

called reforms. They came to Russia in order to escape military

service and with the distinct understanding that they should be

exempted from it, and now they are forced to act contrary to the

religious tenets of their sect. This is the ground of complaint

which they put forward in the petitions addressed to the

Government, but they have at the same time another, and perhaps

more important, objection to the proposed changes. They feel, as

several of them admitted to me, that if the barrier which separates

them from the rest of the population were in any way broken down,

they could no longer preserve that stern Puritanical discipline

which at present constitutes their force. Hence, though the

Government was disposed to make important concessions, hundreds of

families sold their property and emigrated to America. The

movement, however, did not become general. At present the Russian

Mennonites number, male and female, about 50,000, divided into 160

colonies and possessing over 800,000 acres of land.

It is quite possible that under the new system of administration

the colonists who profess in common with the Russians the Greek

Orthodox faith may be rapidly Russianised; but I am convinced that

the others will long resist assimilation. Greek orthodoxy and

Protestant sectarianism are so radically different in spirit that

their respective votaries are not likely to intermarry; and without

intermarriage it is impossible that the two nationalities should

blend.

As an instance of the ethnological curiosities which the traveller

may stumble upon unawares in this curious region, I may mention a

strange acquaintance I made when travelling on the great plain

which stretches from the Sea of Azof to the Caspian. One day I

accidentally noticed on my travelling-map the name "Shotlandskaya

Kol6niya" (Scottish Colony) near the celebrated baths of

Piatigorsk. I was at that moment in Stavropol, a town about eighty

miles to the north, and could not gain any satisfactory information

as to what this colony was. Some well-informed people assured me

that it really was what its name implied, whilst others asserted as

confidently that it was simply a small German settlement. To

decide the matter I determined to visit the place myself, though it

did not lie near my intended route, and I accordingly found myself

one morning in the village in question. The first inhabitants whom

I encountered were unmistakably German, and they professed to know

nothing about the existence of Scotsmen in the locality either at

the present or in former times. This was disappointing, and I was

about to turn away and drive off, when a young man, who proved to

be the schoolmaster, came up, and on hearing what I desired,

advised me to consult an old Circassian who lived at the end of the

village and was well acquainted with local antiquities. On

proceeding to the house indicated, I found a venerable old man,

with fine, regular features of the Circassian type, coal-black

sparkling eyes, and a long grey beard that would have done honour

to a patriarch. To him I explained briefly, in Russian, the object

of my visit, and asked whether he knew of any Scotsmen in the

district.

"And why do you wish to know?" he replied, in the same language,

fixing me with his keen, sparkling eyes.

"Because I am myself a Scotsman, and hoped to find fellow-

countrymen here."

Let the reader imagine my astonishment when, in reply to this, he

answered, in genuine broad Scotch, "Od, man, I'm a Scotsman tae!

My name is John Abercrombie. Did ye never hear tell o' John

Abercrombie, the famous Edinburgh doctor?"

I was fairly puzzled by this extraordinary declaration. Dr.

Abercrombie's name was familiar to me as that of a medical

practitioner and writer on psychology, but I knew that he was long

since dead. When I had recovered a little from my surprise, I

ventured to remark to the enigmatical personage before me that,

though his tongue was certainly Scotch, his face was as certainly

Circassian.

"Weel, weel," he replied, evidently enjoying my look of

mystification, "you're no' far wrang. I'm a Circassian Scotsman!"

This extraordinary admission did not diminish my perplexity, so I

begged my new acquaintance to be a little more explicit, and he at

once complied with my request. His long story may be told in a few

words:

In the first years of the present century a band of Scotch

missionaries came to Russia for the purpose of converting the

Circassian tribes, and received from the Emperor Alexander I. a

large grant of land in this place, which was then on the frontier

of the Empire. Here they founded a mission, and began the work;

but they soon discovered that the surrounding population were not

idolaters, but Mussulmans, and consequently impervious to

Christianity. In this difficulty they fell on the happy idea of

buying Circassian children from their parents and bringing them up

as Christians. One of these children, purchased about the year

1806, was a little boy called Teoona. As he had been purchased

with money subscribed by Dr. Abercrombie, he had received in

baptism that gentleman's name, and he considered himself the

foster-son of his benefactor. Here was the explanation of the

mystery.

Teoona, alias Mr. Abercrombie, was a man of more than average

intelligence. Besides his native tongue, he spoke English, German,

and Russian perfectly; and he assured me that he knew several other

languages equally well. His life had been devoted to missionary

work, and especially to translating and printing the Scriptures.

He had laboured first in Astrakhan, then for four years and a half

in Persia--in the service of the Bale mission--and afterwards for

six years in Siberia.

The Scottish mission was suppressed by the Emperor Nicholas about

the year 1835, and all the missionaries except two returned home.

The son of one of these two (Galloway) was the only genuine

Scotsman remaining at the time of my visit. Of the "Circassian

Scotsmen" there were several, most of whom had married Germans.

The other inhabitants were German colonists from the province of

Saratof, and German was the language commonly spoken in the

village.

After hearing so much about foreign colonists, Tartar invaders, and

Finnish aborigines, the reader may naturally desire to know the

numerical strength of this foreign element. Unfortunately we have

no accurate data on this subject, but from a careful examination of

the available statistics I am inclined to conclude that it

constitutes about one-sixth of the population of European Russia,

including Poland, Finland, and the Caucasus, and nearly a third of

the population of the Empire as a whole.

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.

Whilst travelling on the Steppe I heard a great deal about a

peculiar religious sect called the Molokanye, and I felt interested

in them because their religious belief, whatever it was, seemed to

have a beneficial influence on their material welfare. Of the same

race and placed in the same conditions as the Orthodox peasantry

around them, they were undoubtedly better housed, better clad, more

punctual in the payment of their taxes, and, in a word, more

prosperous. All my informants agreed in describing them as quiet,

decent, sober people; but regarding their religious doctrines the

evidence was vague and contradictory. Some described them as

Protestants or Lutherans, whilst others believed them to be the

last remnants of a curious heretical sect which existed in the

early Christian Church.

Desirous of obtaining clear notions on the subject, I determined to

investigate the matter for myself. At first I found this to be no

easy task. In the villages through which I passed I found numerous

members of the sect, but they all showed a decided repugnance to

speak about their religious beliefs. Long accustomed to extortion

and persecution at the hands of the Administration, and suspecting

me to be a secret agent of the Government, they carefully avoided

speaking on any subject beyond the state of the weather and the

prospects of the harvest, and replied to my questions on other

topics as if they had been standing before a Grand Inquisitor.

A few unsuccessful attempts convinced me that it would be

impossible to extract from them their religious beliefs by direct

questioning. I adopted, therefore, a different system of tactics.

From meagre replies already received I had discovered that their

doctrine had at least a superficial resemblance to Presbyterianism,

and from former experience I was aware that the curiosity of

intelligent Russian peasants is easily excited by descriptions of

foreign countries. On these two facts I based my plan of campaign.

When I found a Molokan, or some one whom I suspected to be such, I

talked for some time about the weather and the crops, as if I had

no ulterior object in view. Having fully discussed this matter, I

led the conversation gradually from the weather and crops in Russia

to the weather and crops in Scotland, and then passed slowly from

Scotch agriculture to the Scotch Presbyterian Church. On nearly

every occasion this policy succeeded. When the peasant heard that

there was a country where the people interpreted the Scriptures for

themselves, had no bishops, and considered the veneration of Icons

as idolatry, he invariably listened with profound attention; and

when he learned further that in that wonderful country the parishes

annually sent deputies to an assembly in which all matters

pertaining to the Church were freely and publicly discussed, he

almost always gave free expression to his astonishment, and I had

to answer a whole volley of questions. "Where is that country?"

"Is it to the east, or the west?" "Is it very far away?" "If our

Presbyter could only hear all that!"

This last expression was precisely what I wanted, because it gave

me an opportunity of making the acquaintance of the Presbyter, or

pastor, without seeming to desire it; and I knew that a

conversation with that personage, who is always an uneducated

peasant like the others, but is generally more intelligent and

better acquainted with religious doctrine, would certainly be of

use to me. On more than one occasion I spent a great part of the

night with a Presbyter, and thereby learned much concerning the

religious beliefs and practices of the sect. After these

interviews I was sure to be treated with confidence and respect by

all the Molokanye in the village, and recommended to the brethren

of the faith in the neighbouring villages through which I intended

to pass. Several of the more intelligent peasants with whom I

spoke advised me strongly to visit Alexandrof-Hai, a village

situated on the borders of the Kirghiz Steppe. "We are dark [i.e.,

ignorant] people here," they were wont to say, "and do not know

anything, but in Alexandrof-Hai you will find those who know the

faith, and they will discuss with you." This prediction was

fulfilled in a somewhat unexpected way.

When returning some weeks later from a visit to the Kirghiz of the

Inner Horde, I arrived one evening at this centre of the Molokan

faith, and was hospitably received by one of the brotherhood. In

conversing casually with my host on religious subjects I expressed

to him a desire to find some one well read in Holy Writ and well

grounded in the faith, and he promised to do what he could for me

in this respect. Next morning he kept his promise with a

vengeance. Immediately after the tea-urn had been removed the door

of the room was opened and twelve peasants were ushered in! After

the customary salutations with these unexpected visitors, my host

informed me to my astonishment that his friends had come to have a

talk with me about the faith; and without further ceremony he

placed before me a folio Bible in the old Slavonic tongue, in order

that I might read passages in support of my arguments. As I was

not at all prepared to open a formal theological discussion, I felt

not a little embarrassed, and I could see that my travelling

companions, two Russian friends who cared for none of these things,

were thoroughly enjoying my discomfiture. There was, however, no

possibility of drawing back. I had asked for an opportunity of

having a talk with some of the brethren, and now I had got it in a

way that I certainly did not expect. My friends withdrew--"leaving

me to my fate," as they whispered to me--and the "talk" began.

My fate was by no means so terrible as had been anticipated, but at

first the situation was a little awkward. Neither party had any

clear ideas as to what the other desired, and my visitors expected

that I was to begin the proceedings. This expectation was quite

natural and justifiable, for I had inadvertently invited them to

meet me, but I could not make a speech to them, for the best of all

reasons--that I did not know what to say. If I told them my real

aims, their suspicions would probably be aroused. My usual

stratagem of the weather and the crops was wholly inapplicable.

For a moment I thought of proposing that a psalm should be sung as

a means of breaking the ice, but I felt that this would give to the

meeting a solemnity which I wished to avoid. On the whole it

seemed best to begin at once a formal discussion. I told them,

therefore, that I had spoken with many of their brethren in various

villages, and that I had found what I considered grave errors of

doctrine. I could not, for instance, agree with them in their

belief that it was unlawful to eat pork. This was perhaps an

abrupt way of entering on the subject, but it furnished at least a

locus standi--something to talk about--and an animated discussion

immediately ensued. My opponents first endeavoured to prove their

thesis from the New Testament, and when this argument broke down

they had recourse to the Pentateuch. From a particular article of

the ceremonial law we passed to the broader question as to how far

the ceremonial law is still binding, and from this to other points

equally important.

If the logic of the peasants was not always unimpeachable, their

knowledge of the Scriptures left nothing to be desired. In support

of their views they quoted long passages from memory, and whenever

I indicated vaguely any text which I needed, they at once supplied

it verbatim, so that the big folio Bible served merely as an

ornament. Three or four of them seemed to know the whole of the

New Testament by heart. The course of our informal debate need not

here be described; suffice it to say that, after four hours of

uninterrupted conversation, we agreed to differ on questions of

detail, and parted from each other without a trace of that ill-

feeling which religious discussion commonly engenders. Never have

I met men more honest and courteous in debate, more earnest in the

search after truth, more careless of dialectical triumphs, than

these simple, uneducated muzhiks. If at one or two points in the

discussion a little undue warmth was displayed, I must do my

opponents the justice to say that they were not the offending

party.

This long discussion, as well as numerous discussions which I had

had before and since have had with Molokanye in various parts of

the country, confirmed my first impression that their doctrines

have a strong resemblance to Presbyterianism. There is, however,

an important difference. Presbyterianism has an ecclesiastical

organisation and a written creed, and its doctrines have long since

become clearly defined by means of public discussion, polemical

literature, and general assemblies. The Molokanye, on the

contrary, have had no means of developing their fundamental

principles and forming their vague religious beliefs into a clearly

defined logical system. Their theology is therefore still in a

half-fluid state, so that it is impossible to predict what form it

will ultimately assume. "We have not yet thought about that," I

have frequently been told when I inquired about some abstruse

doctrine; "we must talk about it at the meeting next Sunday. What

is your opinion?" Besides this, their fundamental principles allow

great latitude for individual and local differences of opinion.

They hold that Holy Writ is the only rule of faith and conduct, but

that it must be taken in the spiritual, and not in the literal,

sense. As there is no terrestrial authority to which doubtful

points can be referred, each individual is free to adopt the

interpretation which commends itself to his own judgment. This

will no doubt ultimately lead to a variety of sects, and already

there is a considerable diversity of opinion between different

communities; but this diversity has not yet been recognised, and I

may say that I nowhere found that fanatically dogmatic, quibbling

spirit which is usually the soul of sectarianism.

For their ecclesiastical organisation the Molokanye take as their

model the early Apostolic Church, as depicted in the New Testament,

and uncompromisingly reject all later authorities. In accordance

with this model they have no hierarchy and no paid clergy, but

choose from among themselves a Presbyter and two assistants--men

well known among the brethren for their exemplary life and their

knowledge of the Scriptures--whose duty it is to watch over the

religious and moral welfare of the flock. On Sundays they hold

meetings in private houses--they are not allowed to build churches--

and spend two or three hours in psalm singing, prayer, reading the

Scriptures, and friendly conversation on religious subjects. If

any one has a doctrinal difficulty which he desires to have cleared

up, he states it to the congregation, and some of the others give

their opinions, with the texts on which the opinions are founded.

If the question seems clearly solved by the texts, it is decided;

if not, it is left open.

As in many young sects, there exists among the Molokanye a system

of severe moral supervision. If a member has been guilty of

drunkenness or any act unbecoming a Christian, he is first

admonished by the Presbyter in private or before the congregation;

and if this does not produce the desired effect, he is excluded for

a longer or shorter period from the meetings and from all

intercourse with the members. In extreme cases expulsion is

resorted to. On the other hand, if any one of the members happens

to be, from no fault of his own, in pecuniary difficulties, the

others will assist him. This system of mutual control and mutual

assistance has no doubt something to do with the fact that the

Molokanye are distinguished from the surrounding population by

their sobriety, uprightness, and material prosperity.

Of the history of the sect my friends in Alexandrof-Hai could tell

me very little, but I have obtained from other quarters some

interesting information. The founder was a peasant of the province

of Tambof called Uklein, who lived in the reign of Catherine II.,

and gained his living as an itinerant tailor. For some time he

belonged to the sect of the Dukhobortsi--who are sometimes called

the Russian Quakers, and who have recently become known in Western

Europe through the efforts of Count Tolstoy on their behalf--but he

soon seceded from them, because he could not admit their doctrine

that God dwells in the human soul, and that consequently the chief

source of religious truth is internal enlightenment. To him it

seemed that religious truth was to be found only in the Scriptures.

With this doctrine he soon made many converts, and one day he

unexpectedly entered the town of Tambof, surrounded by seventy

"Apostles" chanting psalms. They were all quickly arrested and

imprisoned, and when the affair was reported to St. Petersburg the

Empress Catherine ordered that they should be handed over to the

ecclesiastical authorities, and that in the event of their proving

obdurate to exhortation they should be tried by the Criminal

Courts. Uklein professed to recant, and was liberated; but he

continued his teaching secretly in the villages, and at the time of

his death he was believed to have no less than five thousand

followers.

As to the actual strength of the sect it is difficult to form even

a conjecture. Certainly it has many thousand members--probably

several hundred thousand. Formerly the Government transported them

from the central provinces to the thinly populated outlying

districts, where they had less opportunity of contaminating

Orthodox neighbours; and accordingly we find them in the

southeastern districts of Samara, on the north coast of the Sea of

Azof, in the Crimea, in the Caucasus, and in Siberia. There are

still, however, very many of them in the central region, especially

in the province of Tambof.

The readiness with which the Molokanye modify their opinions and

beliefs in accordance with what seems to them new light saves them

effectually from bigotry and fanaticism, but it at the same time

exposes them to evils of a different kind, from which they might be

preserved by a few stubborn prejudices. "False prophets arise

among us," said an old, sober-minded member to me on one occasion,

"and lead many away from the faith."

In 1835, for example, great excitement was produced among them by

rumours that the second advent of Christ was at hand, and that the

Son of Man, coming to judge the world, was about to appear in the

New Jerusalem, somewhere near Mount Ararat. As Elijah and Enoch

were to appear before the opening of the Millennium, they were

anxiously awaited by the faithful, and at last Elijah appeared, in

the person of a Melitopol peasant called Belozvorof, who announced

that on a given day he would ascend into heaven. On the day

appointed a great crowd collected, but he failed to keep his

promise, and was handed over to the police as an impostor by the

Molokanye themselves. Unfortunately they were not always so

sensible as on that occasion. In the very next year many of them

were persuaded by a certain Lukian Petrof to put on their best

garments and start for the Promised Land in the Caucasus, where the

Millennium was about to begin.

Of these false prophets the most remarkable in recent times was a

man who called himself Ivan Grigorief, a mysterious personage who

had at one time a Turkish and at another an American passport, but

who seemed in all other respects a genuine Russian. Some years

previously to my visit he appeared at Alexandrof-Hai. Though he

professed himself to be a good Molokan and was received as such, he

enounced at the weekly meetings many new and startling ideas. At

first he simply urged his hearers to live like the early

Christians, and have all things in common. This seemed sound

doctrine to the Molokanye, who profess to take the early Christians

as their model, and some of them thought of at once abolishing

personal property; but when the teacher intimated pretty plainly

that this communism should include free love, a decided opposition

arose, and it was objected that the early Church did not recommend

wholesale adultery and cognate sins. This was a formidable

objection, but "the prophet" was equal to the occasion. He

reminded his friends that in accordance with their own doctrine the

Scriptures should be understood, not in the literal, but in the

spiritual, sense--that Christianity had made men free, and every

true Christian ought to use his freedom.

This account of the new doctrine was given to me by an intelligent

Molokan, who had formerly been a peasant and was now a trader, as I

sat one evening in his house in Novo-usensk, the chief town of the

district in which Alexandrof-Hai is situated. It seemed to me that

the author of this ingenious attempt to conciliate Christianity

with extreme Utilitarianism must be an educated man in disguise.

This conviction I communicated to my host, but he did not agree

with me.

"No, I think not," he replied; "in fact, I am sure he is a peasant,

and I strongly suspect he was at some time a soldier. He has not

much learning, but he has a wonderful gift of talking; never have I

heard any one speak like him. He would have talked over the whole

village, had it not been for an old man who was more than a match

for him. And then he went to Orloff-Hai and there he did talk the

people over." What he really did in this latter place I never

could clearly ascertain. Report said that he founded a communistic

association, of which he was himself president and treasurer, and

converted the members to an extraordinary theory of prophetic

succession, invented apparently for his own sensual gratification.

For further information my host advised me to apply either to the

prophet himself, who was at that time confined in the gaol on a

charge of using a forged passport, or to one of his friends, a

certain Mr. I---- , who lived in the town. As it was a difficult

matter to gain admittance to the prisoner, and I had little time at

my disposal, I adopted the latter alternative.

Mr. I---- was himself a somewhat curious character. He had been a

student in Moscow, and in consequence of some youthful

indiscretions during the University disturbances had been exiled to

this place. After waiting in vain some years for a release, he

gave up the idea of entering one of the learned professions,

married a peasant girl, rented a piece of land, bought a pair of

camels, and settled down as a small farmer.* He had a great deal

to tell about the prophet.

* Here for the first time I saw camels used for agricultural

purposes. When yoked to a small four-wheeled cart, the "ships of

the desert" seemed decidedly out of place.

Grigorief, it seemed, was really simply a Russian peasant, but he

had been from his youth upwards one of those restless people who

can never long work in harness. Where his native place was, and

why he left it, he never divulged, for reasons best known to

himself. He had travelled much, and had been an attentive

observer. Whether he had ever been in America was doubtful, but he

had certainly been in Turkey, and had fraternised with various

Russian sectarians, who are to be found in considerable numbers

near the Danube. Here, probably, he acquired many of his peculiar

religious ideas, and conceived his grand scheme of founding a new

religion--of rivalling the Founder of Christianity! He aimed at

nothing less than this, as he on one occasion confessed, and he did

not see why he should not be successful. He believed that the

Founder of Christianity had been simply a man like himself, who

understood better than others the people around him and the

circumstances of the time, and he was convinced that he himself had

these qualifications. One qualification, however, for becoming a

prophet he certainly did not possess: he had no genuine religious

enthusiasm in him--nothing of the martyr spirit about him. Much of

his own preaching he did not himself believe, and he had a secret

contempt for those who naively accepted it all. Not only was he

cunning, but he knew he was cunning, and he was conscious that he

was playing an assumed part. And yet perhaps it would be unjust to

say that he was merely an impostor exclusively occupied with his

own personal advantage. Though he was naturally a man of sensual

tastes, and could not resist convenient opportunities of gratifying

them, he seemed to believe that his communistic schemes would, if

realised, be beneficial not only to himself, but also to the

people. Altogether a curious mixture of the prophet, the social

reformer, and the cunning impostor!

Besides the Molokanye, there are in Russia many other heretical

sects. Some of them are simply Evangelical Protestants, like the

Stundisti, who have adopted the religious conceptions of their

neighbours, the German colonists; whilst others are composed of

wild enthusiasts, who give a loose rein to their excited

imagination, and revel in what the Germans aptly term "der hohere

Blodsinn." I cannot here attempt to convey even a general idea of

these fantastic sects with their doctrinal and ceremonial

absurdities, but I may offer the following classification of them

for the benefit of those who may desire to study the subject:

1. Sects which take the Scriptures as the basis of their belief,

but interpret and complete the doctrines therein contained by means

of the occasional inspiration or internal enlightenment of their

leading members.

2. Sects which reject interpretation and insist on certain passages

of Scripture being taken in the literal sense. In one of the best

known of these sects--the Skoptsi, or Eunuchs--fanaticism has led

to physical mutilation.

3. Sects which pay little or no attention to Scripture, and derive

their doctrine from the supposed inspiration of their living

teachers.

4. Sects which believe in the re-incarnation of Christ.

5. Sects which confound religion with nervous excitement, and are

more or less erotic in their character. The excitement necessary

for prophesying is commonly produced by dancing, jumping,

pirouetting, or self-castigation; and the absurdities spoken at

such times are regarded as the direct expression of divine wisdom.

The religious exercises resemble more or less closely those of the

"dancing dervishes" and "howling dervishes's with which all who

have visited Constantinople are familiar. There is, however, one

important difference: the dervishes practice their religious

exercises in public, and consequently observe a certain decorum,

whilst these Russian sects assemble in secret, and give free scope

to their excitement, so that most disgusting orgies sometimes take

place at their meetings.

To illustrate the general character of the sects belonging to this

last category, I may quote here a short extract from a description

of the "Khlysti" by one who was initiated into their mysteries:

"Among them men and women alike take upon themselves the calling of

teachers and prophets, and in this character they lead a strict,

ascetic life, refrain from the most ordinary and innocent

pleasures, exhaust themselves by long fasting and wild, ecstatic

religious exercises, and abhor marriage. Under the excitement

caused by their supposed holiness and inspiration, they call

themselves not only teachers and prophets, but also 'Saviours,'

'Redeemers,' 'Christs,' 'Mothers of God.' Generally speaking, they

call themselves simply Gods, and pray to each other as to real Gods

and living Christs or Madonnas. When several of these teachers

come together at a meeting, they dispute with each other in a vain

boasting way as to which of them possesses most grace and power.

In this rivalry they sometimes give each other lusty blows on the

ear, and he who bears the blows most patiently, turning the other

cheek to the smiter, acquires the reputation of having most

holiness."

Another sect belonging to this category is the Jumpers, among whom

the erotic element is disagreeably prominent. Here is a

description of their religious meetings, which are held during

summer in the forest, and during winter in some out-house or barn:

"After due preparation prayers are read by the chief teacher,

dressed in a white robe and standing in the midst of the

congregation. At first he reads in an ordinary tone of voice, and

then passes gradually into a merry chant. When he remarks that the

chanting has sufficiently acted on the hearers, he begins to jump.

The hearers, singing likewise, follow his example. Their ever-

increasing excitement finds expression in the highest possible

jumps. This they continue as long as they can--men and women alike

yelling like enraged savages. When all are thoroughly exhausted,

the leader declares that he hears the angels singing"--and then

begins a scene which cannot be here described.

It is but fair to add that we know very little of these peculiar

sects, and what we do know is furnished by avowed enemies. It is

very possible, therefore, that some of them are not nearly so

absurd as they are commonly represented, and that many of the

stories told are mere calumnies.

The Government is very hostile to sectarianism, and occasionally

endeavours to suppress it. This is natural enough as regards these

fantastic sects, but it seems strange that the peaceful,

industrious, honest Molokanye and Stundisti should be put under the

ban. Why is it that a Russian peasant should be punished for

holding doctrines which are openly professed, with the sanction of

the authorities, by his neighbours, the German colonists?

To understand this the reader must know that according to Russian

conceptions there are two distinct kinds of heresy, distinguished

from each other, not by the doctrines held, but by the nationality

of the holder, it seems to a Russian in the nature of things that

Tartars should be Mahometans, that Poles should be Roman Catholics,

and that Germans should be Protestants; and the mere act of

becoming a Russian subject is not supposed to lay the Tartar, the

Pole, or the German under any obligation to change his faith.

These nationalities are therefore allowed the most perfect freedom

in the exercise of their respective religions, so long as they

refrain from disturbing by propagandism the divinely established

order of things.

This is the received theory, and we must do the Russians the

justice to say that they habitually act up to it. If the

Government has sometimes attempted to convert alien races, the

motive has always been political, and the efforts have never

awakened much sympathy among the people at large, or even among the

clergy. In like manner the missionary societies which have

sometimes been formed in imitation of the Western nations have

never received much popular support. Thus with regard to aliens

this peculiar theory has led to very extensive religious

toleration. With regard to the Russians themselves the theory has

had a very different effect. If in the nature of things the Tartar

is a Mahometan, the Pole a Roman Catholic, and the German a

Protestant, it is equally in the nature of things that the Russian

should be a member of the Orthodox Church. On this point the

written law and public opinion are in perfect accord. If an

Orthodox Russian becomes a Roman Catholic or a Protestant, he is

amenable to the criminal law, and is at the same time condemned by

public opinion as an apostate and renegade--almost as a traitor.

As to the future of these heretical sects it is impossible to speak

with confidence. The more gross and fantastic will probably

disappear as primary education spreads among the people; but the

Protestant sects seem to possess much more vitality. For the

present, at least, they are rapidly spreading. I have seen large

villages where, according to the testimony of the inhabitants,

there was not a single heretic fifteen years before, and where one-

half of the population had already become Molokanye; and this

change, be it remarked, had taken place without any propagandist

organisation. The civil and ecclesiastical authorities were well

aware of the existence of the movement, but they were powerless to

prevent it. The few efforts which they made were without effect,

or worse than useless. Among the Stundisti corporal punishment was

tried as an antidote--without the concurrence, it is to be hoped,

of the central authorities--and to the Molokanye of the province of

Samara a learned monk was sent in the hope of converting them from

their errors by reason and eloquence. What effect the birch-twigs

had on the religious convictions of the Stundisti I have not been

able to ascertain, but I assume that they were not very

efficacious, for according to the latest accounts the numbers of

the sect are increasing. Of the mission in the province of Samara

I happen to know more, and can state on the evidence of many

peasants--some of them Orthodox--that the only immediate effect was

to stir up religious fanaticism, and to induce a certain number of

Orthodox to go over to the heretical camp.

In their public discussions the disputants could find no common

ground on which to argue, for the simple reason that their

fundamental conceptions were different. The monk spoke of the

Church as the terrestrial representative of Christ and the sole

possessor of truth, whilst his opponents knew nothing of a Church

in this sense, and held simply that all men should live in

accordance with the dictates of Scripture. Once the monk consented

to argue with them on their own ground, and on that occasion he

sustained a signal defeat, for he could not produce a single

passage recommending the veneration of Icons--a practice which the

Russian peasants consider an essential part of Orthodoxy. After

this he always insisted on the authority of the early Ecumenical

Councils and the Fathers of the Church--an authority which his

antagonists did not recognise. Altogether the mission was a

complete failure, and all parties regretted that it had been

undertaken. "It was a great mistake," remarked to me

confidentially an Orthodox peasant; "a very great mistake. The

Molokanye are a cunning people. The monk was no match for them;

they knew the Scriptures a great deal better than he did. The

Church should not condescend to discuss with heretics."

It is often said that these heretical sects are politically

disaffected, and the Molokanye are thought to be specially

dangerous in this respect. Perhaps there is a certain foundation

for this opinion, for men are naturally disposed to doubt the

legitimacy of a power that systematically persecutes them. With

regard to the Molokanye, I believe the accusation to be a

groundless calumny. Political ideas seemed entirely foreign to

their modes of thought. During my intercourse with them I often

heard them refer to the police as "wolves which have to be fed,"

but I never heard them speak of the Emperor otherwise than in terms

of filial affection and veneration.