CHAPTER XV

EASTER AT MOSCOW—THE FOREIGN LOAN

MOSCOW, _April 15th_.

I have spent Easter in various cities—in Rome, Florence, Athens, and Hildesheim—and, although in each of these places the feast has its own peculiar aspect, yet by far the most impressive and the most interesting celebration of the Easter festival I have ever witnessed is that of Moscow. This is not to be wondered at, for Easter, as is well known, is the most important feast of the year in Russia, the season of festivity and holiday-making in a greater degree than Christmas or New Year’s Day. Secondly, Easter, which is kept with equal solemnity all over Russia, is especially interesting in Moscow, because Moscow is the stronghold of old traditions, and the city of churches. Even more than Cologne, it is

“Die Stadt die viele hundert Kapellen und Kirchen hat.”

There is a church almost in every street, and the Kremlin is a citadel of cathedrals. During Holy Week, towards the end of which the evidences of the fasting season grow more and more obvious by the closing of restaurants and the impossibility of buying any wine and spirits, there are, of course, services every day. During the first three days of Holy Week there is a curious ceremony to be seen every two years in the Kremlin. That is the preparation of the chrism or holy oil. While it is slowly stirred and churned in great cauldrons, filling the room with hot fragrance, a deacon reads the Gospel without ceasing (he is relieved at intervals by others), and this lasts day and night for three days. On Maundy Thursday it is removed in silver vessels to the Cathedral. The supply has to last the whole of Russia for two years. I went to the morning service in the Cathedral of the Assumption on Maundy Thursday. “It’s long, but it’s very, very beautiful.” The church is crowded to suffocation. Everybody is standing up, as there would be no room to kneel. The church is lit with countless small wax tapers. The priests are clothed in white and silver. The singing of the noble plain chant without any accompaniment ebbs and flows in perfectly disciplined harmonies; the bass voices are unequalled in the world. Every class of the population is represented in the church. There are no seats, no pews, no precedence or privilege. There is a smell of incense and a still stronger smell of poor people, without which, some one said, a church is not a church. On Good Friday there is the service of the Holy Shroud, and besides this a later service in which the Gospel is read out in fourteen different languages, and finally a service beginning at one o’clock in the morning and ending at four, which commemorates the Burial of Our Lord. How the priests endure the strain of these many and exceedingly long services is a thing to be wondered at; for the fast, which is strictly kept during all this period, precludes butter, eggs, and milk, in addition to all the more solid forms of nourishment, and the services are about six times as long as those of the Roman Catholic or other Churches.

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

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

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

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

I lived the quarter of a century Without knowing happy days; My life went quickly as a cart Drawn by swift horses. I never knew the tenderness of parents Which God gives to all; For fifteen years I lived in a shop Busied in heaping up riches for a rich man. I was in my twentieth year, When I was taken as a recruit; I thought that the end had come To my sorrowful sufferings, But no! and here misfortune awaited me; I was destined to serve in that country, Where I had to fight like a lion with the foe, For the honour of Russia, for my dear country. I shall for a long time not forget That hour, and that date of the 17th,[2] In which by the River Liao-he I remained forever without my legs. Now I live contented with all Where good food and drink are given, But I would rather be a free bird And see the dear home where I was born.

Footnote 2:

August 17th, Battle of Liaoyang.

This is the sequel:

“PAST”

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

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

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

_April 16th._

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

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

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

_April 17th._

I was looking out of the window this morning and saw the policeman who watches over my house, and often helps with the luggage, apparently arrest and walk off with a workman. I ran out of the house and said—

“Are you taking that man to the police station?”

“God be with him, no,” said the policeman. “Why should I arrest him? Do you want him arrested? He is ‘having taken drink,’ and I am taking him to a friend’s house, where he can rest.”

The policeman had thought I was complaining because he was not going to be arrested. This incident amused me, as being typical of the good-nature of a class of people who are represented as savage tyrants.

ST. PETERSBURG, _April 22nd_.

This afternoon, wishing to talk over the topics of the day and the political outlook, I went to see a friend of mine, a certain Dimitri Nikolaievitch A——. Dimitri Nikolaievitch was a failure. He had started life with smiling prospects and the promise of a bright future, but he wasted his youth and his fortune in dissipation, and after spending some years in the Government service as an official he retired and embarked upon a journalistic venture; but, since he was entirely devoid of ambition, hopelessly unpractical, and fundamentally uncompetitive he failed, and was soon forced to abandon an enterprise which left him burdened with debts. He now earns a scanty income by giving lessons in Russian to foreigners. His whole literary production is confined to one or two suggestive literary and historical pamphlets long since out of print. I found him at home in his room, which is on the sixth floor of a large barrack in a remote quarter of the town. The landing on which he lives swarms with inhabitants, and a whole bevy of tailors were busily at work in the room opposite to his. His room is small, and scantily furnished with a chair, a table, a low bed, a few frameless photographs stuck on the wall, a mandoline, a guitar, and a _babalaika_. The room is also inhabited by a bullfinch, a green lizard, and a fox terrier. Dimitri Nikolaievitch himself looks younger than he is; he is rather fat, with fair, unkempt hair, very light blue eyes lighting up a wrinkled and rather puffy and unshaved face; his jacket is stained and lacking in buttons.

“I know why you have come,” he said to me as I entered the room; “you have got to write an article and you want copy.” “Exactly,” I answered. “Why do you come to me? Why don’t you interview the flower of our officialdom or some of our future Robespierres and Dantons?” he asked. “You know as well as I do why I come to you for ideas,” I said; “with all those people the wish is father to the thought. You have long ago ceased to wish about political matters, and so your point of view is quite unbiassed, besides which——” “I know,” he interrupted; “you needn’t go on, but before we talk of what is happening I want to tell you that I have finished my historical work.” “What work?” I asked. “I think I told you,” he said, “that I contemplated—now that forbidden thoughts are allowed an unwonted freedom—writing a short history of the reign of the Emperor Nicholas II. I have begun and finished it. It took me ten minutes. I thought it was going to take longer, but last night I happened to open the Old Testament, and I found that the history of the reign of Nicholas II. had already been written in the First Book of Kings more concisely than I had intended writing it. Listen, I will read it to you.” He took a Bible from the table and read: “‘And Rehoboam went to Shechem: for all Israel were come to Shechem to make him King. And it came to pass when Jeroboam, the son of Nebat, who was yet in Egypt, heard of it ... that they sent and called him. And Jeroboam and all the congregation of Israel came, and spake unto Rehoboam, saying, Thy father made our yoke grievous: now therefore make thou the grievous service of thy father, and his heavy yoke which he put upon us, lighter, and we will serve thee. And he said unto them, Depart yet for three days, then come again to me. And the people departed. And King Rehoboam consulted with the old men, that stood before Solomon his father while he yet lived, and said, How do ye advise that I may answer this people? And they spake unto him, saying, If thou wilt be a servant unto this people this day, and wilt serve them and answer them, and speak good words to them, then they will be thy servants for ever. But he forsook the counsel of the old men ... and consulted with the young men that were grown up with him, ... and he said unto them, What counsel give ye?... and the young men ... spake unto him saying, Thus shalt thou speak unto this people:... My little finger shall be thicker than my father’s loins. And now whereas my father did lade you with a heavy yoke, I will add to your yoke: my father hath chastised you with whips, but I will chastise you with scorpions. So Jeroboam and all the people came to Rehoboam the third day, as the King had appointed.... And the King answered the people roughly, and forsook the old men’s counsel ... and spake to them after the counsel of the young men, saying, My father made your yoke heavy, and I will add to your yoke: my father also chastised you with whips, but I will chastise you with scorpions. Wherefore the King hearkened not unto the people.... So when all Israel saw that the King hearkened not unto them, the people answered the King, saying, What portion have we in David?... To your tents, O Israel.... So Israel departed unto their tents.... Therefore King Rehoboam made speed to get him up to his chariot, to flee to Jerusalem. So Israel rebelled against the house of David.’

“That is the whole history of the reign of Nicholas II., and it is the history of many other reigns also. There are no new elements in history. History is a kaleidoscope containing a limited number of bits of many-coloured glass, which, by being perpetually shaken, form patterns which recur, and combinations which seem new, but which in reality have been before and will be again. That is why the people who are snubbed for saying the revolutionary movement in Russia resembles the French Revolution are not so far wrong, because the same causes produce the same effects, and the situations, though superficially widely different, are alike in their essentials. Well, what is it you want to talk to me about?”

“I want to know what you think of the present situation,” I answered. “Providence,” said Dimitri Nikolaievitch, “has been kind to the Government in vouchsafing them a foreign loan, in spite of the German Emperor’s disapproval.”

“Do you think that the bitterness it has created among the parties of the Left is a serious matter?” I interrupted.

“No,” said Dimitri Nikolaievitch, “I do not; and for this reason: I think that all talk about the loan now is, as Hamlet said, ‘Words, words, words.’ What does it all amount to? The Government say that unless the loan had been made before the Duma had met national bankruptcy would have ensued. The Liberals say a fortnight more or less could not have mattered, and the Government made the loan to be independent of the Duma. To which it is answered that the money is obviously for past deficits and not for present schemes. But, say others, the real reason why the loan was made before the Duma met was that had it not been made the Government would have been absolutely at the mercy of the Duma. ‘That is exactly what we wanted,’ say the Social revolutionaries, because, short of such pressure, the Government will never do anything constitutional. ‘The Government should have trusted the patriotism of the Duma to accept the loan,’ say the Liberals. ‘The foreign bankers have dealt a dastardly blow at the movement for Russian freedom,’ say the Social revolutionaries. I say that this is all ‘Words, words, words.’ The money was imperatively necessary. National bankruptcy cannot be the best springboard for the initial leap of the Duma. And as to its effect on the movement of liberation—that is, I believe, the polite term for what I call the Revolution—I do not believe that it matters one straw. Supposing the loan had been postponed, the bitterness against the Government would not have been lessened, and national bankruptcy would not have made the situation any easier for the Cadets. You will object that the Social revolutionaries probably would have welcomed national bankruptcy. Of course, everything depends on the

## action of the Government now. What will happen? This Ministry cannot

face the Duma. M. Durnovo will have to resign. It has been published all this week in the newspapers that Count Witte has resigned. We infer from this that Count Witte intends either to remain without M. Durnovo or to leave. But supposing his resignation is accepted and M. Durnovo remains?”

“But you do not think——” I interrupted.

“All things are possible,” rejoined Dimitri Nikolaievitch; “remember that; because a course is suicidal that is no guarantee that it will not be taken; the contrary rather is true. Remember the story of Rehoboam I have just read you: ‘Es ist eine alte Geschichte, doch bleibt sie immer neu.’”

“But in any case,” I asked, “how do you think any present or future Government will deal with the Duma?”

“That depends,” he answered, “of course, on who has to deal with it. If the Duma is prorogued after a short session the situation will be hazardous. On the other hand, the whole thing may go off without any great cataclysm. The Cadets do not believe in the dispersal of the Duma. But if we have to take for granted that the higher authorities will behave wisely, in order to ensure things going smoothly, our optimism is put to a high trial. We have so few, we have not one precedent for wise conduct on the part of our Government. There is one comforting thing I can tell you, and that is that I feel certain of this: Whatever cataclysms may occur, in ten years’ time Russia will be in a flourishing condition. Those who talk of Russia being financially unsound talk nonsense. Look at the country now; in spite of a disastrous war, a universal strike, other strikes, revolution, and armed risings, trade is simply humming. The head of one of your biggest English firms here told me yesterday that except the iron trade all the industries are in a flourishing condition. Orders come pouring in. Therefore, as regards the ultimate outlook I am optimistic, whatever happens in the immediate future; whether everything goes jolting on somehow, as may very well happen in Russia, or whether there is a frightful crash in the month of May. Both things are equally possible. So far what has happened is simple. The autocracy was made bankrupt by the war—bankrupt morally, I mean. An attempt was made to pass a sponge over the bankruptcy; this led to a universal strike; then the bankruptcy was recognised, and Count Witte was summoned to liquidate the affairs of the old firm. The liquidation was necessarily a troublous time; nobody was anxious to be concerned in it; certainly none of the people who intended to join the new firm later. Therefore members of the old firm had to be chosen. They got somewhat out of hand. Now the liquidation has come to a close. The new firm is going to start business. If it is impeded it will blow up the bank with dynamite and build a new house. But such an explosion will only affect the staff of the old establishment and not the resources of the new firm, which are the kingdoms of Russia—an incredibly rich and undeveloped concern. If you ask my opinion, I do not think that any such explosion is inevitable, but the Government will no doubt take pains to bring it about. Three years ago a revolution seemed to be an impossibility in Russia. The Government have almost succeeded in making the reverse an improbability.

“But all this is, as I told you, ‘Words, words, words,’ and I refuse to say another word about politics.”

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