FROM Moscow I journeyed to see some friends of the artist
Pereplotchikof, the E. family, on a small estate in the Government of
Voronezh. At the small wayside station an unfamiliar figure greeted
me--this was an Austrian prisoner, a Hungarian who could not speak a
word of Russian. He was the new coachman, and would drive me the ten
miles to the farm. The former coachman has gone to the war, and so now
an Austrian prisoner, in the same uniform in which he surrendered and
wearing the familiar high military hat, is doing his work. He carried
my bags from the station, for there was no porter, and put them in the
carriage, and then drove me on through verdant forest and along the
terrible road deep in liquid mud and water.
A great feature of the new country life in Russia is the Austrian
prisoners at work. One seldom comes across any Germans. But of
Austrians there are great numbers. They volunteer to go out to work,
rather than remain in the internment camps. In order to obtain Austrian
prisoners to work on an estate you apply to the government town, and
they are hired out to you at eight roubles a month, four roubles of
which are allowed to be deducted for keep. It turns out that on the
whole the prisoners work merely for board and lodging and what would
keep an ordinary smoker in tobacco. Prisoner labour is altogether
cheaper than that of ordinary Russian labourers. So if you can get
a strong detachment of prisoners on your estate you are somewhat
advantageously circumstanced. No guards, however, are supplied with
the prisoners, and you are held responsible for them in case they
attempt to escape. The prisoners on the land are generally those
who were agriculturists in their native Austria and they are highly
serviceable. They do not take their new duties too seriously, but all
the same do more work than the average hired Russian labourer would do.
To work is more pleasant to them than to sit together and talk or sing,
and their industrious habits are a matter of pleasant surprise for
their employers.
On Mme. E.’s estate the prisoners were Hungarians. She knew no
Hungarian, they no Russian, and no grammars or dictionaries of the
Hungarian language were obtainable in Moscow or Petrograd--the only
aid to learning the language which Mme. E. was able to obtain was an
officer’s war guide containing maps, geographical details, and five or
six pages of military phrases with translations. Even so, good progress
was being rapidly made in mutual understanding. These Hungarians will
carry back to their own country many funny-sounding Russian words, and
on the other hand some Hungarian expressions may remain locally.
Certainly the prisoners are of great economic aid to Russia. Each
Austrian captured is not only one Austrian less in the enemy ranks, but
one harvester more to take in the precious grain. The Russian women,
the old men and the children, seem to be insufficient to keep up the
present extent of cultivation and to reap the harvest--the labour of
the prisoners makes up the deficiency.
In many respects the prisoner of this foreign element in the midst of
Russian country life is sufficiently objectionable from the Russian
point of view. There are said to have been a number of marriages,
though the difference in religion must have precluded the possibility
of legal marriage in most cases where it may have been desired.
There is a cloud over the village, and it cannot be said that the war
is popular among the women. They want the men back; the wives want
their husbands, the girls want their sweethearts. Girls of sixteen,
seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen are persistently gloomy. They feel
that time is slipping past without bringing the necessary bridegroom.
They should have been betrothed and married by now. Nineteen is a
dreadful age for an unmarried girl--she feels herself already an old
maid, and is disinclined to tell her age. Pretty Tania the serving-maid
does not look so pretty this year; she has let the fact that she is
eighteen prey upon her mind. She knows that when the boys come back
they will not look at any one so old as she, and she will be left.
On festival nights there is the same singing in the village street, the
parade of village fashions, but somehow it is rather meaningless since
there are no male partners and no weddings can be arranged. Letters of
course go to and fro between the Army and the village, but the soldier
does not write to “his sweetheart,” or if he does it is because his
sweetheart is his wife. For long engagements do not take place in the
country. Queer letters the soldiers send back, full of greetings to
neighbours and relatives, and containing little or nothing about the
war. There is never any need to censor them. The peasant wives bring
their letters to Mme. E. and she reads them aloud. Or they come to her
when they want to write their letters, for though most of the men can
read and write, the women seldom are able.
My hostess was delightful with the peasants. She has taught among them,
nursed them, cared for them, and understands their souls. She sits
with pen and paper on the sunny verandah of the big sunny house and
writes at dictation whilst the peasant wife, with her hands dangling at
her side, maunders on about the cow, the hole in the roof which needs
mending, the state of the crops, little Willie’s health, the amount of
work these Austrian prisoners do, and so on. She puts down literally
what the _baba_ says, as if she were doing an exercise in phonetics,
and never corrects a word or a wrong expression or a grammatical error.
The consequence is that the soldiers at the other end actually hear
their wives speaking to them, and highly appreciate it. The letters
which Mme. E. writes for the wives are the best.
Still, letters are makeshift ways of talking to one’s nearest, and
it is a great day in the village when a soldier actually returns, a
wounded man invalided back or a man with some sort of message. Alas,
Russian troops get very little “leave” whilst they are well. It often
happens that from the day of mobilisation to the peace day when the men
come home, nothing is seen or heard of the common soldier--especially
when he cannot write. Lists of casualties in the ranks are not
published, and the village has to wait patiently to know whom it has
lost and who are saved. More attention is paid to officers, even to
ensigns, and I met down here in Voronezh Province a private who had
been sent from the front to convey to the home people the decorations
and last tidings of a young ensign who had perished leading his men.
This officer had been greatly beloved by the soldiers--they rushed to
him when he fell, and he seemed merely to be asleep. But one bullet
had gone through his mouth and two through his skull. He was given
the Cross of St. George after his death, and a soldier was detached
to carry the last honours home and tell the tale of his death.
Incidentally the soldier brought to the village his story of the war.
A rainy summer in the village. In many places the priests prayed for
the rain to stop. The hay rotted where it lay, and could not be taken
in, but the wheat and the rye were good everywhere. And the fruit
harvest was good. Some one made a handsome profit on apples, since the
common price in Moscow was threepence or fourpence apiece. Despite the
dearth of sugar, jam-making was carried on in the country to an even
greater extent than usual. People felt that it was a good way to save
sugar for the winter, to put it into jam. Russian jam is much sweeter
than ours, and is often put in tea as a syrup. It is never spread on
bread and butter. Mme. E. obtained several sacks of soft sugar, about
three hundredweight in all, and the half of that she used for making
jam.
The orchard’s fruit, however, had been sold in advance in the spring.
An Armenian had come, considered the blossom, and offered a price which
was accepted. He had made a good speculation as it turned out, and
he put a watchman in among the trees with a dog to see that nothing
was stolen. The watchman was one of the unfortunate refugees from the
territory now occupied by the Germans. Two years ago he had been a
prosperous farmer with his own land and horses and cows and what not,
now he is a miserable half-savage in sheepskins lying in a rain-soaked
straw shelter in the orchard--sans land, sans wife, sans everything. A
Roman Catholic he, but he went to the Orthodox Church on Sunday, as did
also the Hungarian prisoners, for they said in their halting way what
it is difficult for the more prosperous to understand, that _Bog odin_,
God is One, and that if there be no Catholic church by, it is as easy
to pray to God in the church that there is.