The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Land of Riddles, by Hugo Ganz This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: The Land of Riddles Russia of To-day Author: Hugo Ganz Translator: Herman Rosenthal Release Date: March 18, 2018 [EBook #56772] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAND OF RIDDLES *** Produced by Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) Transcriber's Note: Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. THE LAND OF RIDDLES (RUSSIA OF TO-DAY) BY HUGO GANZ TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN AND EDITED BY [Pg i] HERMAN ROSENTHAL HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON 1904 Copyright, 1904, by Harper & Brothers. —— All rights reserved. Published November, 1904. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE Preface v I. Introduction 1 II. Warsaw 8 III. Warsaw—Continued 17 IV. St. Petersburg 24 V. St. Petersburg—Continued 33 VI. Artist and Professor—Ilya Ryepin 44 VII. The Hermitage 60 VIII. The Hermitage—Continued 69 IX. The Camorra—A Talk with a Russian Prince 83 X. Sänger's Fall 94 XI. The People's Palace of St. Petersburg (Narodni Dom) 103 XII. Russia's Financial Future 111 XIII. The Russian Finances 123 XIV. A Funeral 133 XV. The Chinovnik (The Russian Official) 144 XVI. The Sufferings of the Jews 154 XVII. The Jewish Question 167 XVIII. Plehve 173 XIX. The Administration of Justice 182 XX. The Imperial Family as the Public Sees It 196 XXI. Public Opinion and the Press 206 XXII. Some Realities of the Legal Profession 217 XXIII. The Student Body in Russia 226 XXIV. Before the Catastrophe 235 XXV. Sectarians and Socialists 245 XXVI. Moscow 257 XXVII. Moscow—Continued 270 XXVIII. A Visit to Tolstoï 285 XXIX. A Visit to Tolstoï—Continued 295 XXX. A Visit to Tolstoï—Continued 310 [Pg ii] [Pg iii] [Pg iv] [Pg v] PREFACE In this volume is presented to American readers an unbiased description of the real state of affairs in Russia to-day. The sketches here brought together are the result of a special visit to Russia by Mr. Hugo Ganz, the well-known writer of Vienna, who was furnished with the best of introductions to the various circles of Russian society, and had thus exceptional opportunities to acquire reliable information. Were not the reputation of the author and the standard of his informants alike absolutely above suspicion, it would seem incredible that such conditions as those depicted could exist in the twentieth century in a country claiming a place among civilized nations. Indeed, whereas Japan has incontestably proved that she is emerging from the darkness of centuries, Russia is content to remain in a state of semi-barbarism which might be looked for in the Middle Ages. Since the sketches were written, the birth of an heir to the imperial throne and the assassination of Von Plehve have altered Russian conditions to a certain extent. But though the appointment of Svyatopolk-Mirski seems at first sight to afford ground for congratulation, it is evident that even with the best intentions the new minister of the interior will hardly be able to effect much amelioration until the entire system of the Russian government is changed. Several of the articles in the following pages have appeared in the Berlin Nation and in the Frankfort Zeitung, and have received very favorable notice in the German press. It is intended to publish an edition of the book in German, but the present translation is the only authorized one in the English language. Herman Rosenthal New York Public Library, October 1, 1904. THE LAND OF RIDDLES (RUSSIA OF TO-DAY) THE LAND OF RIDDLES (RUSSIA OF TO-DAY) I INTRODUCTION Shortly before my departure from Vienna I chanced to meet an acquaintance, a Viennese writer. "Are you really going to Russia?" said he. "I almost envy you, for it is to us a land of riddles. It has great artists and writers and undoubtedly a highly educated upper stratum of the nation; at the same time it displays political conditions really barbarous in their backwardness. How are these co-ordinated? How is the maintenance possible, in the close proximity of comparatively free governments, of a régime which knows no personal liberty, no privacy of the mails, and in which there is but one master—namely, the absolute police?" "You are raising the very questions which lead me there," I replied. "We do not know Russia. We wonder at its great writers, but we cannot conceive how their greatness is possible under the existing conditions of public life, which remind one of a penitentiary rather than of a civilized state. And the question that persistently arises is whether our conception of these conditions corresponds to reality, or whether we are laboring under such a delusion as would befall one attempting to judge public life in Germany from the speeches of Bebel and other radicals. In truth, we know only the opposition or revolutionary literature of Russia; and, as far as appearances go, it is hardly credible that a system such as it describes and brands for its inhuman wickedness can long retain the ascendency." "You are going, then, without prejudices?" "I think I may say that I have none. We have long been cured of the notion that one and the same form of government may be prescribed as the only one leading to contentment in all times and in all countries. Deductive philosophy in political science has been replaced by inductive realistic philosophy, and a true understanding of existing conditions appears now to us of greater moment than the most beautiful ideals. Above all things, I feel myself free from the childish moral valuation of different political beliefs. One person may be at the same time a conservative and a gentleman or a radical and a knave. Should I come to the conclusion that Russian absolutism is or can be defended in good faith by upright Russian patriots there will be nothing to prevent my freely admitting it. An unbiased observer should not be wedded to any doctrine." [Pg vi] [Pg vii] [Pg 1] [Pg 2] [Pg 3] "In that case I shall be doubly curious as to the results of your studies." We parted. I have cited here this characteristic conversation because it demonstrates better than any introduction what the intelligent European is nowadays eager to discover about Russia, and what led me in the depth of winter, at the critical moment before the outbreak of a great war, to the northern empire. That this war was imminent was then (at the beginning of January) apparent to every statesman free from official bias. There was scarcely a foreboding of it in Russia itself. For me, however, that particular moment was of value, for it offered an opportunity to study for a short time Russian society, first in a state of calm, and then in the excitement which naturally followed the declaration of war. I made provision for both war and peace and set out on my journey. To be sure, I was not as light of heart as if I had been preparing to spend the winter on the Riviera or in Sicily. The climate had no terrors for me, for I knew that nowhere is one so well protected from the severity of the season as in the regions where ice and snow hold sway for at least one-third of the year. But it was the gorgon-headed Russian police that confronted me threateningly. My aim in travel was the study of political conditions, the unreserved discussion with clear-sighted and well-informed persons of the existing state of affairs. It was my purpose to record carefully my impressions and observations, and to report them to all who were interested in my studies. But we are told that all political conversation is forbidden in Russia. One may subject himself and his friends to great annoyance by allowing some meddling ear-witness to catch accidentally a fragment of a political conversation. Writing and note-taking are even more dangerous; for the police open all letters, and they are not deterred by any conscientious scruples from confiscating the notes even of foreigners when they appear suspicious. Ambassadors and consuls are loath to engage in altercations with the Russian police, for statesmanship enjoins friendly relations with the government of the powerful Russian empire, and when an inconvenient foreigner disappears somewhere in darkest Russia—as was the case with a French engineer who came in conflict with the police in a concert-hall and was never seen again—no one is disturbed by the incident. All these reflections were not cheering to me, who, besides, was unfamiliar with the language of the country. None the less was I averse to returning home without my whole skin or with empty hands. Here I would state that I did not experience the slightest annoyance throughout my entire journey. I was not subjected to police surveillance, nor did I notice in my meagre correspondence the least trace of police interference—the latter being probably due to the extreme precautions taken by me in sending my mail in inconspicuous envelopes. And yet what a condition of things for a great country—that every traveller who wishes to enter its territory must arm himself with precautionary measures, as if he were preparing to visit a robber's den! Is it compatible with the usages of modern Europe, forsooth, that no step may be taken in this country without one's being provided with documents of identification; that one may not cross the boundary either into or out of the country without the special permission of the consulate or of the police? Is Russia a state or a prison? Is it a modern Tauris full of terrors to the stranger? I am not now speaking of the passport difficulties peculiar to Jews, who, generally speaking, can hardly obtain entrance to holy Russia, and who, when they succeed in gaining admission, must be in constant dread of unpleasantness in every town and in every hotel. I merely ask whether it is compatible with the good name of a state that still wishes to exchange courtesies with neighboring states to appear in the popular imagination as a ferocious monster ignoring right and without decency? How can trade and intercourse develop; how can the unimpeded flow of the sap of culture, the circulation of the national blood, take place in a land where terror guards the boundaries and where the reputation of arbitrariness impedes all progress? And what modern state or system of national economy may, without the unimpeded circulation of the sap of culture, maintain itself at a level corresponding to the modern requirements of its internal and external productive capacity? Are the advantages of an all-controlling police system in any degree proportionate to its innumerable economic disadvantages? Is the occasional annoyance of a really objectionable intruder sufficient compensation for the evil reputation which this system attaches to the whole country? It is a sheer impossibility to watch daily and hourly a hundred million people. Why are such enormous sacrifices made at all for the sake of an undertaking injurious in itself and, moreover, impossible of execution? Such are the thoughts that the traveller approaching the frontier cannot escape. I may here say, in advance, that the police could not prevent my holding conversations throughout Russia with men in various walks of life on subjects very objectionable to the police officials. Is it worth while, then, to bear the evil repute that Russia is a prison where no man's life or property is secure? Apart from actual fact, the stranger does not know, before crossing the boundary, whether the police tyranny is really as inexorable as it is pictured and is believed abroad, but of this he is certain, that such an evil reputation does the country incalculable economic injury, and that a country with such an evil repute can never be regarded as mature from the economic stand-point, to say nothing of political honor, to which, perhaps, there is a disposition to attach less value in the high places of autocratic rule. II WARSAW The express-train is nearing the frontier at dawn. We are greeted by the sleeping-car conductor with the significant announcement, "We shall soon be in Russia"—an announcement which, it must be confessed, produces a slight [Pg 4] [Pg 5] [Pg 6] [Pg 7] [Pg 8] palpitation of the heart. We are now at the gate of a mysterious country, with passport and baggage in the best of order. A Russian consulate had found us worthy to set foot upon the soil of holy Russia, and had explicitly stated that fact in our passport. Travellers may journey without this certificate through the five continents, but if unprovided with it may not set foot on Russian soil. We have no weapons save our five fingers, and, above all, not a single printed book or newspaper that might cause trouble at the frontier, excepting the invaluable Baedeker, for the importation of books, as we already knew at home, is put under severe ban in the domain of the Holy Synod. None the less, a slight palpitation of the heart, a slight anxiety, are felt at the sight of a narrow bridge leading between two sentry-boxes over a small stream separating two countries—nay, two civilizations. Shall we find favor in the eyes of the almighty gendarme who enters our coupé with a polite bow, as we approach the station, and asks for our passport? May it not be that a secret police prohibition has preceded us, notwithstanding the regularity of our passport, and that it now precludes our entrance? Has not your pen sinned many a time against the knout and autocracy, and are you not, after all, if carefully examined, with all your scribbling, a thoroughly objectionable person in the eyes of the police—at least, when seen with Russian eyes? But, thank Heaven, the world is great and I am insignificant; Russian censorship has not yet taken notice of all the sins of my pen; hence the same officer returns to me with the same bow my passport after the customs inspection. The holy Russian empire, from Warsaw to Vladivostok, is now exposed to my curious eyes. The customs inspection was in itself a peculiar experience. The porter, a Pole with a good-natured, handsome face, takes our baggage and baggage-certificate, and invites us with a friendly gesture to follow him to the great inspection hall. The hall is scrupulously clean and no loud talking is heard there. The passengers take their places on one side of the inspection-table, the porters on the other, the latter in orderly file with their caps in their hands. They communicate with one another only with their eyes. Silence has begun. I do not know whether it is purposely so, or whether it is merely incidental to the particularly strict local régime, that the implicit obedience, the silent subjection, and the irresistible power of despotism are here brought home so effectively to the stranger. But this impression remains with the traveller throughout the entire journey: "Be silent, restrain yourselves, We are watched in word and look." An empire of one hundred and thirty millions of prisoners and of one million jailers—such is Russia; and these jailers understand no joke. It is a terrible machinery, this despotism, with all its wheels working one within the other. It is relentless and keen in all its mechanism, henceforth no loud word shall be spoken. The official organs alone have a voice; private persons may speak only in low tones. But how orderly, politely, and neatly do the officials and porters execute the examination and forwarding of our baggage when despotism wishes to reconcile people to its threatening silence. Only ten kopeks, turned into the common treasury, are asked for the handling of our large amount of baggage, and we are then led, together with the other travellers, to the Russian exit of the customs inspection hall. After a short wait there the gate is opened, and at a given signal we are marched out of the hall in single file to refresh ourselves, before the departure of the train, with a little breakfast. Scrupulous cleanliness reigns in the large, airy restaurant also. We are in the land of caviar. Caviar sandwiches, appetizingly prepared, lie on the buffet-table. "Caviar" may also be found in one or another of the foreign papers offered for sale by the newsboys. When the censorship finds it inconvenient to eliminate entire pages whose contents are objectionable, it generously spreads printer's ink on the condemned passages, scatters sand over them, and puts the whole in the press. The result is a lattice-like pattern, not unlike in appearance to pressed caviar, to which the Russian, with good-natured self-derision, applies the term "press-caviar," an expression which has a two-fold meaning. Caviar is admittedly regarded as an easily digestible food. The Russian censor considers his caviar more useful and less harmful than that which ill-advised men in foreign countries allow themselves to print. A few glasses of tea drawn from a samovar drive away the last traces of the morning frost, and, wrapped in fur coats, and with a feeling like that succeeding an adventure crowned with victory, we for the first time stroll along a Russian railway platform. We again enter the coupé, now in charge of Russian attendants. A long, monotonous ride through level, swampy country, over which there slowly floats the gray vapor of the locomotive, finally brings us at dusk to Warsaw. Nothing oppresses the spirit more deeply than such a ten-hour monotony of leaden-gray skies, dirty-gray snow, and a thick, gray, smoky mist. The gendarmes in gray coats at the infrequent stations; the greasy Jews with their long coats of uncertain color; the secret police with their questionable gentility, never absent—all these are not calculated to relieve the painful feeling of sadness and dreariness. We were out of humor when we reached Warsaw. We believed that we had the right to expect crisp winter weather in Russia and were disappointed to find only mud and humidity. But perhaps Warsaw is not really Russia? Or are we still in central Europe? The evening at the hotel and the following days conclusively proved to us that Warsaw, indeed all Poland, with its climate, its civilization, its religion, and—its ideas, [Pg 9] [Pg 10] [Pg 11] [Pg 12] does not belong, in the real sense of the term, to Russia; that the isotherm which connects Russia proper with other regions of the same mean temperature runs considerably north of Poland. A Buckle would be puzzled by this fact alone. The dwellers could not be of the same race here nor the same system be possible. When, nevertheless, only one power rules here, it does so by violence and in spite of natural laws; it must give rise to resentment and can give no promise of permanence. On my return journey from the heart of Russia I purposely suppressed the first impression gained by me in Warsaw, but when I was there again this impression reasserted itself even more strongly. Warsaw is no more Russia than Lemberg or Dresden, in spite of the overpowering Russian churches, in spite of the innumerable Russian officers and soldiers, in spite of the obligatory Russian signs on the stores, which, with some experience, may be deciphered as "Chajim Berlinerblau," or something similar. Aside from its jargon-speaking Jews, Warsaw is pre-eminently a Catholic city, and its entire civilization is Roman Catholic. Its very situation is striking. Approaching it from the Vistula, one may see where the city had built its defences —towards the east! Thence came the enemy, the Mongol, the Russian. From the east there came barbarism and oppression, therefore the fortifications and walls were built on the river-bank commanding the valley of the Vistula, through which alone an enemy could come. From the west came only the blessings of civilization and religion, with its messengers that once were harbingers of civilization, and which, perhaps, still remain such in this region. Warsaw is a beautiful and fashionable city when considered apart from the sections where the Jews are crowded together. The members of its elegant society know how to live in spite of national misery and oppression. Hotel Bristol, the finest hotel in the city, is their rendezvous. Here they meet one another at breakfast, at dinner, in the splendid English dining-room; men and women, guests from Prussian-Poland and Galicia, noble families of the partitioned kingdom. They are of one race, one class, one caste; they know one another, like members of the same club, and all approximately the same type—somewhat overslender forms, long, nervous hands, finely sculptured noses, sharply chiselled temples, angular foreheads, the women supple and lissome, each motion accompanied by a touch of polished affectation. When compared with this Polish aristocracy, the Russian officers, who eat at separate tables, leave the impression, with their German scholar-faces or Cossack physiognomies, of provincial backwardness. They are merely bourgeois in uniform even though they be real princes, while the Pole who has graduated from that high-school of refinement, the Jesuit boarding-school, is an aristocrat, a cavalier, from head to foot. They remain separate like oil and water. The Russian, even though he is the master, is of no consequence here. It is only necessary to observe for the space of an hour from some corner of the elegant dining-room of Hotel Bristol the behavior of the Polish society and the complete isolation of the Russian officers or officials; it is only necessary to be able to distinguish the groups from one another—the Baltic nobility with their almost bourgeois families, merchants from all the principal countries, Russian functionaries, and Polish society—and it will at once become clear who is at home here, firmly rooted to the soil, so that all others become strangers and intruders; it is the Poles and the Poles alone. There is some talk of a change of relations that has been attempted with the aid of the French ally through the Vatican, so as to array Poland against Protestant Prussia and to reconcile it to orthodox Russia. Indeed, the Russian government has found it necessary to allow religious instructions in secondary schools to be given in the Polish mother-tongue, just at the time when the German government had on its hands the Wreschen trials. In fact, the more Prussian narrowness insults and provokes the Poles the greater are the Russian efforts to win them over. This, however, is only a political move, an attempt at bribery that the Poles let pass because it suits them, though one, perhaps, that the real go- betweens, the Jesuits, take in earnest, but the success of which, after all, would be contrary to all known facts of history and civilization, for it would be opposed to the national sentiment. In Russia dwells the marrow of the Polish nation; in Russia dwell the Polish aristocracy and that industrial middle class which has become rich and Polish in spirit in so far as it was of foreign origin; and yet in this homogeneous land of Poland the Polish language is interdicted, so to speak, and tolerated everywhere only as a local dialect. University, gymnasiums, courts, and administration are all Russian—a Gessler hat, placed in the Russian sign of every store, on which the Latin-Polish inscription may appear only in a secondary position—a proceeding to which no self-respecting people will submit, and need not submit, especially from a master whose so-called civilization is of far more recent origin than its own. The German in America becomes Americanized voluntarily and irresistibly, because the English language is recognized as a more useful medium than his own, as the world-language. The Pole will never become Russianized as long as he remains on Polish soil; and no matter how significantly the "Ausgleichspolen" (Polish compromise party) flirt with the Russian régime, such an attitude hides a sense of annoyance and is not caused by real fellow-feeling. For the Pole, Germanization is an ill-fitting garment that only binds; Russianization is a thorn in the flesh, producing pus and throwing the entire system into a fever. III WARSAW—CONTINUED Political reflections force themselves on you in this subjugated but by no means pacified country. It is in vain you tell yourself that the constant factors of climate, soil, race, and religion are of greater importance for the true understanding of a country, city, or people than passing political incidents and systems. You cannot emancipate yourself from politics in Poland. This is not a country like German Alsace, where, according to Moltke, a guard must be kept for fifty years, [Pg 13] [Pg 14] [Pg 15] [Pg 16] [Pg 17] after which, like the German country it originally was, it will again become and remain German. Poland is a country forcibly subjected and conquered, and you feel it when walking the streets and in the fashionable hotel, where the national sorrow is generously moistened with champagne at the tables of the aristocracy even at the early breakfast hour. However, it is not necessary for us to be more passionately patriotic and political than these champagne counts, and we must attempt to secure something of the street scenes without becoming involved too deeply in political problems. Whenever I come to a town I ask myself, Why was it built here and not elsewhere? With the help of a little imagination one can understand even to-day how Warsaw came into existence. It was at the head of a bridge. The word "Warsaw" is believed to be derived from the word "Warszain" (on the height). So the city lies at a height of about forty metres on the bank of the Vistula, fully half a kilometre wide at this place. An elevation of forty metres on the immediate bank of a broad stream offered, at the time of its foundation in the twelfth century, a natural fortification, and the merchants who came up from the sea to sell their wares to the semi-barbarous inhabitants of the plain may have found perhaps on this height a frequent protection from the attacks of the plainsmen. Later the fort became a city and culture and luxury made their appearance, offering to the tamed dwellers of the plains and to the landed proprietors from far and near the opportunity to squander the proceeds of their crops. The numerous churches did not fare badly in the days of penitence then. To-day, Warsaw is still a fine city of broad streets paved with wooden blocks, with rows of stores on both sides, prominent among which are the richly equipped jewelry establishments. Carriage traffic is considerable, even though it cannot compare with that in St. Petersburg. Just now the main artery of the city, the Vistula, is closed. The stream is frozen almost over its entire width and ravens croak on the snowy shoals. But within the city there pass unceasingly modestly neat cabriolets, fashionable cabs, and splendid private turnouts with Russian harness and servants. The buildings are of little interest. A few attempts in the Russian style, a few Polish shadings of quite modern secession architecture strike the foreigner, but the deepest impression is created by the feverish life on the streets and not by its ornamental frame-work. From this should be excepted the pleasure Villa Lazienki and its quaint park situated at the end of the avenue. Even snow and ice cannot banish the spirits that possess one in these gardens. It is a miniature Versailles. Here is a little castle within which is a picture-gallery of aristocratic beauties, statues, and portraits of King Stanislas Poniatowski represented mythologically as King Solomon entering Jerusalem; without are enchanting villas scattered throughout the park, in the centre of which is a little natural theatre built in the open of stone, and arranged like an amphitheatre, the stage separated from the rest by an arena of the wide lake, and constructed of Corinthian columns and palisade of bushes. Plays were given here in the times when the court and the "beauties" of the picture-gallery enjoyed nature and art together. The moon in the sky was one of the requisites, and fireworks were burned for the relaxation of the high and most high lords. Meanwhile the kingdom hastened to its ruin; for a witty, pleasure-loving court and an immoral oligarchy together are beyond the endurance of one people, especially when it is surrounded by covetous neighbors. One hundred years of slavery and three ruthlessly suppressed revolutions are the historical penalty for the pleasures of Castle Lazienki. There and on the broad election plane the "Pole Elekcji Krolow," in the southern part of the town, where the "schlachtzitz" (lordling) could deposit his "liberum veto" for a couple of rubles or thalers, the kingdom was destroyed, and its resurrection is a pious wish the fulfilment of which even our grandchildren will not live to see. I have no faith in a Polish kingdom. There may be a Polish revolution to-morrow, perhaps, when the Russians shall meet defeat in eastern Asia, as the Russian patriots hope, but a Polish kingdom there will never be. It is quite apparent how the influence of the times is changing the entire social structure of the people. No nation can maintain itself without a middle class, and Poland still has no middle class. The material for such a class, the strong Jewish population, has been so ground down that a half-century would not be sufficient for its restoration and the Russian régime of to-day is disposed to anything rather than to the uplifting and the education of the Polish Jewry. It is stated that there are in Warsaw a quarter of a million Jews, a few well-to-do people among them, who have hastened, for the most part, to transform themselves into "Poles of the Mosaic faith," without disarming thereby the clerical anti-Semitism of the Polish people, and innumerable beggars or half-beggars, who are designated in western Europe as "schnorrer." And of these there are in Warsaw an unknown number. It is hard to draw the line between the "schnorrer" and the "Luftmensch" (a man without any certain source of income), who has not yet resigned himself to beggary, and yet cannot tell in the morning whence he is to draw his sustenance at noon. These include artisans, sweat-shop workers, agents, and go- betweens, a city proletariat of the very worst kind. I have seen no such shocking misery in the Jewish quarters on the Moldau as I encountered in the brilliant capital Warsaw. The Polish Jew, everywhere despised and unwelcome, is the wandering poverty-witness of Polish mismanagement. A system that succeeds in depraving the sober, pious, and sexually disciplined orthodox Jew to the extent observed in a portion of the Jewish Polish proletariat should be accorded recognition as the most useless system on the face of the earth. In the last analysis it was the Polish "schlachtzitz," and the Polish clerical going hand-in-hand with him, that constituted the prime cause of all the miseries of the nineteenth century. And yet, to be just, one should compare this cheerless Polish-Jewish proletariat with its immediate environment—the Polish peasants and the common people. Here one would still find a plus of virtues on the Jewish side. The wretched Polish peasant is not more cleanly than the Jew. On the contrary, he lives in the same room with his pig, and no ritual requirement compels him to wash his body at least once a week. The Jew, under his patched garment, is for the most part comparatively clean, only hopelessly stunted and emaciated. The Jew does not drink, while his "master," the Pole, [Pg 18] [Pg 19] [Pg 20] [Pg 21] [Pg 22] has a kindly disposition towards all sorts of spirituous liquors. Also, the modesty of the Jewish women has yielded but lately to the pressure of endless misery or the temptations of the cities, while of the higher classes of Polish and Russian society but little of an exemplary character has been told. And finally: "Deutsche Redlichkeit suchst Du in allen Winkeln vergebens." Goethe's verse applies not only to the Italians, for whom it was intended; it applies also to Poland and Russia, where less faith is attached to statements than is customary with us, and it applies, above all, to the merchant classes of all nations who are wont to make their living by overreaching their neighbors. There is a wide gulf between the development of commercial ethics, as they are understood with us and in England, and the tricks and devices of petty trade no matter of what nation. But the Jew in Poland and in Russia has been and still is being driven, in great measure, into a class of wretched petty traders; and the law of the land forces back into the pale of settlement by drastic regulations him who would escape from its cage and from an occupation of dubious ethics. The Jewish section is the "partie Hortense" of the beautiful Polish capital; the Jewish misery is a shameful stain on Polish rule and its Nemesis. All the five continents must have their misery and toil, and they need a firm, all-embracing humanity to relieve them of this contagious wretchedness, this residue of centuries of depravity. But for Poland and Russia the humane solution of the Jewish question is simply a life-question. IV ST. PETERSBURG A hymn of praise to the Russian railroad! The Russian tracks begin at Warsaw to have a considerably broader bed. This for a strategical purpose, to render difficult the invasion by European armies. It is also a benefit to the traveller, for the Russian coaches are wider and more comfortable than the European, and the side-passages along the coupé are very convenient for little walks during the journey. A separate heating compartment and buffet, with the indispensable samovar, where one may secure a glass of tea at any time, are situated in the centre of the long car. The trains do not jolt, although they are almost as fast as ours. The smoke and soot do not drive through the tightly closed double windows. A twenty-four hour trip here tires one less than a six-hour trip with us. Certainly there is more need of preparation for a comfortable journey in Russia than in the West. The distances are immense, a twenty-four hour journey creating no comments. The Warsaw-Petersburg train was as well filled as the ordinary express-train between Frankfort and Cologne. The run, which lasts from one morning to the next, is naturally not very entertaining. The broad expanse of snowy plain, relieved only by snow-breaks and frozen swamps, at every two miles a few wretched half-Asiatic huts, and occasionally the dark profile of a forest, no more to be seen, and a sea of unintelligible Slavic sounds, no more to be heard. The feeling of loneliness grows upon one, and the impression becomes constantly stronger that Russia is a world for itself. But there is an end to everything, even to a railroad journey without books, without papers, and without conversation. At the dawn of the clear, wintry day one may already distinguish the signs of a great city. A station with magnificent buildings and a well-cared-for park stretching almost to the tracks claims our attention after the many unimpressive sights of the long road. We decipher the name "Gatschina," and understand why there is such a strong police force on the platform. This is the Winter Palace. Scarcely an hour later the gilded cupolas stand out bright above the snow; the brakes are put on; we are in St. Petersburg. It cannot be said that the city appears in a favorable light when viewed from the railroad. The not over-elegant two- horse vehicle which takes us and our baggage rattles over miserable pavements, dirty from the melting snow, through broad, endless suburban streets. The houses on either side are of only one story, built mostly of wood, their poverty- stricken appearance being intensified here and there by three-storied barracks. Liquor-shops, little second-hand stores, wooden huts, with putrid garbage, follow one another in a variety by no means pleasing. The passers-by, ill-clad, with the inevitable rubber shoes, shuffle along the slushy sidewalks; trucks with two or sometimes three horses, their necks bent under the brightly painted Russian "duga" (wooden yoke), a truly Gorki atmosphere in its entirety. One can scarcely believe that he is entering one of the most brilliant cities of the continent. The endless rows of stores with their two-storied sheds, which one passes on the way to the centre of the city, but slightly improve one's first impression, for even they are far removed from the splendor of the capital. We finally reach the hotel to which our mail has been addressed. It is an enormous structure, more than two hundred metres long. Yet it has no room for us. It is filled to overflowing. It is impossible to crowd in one more soul. We again take our carriage. We drive from one hotel to another, growing constantly more modest in our demands for lodging. But our efforts are vain. Everything is occupied to the very gables. We were careless in coming to St. Petersburg in January. This is the time of congresses, of business, of carnivals. All the provincial officials are here to render their annual reports to their ministries. Naturally, they bring with them their families, who wish to make their important purchases here and to taste of the social season. Congresses and [Pg 23] [Pg 24] [Pg 25] [Pg 26] [Pg 27] conferences are held here not in the summer and vacation months as with us, but shortly before the "butter-week," really a carnival, the pleasure of which one may wish to take this opportunity to test. Medical, teachers', and insurance congresses are held here at the same time. Foreign merchants come here to complete their transactions. But the great city of St. Petersburg is not adapted for foreign guests. The instincts of self-defence awake at the time of need. We do not intend to camp to-night under the bridge arch. We make great efforts and by the evening have secured a room, in spite of the "absolute impossibility," in that large and only comfortable hotel in St. Petersburg, which we shared with a friendly mouse, but which was free from other objectionable tenants. Even the little mouse was deprived in a base manner of its life and liberty the very next night. Once provided with board and lodging, we decided to become acquainted with the better side of St. Petersburg. What does a stranger usually do in the evening when he visits a strange city? He goes to some theatre. There are plenty of hotel porters and agents to provide for the wishes of the guests. "Hello, agent; get me tickets for the Imperial Theatre"—where a ballet of Tschaikowski's is to be presented to-night by first-class talent. The theatre programme, obligingly provided with a French translation, informs us that among others, Kscheschinska will do herself the honor to play the leading rôle. "But, honored sir, that is quite impossible; first, because this is the carnival time; second, because most of the seats are already subscribed for; and third, because Kscheschinska dances to-night"—a sly closing of the left eye accompanies the mention of the name—"and neither the Emperor nor the court will be absent from the theatre. Unless you pay twenty to thirty rubles to a speculator you will hardly get into the theatre." Since my passion for the ballet or for Kscheschinska does not attain the proportions of a twenty-ruble investment, I find it preferable to devote the evening to the always interesting and fruitful hotel studies. What seething life in the numberless corridors, dining-halls, and vestibules of the fashionable St. Petersburg Hotel! Governors in generals' gold-braided uniforms, covered with so many orders and medals that it makes one curious to find out about all the deeds of heroism for which they were bestowed; chamberlains with refined elegance in their gala dress, hiding the "beau restes" of the one-sided Adonis; tall, agile, dark-eyed Circassians with the indispensable cartridge-pouch on the breast region of their long coats, with the dagger hanging in its massive gold sheath from the tightly drawn belt; Cossacks with fur caps a foot high, made of white or black Angora skins, placed on their bristly heads; a nimble Chinese man, or maid, servant, with long pigtail, whose sex it is impossible to distinguish; a whole troop of dark-eyed Khivanese squatting on their prayer- rugs before the apartment of their khan, passing the nargile from hand to hand, and exchanging witticisms about the passing Europeans; beardless Tatar waiters shuffling by in their flat-soled shoes—a mixture of Europe and Asia such as may hardly be seen at once in any other part of the world. The west European merchants and other travellers, who throng the hotel, are scarcely noted among the exotic appearances. In this hotel, as elsewhere throughout St. Petersburg, the European, the civilian, is seemingly merely tolerated. The city belongs to the functionaries, soldiers, officials, and chamberlains, to the Cossacks, Circassians, and, above all others, to the police. More intimate acquaintance reveals that a goodly portion of the uniformed persons in St. Petersburg are ordinary students, technologists, professors, etc., and that these uniformed persons do not equally represent the state. On the contrary, the fight of the state, or, to be more precise, of the police, against the free professions, would not be so bitter if the members of the latter were not entitled to wear uniforms. As it is, they also may appear to the common people as representatives of the Czar's authority. We slept through the night. Kind fate had decreed for us snow and cold in succession to the disagreeable thaw, and we availed ourselves of the clear weather to become acquainted with the bright side of St. Petersburg. And, first of all, the snow! It changes the entire appearance of the city as if by a magic wand. The narrow, open carriages where two persons can accommodate themselves only with difficulty, especially when wrapped in fur coats, have disappeared. Their places have been taken by small, low sleighs without backs. The "izwozchik" (driver) in his blue, plaited Tatar fur coat and multicolored sash, with fur-trimmed plush cap on his head, sits almost in the passenger's lap. Yet there is compensation for the meagre dimensions of the sleigh. The small, rugged horses speed along like arrows through the straight streets, hastened on by the caressing words or the exclamations of the bearded driver. Horse, driver, and sleigh are very essential figures in the St. Petersburg street scenes. We at home cannot at all realize how much driving is done in St. Petersburg. The distances are enormous; streets five or six kilometres long are not unusual. There are almost no streetcar lines, thanks to the selfishness of the town representatives, composed of St. Petersburg house-owners, who do not care to see a reduction in rents in the central portion of the town. The average city inhabitant readily parts with the thirty, forty, or fifty kopeks demanded by the "izwozchik," and thus everything is rushed along in an unending race. The "pravo" (right) or "hei beregis!" (look out!), which the drivers bawl to one another or to the pedestrians, resounds through the streets, but they are not very effectual. One must open his eyes more than his ears if he wishes to escape injury in the streets of St. Petersburg. The constant racing often results in four or five rows of speeding conveyances attempting to pass one another. The drivers with their bearded, apostle faces, which appear lamblike when they good- naturedly invite you to enter their conveyances, are like wild men when they let loose. Their Cossack nature then asserts itself. On and always on, and let the poor pedestrian take care of his bones. And however much the little horse may pant and the flakes of foam may fly from its sides, "his excellency," "the count," "his highness" (the izwozchik is extremely generous with his titles), will surely add a few kopeks when the driver has been very smart; and so the little horse must run until the passenger, unaccustomed to such driving, loses his breath. But the Russian barbarian conception of wealth and fashion is to have his driver race even when out for a pleasure drive, as if it were a question of life or death. The numberless private turnouts, distinguished by their greater elegance, their splendid horses, harness, liveries, and carriages, have no less speed than the hackney-coachman, but the reverse, [Pg 28] [Pg 29] [Pg 30] [Pg 31] at a still greater speed, thanks to the elasticity of their high-stepping Arab trotters. And now imagine twenty-five thousand such vehicles simultaneously in racing motion, with here and there a jingling "troika," its two outer horses galloping madly and the middle horse trotting furiously; imagine, at the same time, the bright colors of the four-cornered plush caps on the heads of the stylish drivers, the gay-colored rugs on the "troikas," the blue and green nets on the galloping horses of the private sleighs, the glitter of the gold and silver harness, the scarlet coats of the court coachmen and lackeys, everything rushing along on a crisp winter day, over the glimmering, freshly fallen snow, between the mighty façades of imposing structures, flanked by an almost unbroken chain of tall policeman and gendarmes, and you have the picture of the heart of St. Petersburg at the time of social activity. Splendor, riches, wildness are all caricatured into magnificence as if calculated to impress and to frighten. Woe to him here who is not of the masters! V ST. PETERSBURG—CONTINUED St. Petersburg is an act of violence. I have never received in any city such an impression of the forced and the unnatural as in this colossal prison or fortress of the Russia's mighty rule. The Neva, around whose islands the city is clustered, is really not a stream. It comes from nowhere and leads nowhere. It is the efflux of the Heaven-forsaken Ladoga Lake, where no one has occasion to search for anything; and it leads into the Bay of Finland, which is frozen throughout half of the year. No commercial considerations, not even strategical reasons, can justify the establishment of this capital at the mouth of the Neva. The fact that St. Petersburg has none the less become a city of millions of inhabitants is due entirely to the barbaric energy of its founder, Peter the Great, an energy which still works in the plastic medium of Russian national character. On the bank of the Neva stands the equestrian statue of Peter, raised on a mighty block of granite, a notable work of the Frenchman Falconet. The face of the Emperor as he ascends the rock is turned to the northwest, where his most dangerous rival, the Swedish Charles, lived. And just as his whole attitude expresses defiance and self- conscious power, so his city, St. Petersburg, is only a monument of the defiance and the iron will of its founder. The historians relate that Peter intended, by removing his residence to St. Petersburg, to facilitate the access of European civilization to the Russian people. If this be true, Peter utterly failed in his purpose. The old commercial city, Riga, would have answered the purpose much better. To be sure, Riga did not come into Russian possession until eighteen years after the founding of St. Petersburg. Yet what was there to prevent the despot from abandoning the work that he had begun? But no, St. Petersburg was to bid defiance to the contemporary might of Sweden, and so forty thousand men had to work for years in the swamps of the Neva to build the mighty tyrant's castles, the Peter-and-Paul fortress, an immense stone block on the banks of the icy stream. Malarial fevers carried off most of them; but the Russian people supplied more men, for such was the will of the Czar. The drinking-water of St. Petersburg to-day is still a yellow, filthy fluid, consumption of which is sure to bring on typhoid fever; but the will of Peter still works, and St. Petersburg remains the capital. Peter, with his peculiar blending of political supremacy and democratic fancifulness, built for himself a little house on the fortress island, where the furniture made by himself is still preserved by the side of the miracle-working image of the Redeemer which the despot always carried with him. His spirit soars over this city and this land. What he did not entirely trust to his unscrupulous fist he left in honest bigotry to the bones of the holy Alexander Nevski, which he had brought to his capital soon after its establishment. Autocracy and popocracy still reign in the Russian empire. The Peter- and-Paul fortress, in the subterranean vaults of which many of the noblest hearts and heads of Russia have found their grave, the Isaac cathedral, with its barbarian pomp of gold and precious stones, and the mighty monoliths—these are the symbols of the city of St. Petersburg and of its régime. If there is in Russia, even among the enlightened minds, something like a fanatical hatred of civilization and of the West, it is due to the manner in which the half-barbarian Peter imposed Western ideas and civilization on a harmless and good-natured people. What brutal power of will may do in defiance of unfriendly nature has been done on the banks of the Neva. Indeed, its green waters are...