CHAPTER XXIII

NAZARENKO AND OTHER PEASANT MEMBERS

ST. PETERSBURG, _July 6th_.

After a week’s absence in England I returned to St. Petersburg to find the situation much as I had left it, except that the tension has perhaps imperceptibly grown greater. The main factors of the situation are unchanged.

Rumours are current that a change of Ministry is probable, but it is generally considered that the appointment of a Ministry chosen from the Ministry itself is out of the question. One fact should be borne in mind in considering the rumours with regard to the latest phase of Court opinion and Government policy, namely, that there is probably no fixed policy in those spheres; up to the present no such policy has been perceptible, and what has been done one day has been countermanded and contradicted the next. Therefore, as far as the Government and the Court are concerned, all things are possible. One might apply to them a phrase used by a French historian with regard to Louis XVI.: “Il n’eut que des velléités, des répugnances. Il céda tour à tour, sans plan, sans dessein quelconque, aux influences qui l’entouraient, à l’influence de la reine, du Comte d’Artois, de Necker ... il vécut au jour le jour, disant oui, disant non, selon que le conseiller du moment était plus importun et plus pressant.” This is an exact definition of the policy manifested by the Russian Government and Court combined during the last two years.

As far as the Duma is concerned, there is the same deadlock which has existed ever since it met; the Duma insisting on the creation of responsible Ministers, the Ministers admitting the existence of the Duma in theory and denying it in practice. The tension of feeling in the Duma itself is greater than when I left, although the debates of the last three days have been fairly quiet. But it is a significant if not an ominous fact that the Constitutional Democrats are now attacked by men who have hitherto supported them on account of the mildness of their tactics.

A week spent in England enabled me to realise to a certain extent what is the English opinion with regard to Russian affairs. After one has been in Russia for some time certain things become so familiar that one takes for granted that they are too well known to mention. If one then visits England one realizes that there is a great gulf of ignorance between England and the elementary facts of the situation in Russia. I think the principal thing which struck me in what I heard Englishmen say about the Duma was that no sort of distinction was made among the elements of which it is composed. It is generally supposed to be a body exclusively consisting of violent Socialists. This is not the case; although, owing to the abnormal situation created by the Duma being face to face with a Ministry which does not seriously admit its existence, it will at any moment be ready to show a unanimous front of opposition towards the Government. The second thing which struck me was that people in England judge affairs in Russia according to an English standard. They forget that the conditions are different. The Russian Government, in some of its unofficial utterances in the English Press, reminds us of this fact when it wishes to lay stress on the opinion that the Duma is not a Parliament, and must not be considered as such. Their argument cuts both ways, and it might be applied to the Russian Government, comparing it with the Governments of other countries, but I would rather apply this reasoning to the demands of the Duma. The Government says these demands are impossible, and public opinion in England is apt to re-echo this sentiment, feeling that this standpoint is a safe and sound one. I am not going into the question in detail; only I wish to point out a few facts which perhaps make these demands seem less extravagant than they appear to be at first sight.

Let us take first the abolition of capital punishment. People say: “They are asking for the abolition of capital punishment in Russia, whereas in an enlightened country like ours we hang women. It is absurd.” Now, capital punishment, except for regicides, was abolished in Russia by the Empress Elizabeth in 1753; and it has only been applied lately in virtue of martial law. If you committed an ordinary murder in Russia you were put in prison for a certain number of years, often not for a very long period. Ordinary murders did not increase in consequence, and the Russians were satisfied with this detail of their legislation. Now, since the revolutionary movement began last year, and more especially since the prevalence of martial law in many districts, what has happened is this: that whereas capital punishment was still in abeyance in respect to ordinary criminals, it obtained as far as political offenders were concerned. It is objected, of course, that people who throw bombs must expect to be killed and that the murder of innocent policemen is wholly unjustifiable. But the other side rejoins as follows: “What is terrorism but the inevitable result of the continued lawlessness of the local authorities representing the Government?” While admitting to the full that it is deplorable, how can one expect it to diminish as long as the Government continues to condone guilty officials, or only punishes them in a ludicrously inadequate manner? It is here that the Government’s case breaks down. A man who kills a policeman is, if he is caught, at least certain of punishment, but if a police officer walks into a house and kills, as Ermolov did in Moscow, an utterly inoffensive doctor, he is certain to be let off (Ermolov was sentenced to deprivation of military rank and a short term of imprisonment). That is what the Liberals complain of, pointing at the same time to utterly indiscriminate executions carried out under martial law by generals in Moscow, in the Baltic provinces, and in Siberia. I cannot say that I think their position is wildly unreasonable. The Government’s argument is exceedingly specious, and it is the easiest thing in the world to convince any Englishman of its soundness, only it omits half the truth and the whole cause of the agitation.

The same thing can be said about the demand for amnesty. People in England think that the Duma is clamouring exclusively for the release of murderers. The fact is that, as I have said before, the proportion of murderers in prison is small. The bomb-throwers nearly always escape or are killed, whereas the prisons are packed with people who are there by chance and against whom there is not even any accusation.

Again, take the land question: the demands on the Duma seem far less exaggerated to a Russian Conservative than they do to an English Whig. The Russian Conservative may, and probably does, disagree with them, but he does not consider them childishly outrageous. The Duma contains some highly-respected and important landlords, who have all voted in favour of the principle of compulsory expropriation, and I think they know more about the land question in Russia even than the most sensible Englishman.

_July 6th_ (_Later_).

To-day in the Duma there was a barefooted man in rags, who said he had arrived in St. Petersburg chiefly owing to the kindness of the railway guards. His house had been burnt, owing to some squabble with the police authorities. Another correspondent and I had some talk with him. He thought we were deputies. He said: “Stand up for our rights and I will go back and tell them you are doing so.”

_July 6th._

The question of the Inter-Parliamentary Congress to be held in London is arousing interest here. It is not yet decided what delegates are to go. Professor Kovolievski introduced me to one of the peasant members of the Duma—Nazarenko, the deputy for Kharhov—who wished to speak to me about it. Nazarenko is far the most remarkable of the peasant deputies. He is a tall, striking figure, with black hair, a pale face with prominent clearly-cut features, such as Velasquez would have taken to paint a militant apostle. He went through the course of primary education, and by subsequently educating himself he has attained to an unwonted degree of culture. Besides this he is a born speaker and a most original character. “I want to go to London,” he said, “so that the English may see a real peasant and not a sham one, and so that I can tell the English what we, the real people, think and feel about them.” I said I was glad he was going. “I shan’t go unless I am chosen by the others,” he answered. “I have written my name down and asked, but I shan’t ask twice. I never ask twice for anything. When I say my prayers I only ask God once for a thing, and if it is not granted I never ask again. So it’s not likely I would ask my fellow-men twice for anything. I am like that; I leave out that passage in the prayers about being a miserable slave. I am not a miserable slave, neither of man nor of heaven.” “That is what the Church calls spiritual pride,” I answered. “I don’t believe in all that,” he answered. “My religion is the same as that of Tolstoi.” He then pointed to the ikon which is in the lobby of the Duma. “I pay no attention to that,” he said, “It is a board covered with gilt, but a lot of people think that the ikon is God.”

I asked him if he liked Tolstoi’s books. “Yes,” he answered. “His books are great, but his philosophy is weak. It may be all right for mankind thousands of years hence, but it is no use now. I have no friends,” he continued. “Books are my friends. But lately my house was burnt, and all my books with it. I have read a lot, but I never had anybody to tell me what to read, so I read without any system. I did not go to school till I was thirteen.”

“Do you like Dostoievski’s books?” “Yes; he knows all about the human soul. When I see a man going down hill I know exactly how it will happen and what he is going through, and I could stop him because I have read Dostoievski.” “Have you read translations of any foreign books?” “Very few; some of Zola’s books, but I don’t like them because he does not really know the life he is describing. Some of Guy de Maupassant’s stories I have read, but I do not like them either, because I don’t want to know more about that sort of people than I know already.” “Have you read Shakespeare?” “Yes. There is nobody like him. When you read a conversation of Shakespeare’s, when one person is speaking you think he is right, and when the next person answers him you think he is right. He understands everybody. But I want to read Spencer—Herbert Spencer. I have never been able to get his works.” I promised to procure him Herbert Spencer’s works.

I hope he will go to London, for he is a strangely picturesque figure and an original character, this dark-eyed Velasquez-like Nazarenko, proud as Lucifer and full of ideals, a kind of mixture of Shelley and Cato.

_July 7th._

This afternoon I went to have tea with two of the peasant deputies. They had asked me because it was the Name-day of one of them. They are living in a new hotel and are most comfortably lodged. They pay a rouble a day for a room. Their rooms are far more comfortable and much cleaner than mine. We had beer, vodka, cucumbers, sardines and cold sausage, and we discussed very many subjects. During the afternoon many other members dropped in, and among them a member of the “Council of Empire.” These peasants, who come from an exceedingly distant government, belong to the more educated category. I believe the education in their particular government is good owing to the energy the Zemstva have displayed there. There are three of these peasants: one of them is a sensible man who does not know much about things outside Russia; but one of the others is quite well acquainted with the main features of European politics and talks of Jaurés, Chamberlain, and Lord Rosebery. “Who would have thought two years ago,” said one of them, “that we should see an Englishman here in the flesh?”

_July 8th._

This evening I went to see an electro-technician, whom I know. We went for a walk on the islands. The technician’s brother, who had been a sailor, was with us. The electro-technician had been in Belgium and London. Then we went to the “Norodniu Dom,” the “People’s Palace,” a place where there is a popular theatre, a garden, and a restaurant. Before we went in here, the technician’s brother said he must have some vodka. So we went into a wine shop and he drank a large tumbler of vodka straight off. “This is the eighth glass I have had to-day,” he said. “It is only habit. I don’t feel any effects from it; but if I were to drink a glass of wine now I should be drunk.” We went into the “People’s Palace” and sat in the garden. Some other friends joined us. We ordered beer, and the technician’s brother was unwise enough to drink some. The technician described life in Paris and London. Paris he detested. He spoke French rather well. He said it was a boring city. I said, “Don’t you like the French theatres? You must admit they act well.” He said: “Their plays are so totally different from ours that I cannot bear them. They are always artificial and never the least like life. Our plays are like life.” Talking of London, he said when he arrived there he realised that the Continent was one thing and England a totally different thing. He said he could not understand thousands of poor people paying a shilling to see a football match. He had lived in an English family. He admired the neatness and the cleanliness of everything. He thought the hospitality of the English was great. He said the point of view of moral superiority was extraordinary. The way an Englishwoman he had known had spoken of Indians and Chinese as something so infinitely inferior, too, had surprised and amused him. The sailor brother put in a few remarks and was contradicted. The glass of beer which had followed the eighth tumbler of vodka now took its effect, and he said that a man present had morally spat three times in his face, and that he was not going to stand it any longer. His brother said that if he was not quiet he would go. He refused to be quieted, and so the company broke up.

_July 9th._

To-day I went to the Duma with a translation of Herbert Spencer for Nazarenko. I also took him a translation of Shelley’s poems and a translation of “Œdipus Rex.” “There,” I said, “are the poems of a man called Shelley.” “You mean,” he answered, “the man who was drowned.” He took up the “Œdipus Rex,” and read three verses out of it. “Modern poetry depends for its beauty on its outward form,” he said. “It is all words; but if you read two lines of ancient poetry like this you see that it contains a whole philosophy.”

_July 11th._

I went to see Nazarenko in his house. He was not at home, but a friend of his was there. He told me to wait. He was a peasant thirty-nine years old, rather bald, with a nice intelligent face. At first he took no notice of me, and read aloud to himself out of a book. Then he suddenly turned to me and asked me who I was. I said I was an English correspondent. He got up, shut the door, and begged me to stay. “Do the English know the condition of the Russian peasantry?” he asked. “They think we are wolves and bears. Do I look like a wolf? Please say I am not a wolf.” Then he ordered some tea and got a bottle of beer. He asked me to tell him how labourers lived in England, what their houses were made of, what the floors and walls were made of, how much wages a labourer received, what was the price of meat, whether they ate meat? Then he suddenly, to my intense astonishment, put the following question to me: “In England do they think that Jesus Christ was a God or only a great man?” I asked him what he thought. He said he thought He was a great man. He said that the Russian people were very religious and superstitious; they were deceived by the priests, who threatened them with damnation. He asked me if I could lend him an English bible. He wanted to see if it was the same as a Russian bible. I said it was exactly the same. He was immensely astonished. “Do you mean to say,” he asked, “that there are all those stories about Jonah and the whale and Joshua and the moon?” I said “Yes.” “I thought,” he said, “those had been put in for us.” I tried to explain to him that we were taught almost exactly the same doctrines, the differences between the Anglican and the Orthodox Church on points of dogma being infinitesimal. We then talked of ghosts. He asked me if I believed in ghosts. I said I did; he asked why. I gave various reasons. He said he could believe in a kind of telepathy, a kind of moral wireless telegraphy; but ghosts were the invention of old women. He suddenly asked me whether the earth was four thousand years old. “Of course it’s older,” he said. “But that’s what we are taught. We are taught nothing about geography and geology. It is, of course, a fact that there is no such thing as God,” he said; “because, if there is a God He must be a just God; and as there is so much injustice in the world it is plain that a just God does not exist.” I said I could conceive there being an unjust God. Such an idea was inconceivable, he said. “But you,” he went on, “an Englishman who has never been deceived by officials, do you believe that God exists?” (He thought that all ideas of religion and God as taught to the Russian people were part of a great official lie.) “I do,” I said. “Why?” he asked. I asked him if he had read the book of Job. He said he had. I said that when Job has everything taken away from him, although he has done no wrong, suddenly in the very depth of his misery he recognises the existence of God in the immensity of nature, and feels that his own soul is a part of a plan too vast for him to conceive or to comprehend; in feeling that he is a part of the scheme he acknowledges the existence of God, and that is enough; he is able to consent, and to console himself, although in dust and ashes. That was, I said, what I thought one could feel. He admitted the point of view, but he did not share it. After we had had tea we went for a walk in some gardens not far off, where there were various theatrical performances going on. The audience amused me, it applauded so rapturously and insisted on an encore, whatever was played, and however it was played, with such thunderous insistence. “Priests,” said my friend, “base everything on the devil. There is no devil. There was no fall of man. There are no ghosts, no spirits, but there are millions and millions of other inhabited worlds.”

I left him late, when the performance was over. This man, who was a member of the Duma for the government of Jula, was called Petruckin. I looked up his name in the list of members and found he had been educated in the local church school of the village of Kologrivo; that he had spent the whole of his life in this village and had been engaged in agriculture. That among the peasants he enjoyed great popularity as being a clever and hard-working man. He belonged to no party. He was not in the least like the men of peasant origin who had assimilated European culture. He was naturally sensible and alert of mind.

_July 12th._

The Bill which the Duma passed last week abolishing capital punishment was discussed in the Upper House the day before yesterday and referred to a Committee. As the treatment of this matter has excited no little bewilderment abroad, it will, perhaps, not be useless to go further into the history of capital punishment in Russia, which I have mentioned in a previous letter. Capital punishment was abolished in Russia by the Empress Elizabeth, the daughter of Peter the Great, in 1753. But as long as the knout was in use it was rather the name of the thing than the thing itself which was abolished, because a hundred lashes of the knout meant death. During the last years in which the knout was employed the number of lashes was limited to thirty-five. Its use was abolished by the Emperor Nicholas in the first year of his reign (1825). Beating with a birch was abolished by the Emperor Alexander II. in 1863, except for peasants; the beating of peasants was abolished in 1904. “Depuis lors,” writes M. Leroy-Beaulieu in his standard book on Russia, “la législation Russe est probablement la plus douce de l’Europe.... La peine capitale a depuis lors été réellement supprimée; à l’inverse de ce qui se voit en beaucoup d’autres pays, elle n’existe plus que pour les crimes politiques, pour les attentats contre la vie du Souverain ou la sûreté de l’État.” During almost the whole reign of Alexander II, from 1855 to 1876, only one man was executed on the scaffold, namely Karakosof, the perpetrator of the first attempt made on the Emperor’s life. From 1866 to 1903 only 114 men suffered the penalty of death throughout the whole of the Russian Empire.

Commenting on these statistics in the Council of Empire, M. Tagantzef pointed out that, in contradistinction to this, during 1906 up to the month of June, that is, during five months, 108 people have been condemned to death under martial law, and ninety have been executed, not counting people who have been killed without a trial. The cause, therefore, of the present agitation is the fact that capital punishment exists in Russia for political crimes only by virtue of martial law. M. Leroy-Beaulieu, in commenting on the first instances of this turn of affairs, which occurred in 1878, when a political agitator was executed in Odessa, remarks that a modern State which abolishes capital punishment should abolish it altogether, “pour ne point se donner le démenti d’une contradiction rendue parfois d’autant plus choquante pour la conscience publique qu’il lui répugne de voir, comme en Russie, le régicide ou le simple conspirateur politique traité plus sévèrement que le parricide.”

For and against the entire abolition of capital punishment the chief arguments of each side are at present these: Those who wish capital punishment to be retained point to the number of political murders which have occurred during the last year, and especially to the long list of innocent policemen who have been murdered, and maintain that if capital punishment is abolished these crimes will increase. Those who wish it to be abolished say that the existence of capital punishment, so far from exercising a restraining influence on political criminals, excites people to murder and makes martyrs of them. Moreover, they point out that when people expatiate on the terrible list of political assassinations they altogether overlook their cause. They are not in all cases the result of irresponsible hysteria. The defenders of the Government say: “You make martyrs of people who are merely common murderers;” the opponents answer: “The Government shuts its eyes to the lawless and criminal acts of its officials, and the people are obliged to take the law into their own hands.” This is the present state of the question, and I have endeavoured to present both sides of it. Quite apart from the political murders of the last two years, it is interesting to note that, as far as we can tell, the abolition of capital punishment in Russia has not had the effect of increasing crime. In 1890 the proportion of homicides was seven to the million in Russia (7·4), almost exactly the same as the proportion in the British Isles during that year, which was (7·5).

_July 12th_ (_continued_).

This morning I went to see Nazarenko, who had made an appointment with me. My friend Petruckin was there also. We discussed the question of the Inter-Parliamentary Conference. He said he meant to go to London. “They are so absorbed here in party politics,” he said, “that they forget that these things are larger and more important, because they concern Russia as a great power. The members of the Duma do not want to go with the members of the Council of Empire. But I tell them it is like this. If I see a wounded man on the ground and go to help him, and a man whom I dislike comes to help him also, I don’t stop helping the wounded man because the man I dislike is helping; that would be absurd.”

He said he had read some of the Shelley I had given him. Shelley was a real poet. Russian poets wrote about nothing except love; but in Shelley there was a different spirit. “I have read Byron, too, a long time ago; but he is too pessimistic, and is always harping on one theme—himself.” I asked him if he had ever read “Paradise Lost.” “Yes,” he answered, “I read it when I was thirteen; it was one of the first books I ever read. There is glorious fantasy!”

To-day was a holiday and, talking of this, Nazarenko said that the quantity of holidays in Russia proved that the Russians were an inferior race. “My holidays are those days when there is no work for me to do, just as my fast days are those on which I am not hungry.” Nazarenko, in the course of conversation, said something about religion, and Petruckin broke in, and said: “Take care! Mavriki Edouardovitch (that was I) is a full believer.”

_July 13th._

To-day there are rumours of a new Ministry to be formed from the majority of the Duma.

_July 16th._

I went to see Petruckin this evening. We had a long conversation about the land question. He explained to me that the Labour Party’s views as to the land question were silly. He said that he inclined towards the views of the Cadets.

_July 18th._

Things are going badly in the Duma, and there is likely to be a split among the Cadets on the subject of a proposed Manifesto to the people, a counterblast to the Ministerial Declaration.

_July 19th._

During the last week not only were rumours circulating to the effect that the resignation of the Ministry had been accepted, but certain members of the Right positively affirmed that a new Cabinet taken from the Duma had been formed. It is said now that this task was offered to M. Shipov, who is the most important representative of the Moderate

## parties outside the Duma, and that he refused it. Now, since yesterday

fresh rumours, which have had a bad effect on the Bourse, are afloat to the effect that all idea of forming a Ministry from the Duma itself has been abandoned, and that the Government is contemplating the dissolution of the Duma and the appointment of a military dictatorship. Whether there is serious foundation for these rumours I do not know, but it is obvious that there are only four courses open to the Government:

1. To form a Coalition Ministry under some Liberal leader outside the Duma.

2. To form a Ministry from the majority of the Duma.

3. To dissolve the Duma.

4. To do nothing.

The Government is said to have tried the first course and to have failed. The second course it appears to regard as being out of the question. The third course is said to be under consideration now. The fourth course answers to the Government’s policy up to the present.

I have talked with several Conservatives lately—not Moderate Liberals, but Conservatives of the old _régime_—and their indignation against the Government was extreme. One of them said that the formation of a Ministry from the majority of the Duma, namely, the Cadets, with whom he had no sympathy, was the only chance of saving the situation; that he could understand the policy of dissolution; but the Government did neither the one nor the other, and the people who were paying for this mistake were the landlords with the destruction and devastation of their property. Another said to me that there were at present two great dangerous elements in Russia—the revolutionaries and the Government—and that of the two the Government was the more dangerous. A third, a large landed proprietor, said that he preferred to be despoiled by expropriation rather than to have all his estates devastated and his houses burnt. A Government taken from the majority of the Duma, he added, was the only solution, but it should have been done two months ago; now it was too late. I mentioned the dissolution of the Duma and the possibility of a dictatorship. “You would want five hundred dictators, not one,” he answered, “and what is the use of a dictatorship when the whole country is on fire? The action of the Government has been like this: it is as if some people had set a town on fire, locked up the fire engines, and then talked of putting a dictator at the head of the fire brigade.”

In opposition to this I have heard views expressed which perhaps reflect those of the Government. One man said to me that it was now obvious that the Duma, instead of having a pacifying influence, was merely a cause of disorder; that when it was originally convened he had believed in its pacifying capacities; but now he was convinced of the contrary, and the sooner it was dissolved the better. It may be objected that, though it is after all true that the convening of the Duma did not pacify the country, it is necessary to reflect under what conditions it was convened: its hands were tied; the fundamental laws were altered for this purpose; the Government not only went on governing as before, but actually took active measures to discredit its new Parliament at home and abroad. When a Duma was asked for, the thing meant was Responsible Government. It is over this question of responsibility that the whole struggle is being carried on.

I have also heard the following argument, which is advanced by the newspaper _Rossia_, a semi-official organ, this morning: “What do we lose by deciding on repressive measures? Even if we fail by giving in now we should be failing; therefore we are exchanging certain failure for problematic failure; it is better to give in after a fight than to surrender without a struggle, and our chances, now that we are certain of at least one part of the Army, are better than they will be a year hence, when we shall be certain of nothing. We are told that we cannot dissolve the Duma without provoking a revolution, but, from our point of view, to give in to the Duma now is equivalent to sanctioning a revolution. Let us try and prove that we can dissolve the Duma, and that they are merely trying to bluff with their threats of revolution.” The logical result of this policy should be civil war.[3]

Footnote 3:

And it has proved to be civil war; but civil war waged in everyday life and unaccompanied by an armed rising.

All the revolutionary elements in the country would be strengthened by a dissolution, and one can safely predict that the general disorder would be increased. For even now the sporadic anarchy is increasing daily. Will the dissolution of the Duma relieve this tension? I think not. The question then suggests itself: Is there no hope of a peaceful issue?

A Ministry formed from the majority of the Duma is the only hope; but whether it would manage to calm matters is another question. It is true that there is a moderate element, especially among the peasants, who wish to meet the landlords halfway, who consider the demands of the Extreme Left, and especially their agrarian programme, to be absurd. These men would support a Ministry taken from the Duma, but they continually assert that the Government will not meet them half way, and that, on the other hand, they consider the schemes which the Government have put forward to be fundamentally insufficient. Whether a Ministry composed of members taken from the majority of the Duma would succeed in calming the country depends on the nature and intensity of the opposition they would have to encounter, which it is impossible to gauge at present. One thing is certain, that in the event of such a Ministry being given a free hand sympathy would cease to be extended to the throwers of bombs, whose task is now greatly facilitated by the simple fact that popular opinion is with them.

When people, on the other hand, say that the Cadets have no men with whom to form a Ministry—and, to be fair, I have only heard this argument advanced either in England or by some Russian officials here—I have heard it contradicted by intelligent Russian officials—they are talking egregious nonsense. People like Professor Miliukov, MM. Nabokor, Kokoskin, Muromtzeff, and Petradjinski have shown themselves not only to be men with brains but to possess political capacity and tactical ability of no mean order. Even if they were twenty times less capable than they are they would be more capable of governing the country than the present Ministry. But unfortunately it does not seem probable that they will ever win the confidence of the Crown, since most of them in the past have suffered for their political principles, and some of them have been in prison. Therefore, whereas if they had been born in France or England they would by now be occupying exalted positions, they are now looked upon from above as men of the same category as Anarchists and throwers of vitriol. If Mr. Balfour had been born in Russia he would certainly have been requested to confine his energies to golf and metaphysics, but if Mr. Haldane had been born here he would have probably been sent to think about the path to reality in the paths of Transbaikalia. Therefore at the root of the whole matter there is a great misunderstanding between the Crown and the Duma. It is based on the supposition that the Duma is not representative, and that the revolution is an artificial thing.

_July 20th._

To-day there are ominous rumours of dissolution in the air. Nazarenko is not going to London. He said he thought Professor Kovolievski was not going, so he had withdrawn his candidature. Now it turned out that Professor Kovolievski was going he was sorry. He said he respected Maxime Maximovitch Kovolievski to such an extent that if he were to tell him to hang himself on a tree he would do so.

_July 21st._

Every one is talking of the rumours of dissolution.

_July 22nd._

I went to see some of the peasant members in their hotel. They expect that the Duma will be dissolved.

_July 23rd._

In this morning’s _Retch_ there was a short paragraph stating that late in the night a rumour had reached them concerning the dissolution of the Duma; but it was not true. It was, however, or rather it is. The dissolution is a fact. I have just seen the official announcement in a special edition.

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