GENERAL SOCIAL LIFE
The whole life of the Russian people reminds those who visit them
continually and in every possible way that they are in a religious
country; for everywhere there is the _ikon_, or sacred religious
picture. There are other ways, especially the columns of the newspapers
full of notices of private and public ministrations and pathetic
requests for prayers for the departed, of bringing religion continually
before the public mind, but the _ikon_ is most in evidence. It is a
picture in one sense, for it is a representation either of our LORD or
of the Holy Virgin or of some well-known saint; but the garments are in
relief, often composed of one of the precious metals and ornamented in
some cases with jewels; and thus it is quite different from other sacred
pictures. It is the first characteristic evidence of "Russia" to meet
one's eyes on entering, and the last to be seen as one leaves, any
public place.
"A great picture of the Virgin and Child hangs in the custom-house at
Wirballen," writes Mr. Rothay Reynolds at the beginning of _My Russian
Year_, "with a little lamp flickering before it."
"The foreigner, who was a few minutes before on the German side of the
frontier and stands on Russian soil for the first time, looks at the
shrine with curiosity. Porters are hurrying in with luggage, and
travellers are chattering in half a dozen languages. An official at a
desk in the middle of the great hall is examining passports. A man is
protesting that he did not know that playing-cards were contraband; a
woman is radiant, for the dirty lining she has sewn in a new Paris hat
has deceived the inquisitors. Everybody is in a hurry to be through with
the business, and free to lunch in the adjoining restaurant before going
on to St. Petersburg. It is a strange home for the majestic Virgin of
the Byzantine picture.
"Here, at the threshold of the empire, Russia placards--S. Paul's vivid
Greek gives me the word--her faith before the eyes of all comers. In the
bustle of a custom-house, charged with fretfulness and impatience and
meanness, Russia sets forth her belief in a life beyond the grave and
her conviction that the ideals presented by the picture are the noblest
known to mankind."
Nowhere as in Russia is one reminded so constantly, in what we should
consider most unlikely places, that we are in a Christian country. In
the streets and at railway stations, in baths, hotels, post offices,
shops, and warehouses, in the different rooms of factories and
workshops, in private houses, rich and poor alike, in government houses,
and even in places of evil resort which I will not specify, as well as
in prisons, indeed in _every_ public place there is the _ikon_--most
frequently representing the Holy Mother and Child--and its lamp burning
before it.
In later chapters I will write more at length upon religion and worship,
but I must give the reader _at once_, if a stranger to Russia, something
of the impression which the ubiquity of the _ikon_ makes upon those who
go there for the first time. It is _always_ to be seen. And though I
will try and describe what it directly represents in the shape of Church
life later, yet from the very first I must write, as it were, with the
_ikon_ before me. I must see with my mind's eye the Holy Mother clasping
the Divine Child to her bosom, with a few flowers and a twinkling little
light before them, all the time I write, whether it is of things secular
or sacred, grave or gay, national or international, or I shall give out
but little of the spirit which I feel I have breathed deeply into my
life in that wonderful country, and certainly shall not be able to help
any reader who has not been there as yet to understand why it should be
spoken of as "Holy Russia."
That which the _ikon_ stands for, therefore, must be the spirit of every
chapter I write, or I shall give my readers no true picture of Russian
life.
Fortunately for those who want further particulars than such a book as
this can give them--and it will fail in its purpose if it does not make
many readers _wish_ to have them--there has been a very excellent
_Baedeker's Guide to Russia_ published last year, which is a wonderfully
complete work considering the vast empire with which it has to deal. I
will therefore attempt nothing at all in the way of statistics or
descriptions such as a guide-book gives, or such as will be found in the
excellent books to which I shall often refer. If I can take my readers
with me in thought as I travel about Russia and Siberia, and can give
them some of the information which has been given so freely to me, and
can convey to them some portion of the impressions made upon me when far
away from the beaten track, and above all can lead them to give their
sympathies freely and generously to the people of the land and to our
own countrymen so hospitably welcomed amongst them, and so generously
treated, I shall be more than repaid for my work, and shall ask nothing
better.
In Russia there are two forms of government, clearly and strenuously at
work, and wide asunder in their character, the autocratic and the
democratic. It is impossible to do much more than mention these two
tremendous forces, which are so strongly forming the character, and
determining the destinies for a long time to come, of a great people.
Since 1905 the Russian Empire has had constitutional government under
the form of an Imperial Council or First Chamber, the Imperial Duma or
Second Chamber, with the Emperor, advised by a small council of
ministers, still an autocratic sovereign. The Emperor can overrule any
legislation, and probably would if advised by a unanimous council; but
it must be evident to most people if they think a little, that even now
he would be very reluctant to do this except in some very grave crisis
of the national life, and that in time to come he will never dream of
such interference. Constitutional government in Russia has really begun,
and when one considers the past it is clear that great progress has been
made in the direction of constitutional freedom since it was granted in
1905. The reconstitution of the Polish nation, the stirring amongst
the Finns, the rising hopes of the Jews, the national aspirations of
Mongolia more and more fully expressed, the general "moving upon the
face of the waters" of the Spirit which makes a free people, cannot but
rivet the attention of those interested in social and national life upon
Russia at this time, when the autocratic government of long standing is
passing, so simply and so naturally, it would seem, into the
constitutional.
Since the emancipation of the serfs there has been a steady growth of
the democratic, almost communal, spirit in all the peasant villages of
Russia, and though their powers have been somewhat curtailed since 1889
they are self-governing and very responsible communities. Some of the
best and most interesting Russian stories, therefore, deal with
incidents and experiences in village life; and it is the great fact that
Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace, whose book upon Russia is one of the most
complete character, went and shut himself out from the rest of the world
at the little village of Ivanofka, in the province of Novgorod, and
there drank in the spirit of the language and of the national life, that
makes his compendious work a real classic for those who want truly to
understand Russian life and nationality.
There are two distinct social and constitutional forces at work,
therefore, and not working slowly and deliberately, as so often in the
past, but with great rapidity--the autocratic seeking to realize its
responsibilities and to fulfil them, and the democratic feeling that its
ideals are coming nearer to being realized every day.
There is consequently no country so absorbingly interesting to the
constitutionalist at this time as Russia. Nothing can be more
stimulating, to those who want to read the signs of the times, than to
know that revolutionaries, such as M. Bourtzeff,[1] who had left their
country in despair to plan and plot, have now returned, without
troubling whether they would be pardoned or punished, full of expectant
hope for their country's constitutional future. Perhaps cautious people
will hope that progress may be slow, but the great thing is to be able
to say, "It moves."
Every city and great town in Russia has something specially
characteristic about it, and of course they are, as yet, very few in
number. Catherine the Great, as is well known, thought cities and towns
could be created, though she found out her mistake, and Russia still
remains a land of villages rather than of towns, but the great towns
which do exist have usually very distinctive features.
Petrograd, for instance, though, as Peter intended it should be,
essentially modern, has its very special features in its domed churches
and the magnificence of its wide river with the great palaces upon its
banks and bordering upon its quays. The fortress of S. Peter and S.
Paul, on the opposite side, "home of political prisoners and dead
Tsars," when the sun is setting, is never to be forgotten, and enters at
once upon the field of vision as one thinks of Peter's capital.
Then Moscow! How well I remember Bishop Creighton's enthusiasm whenever
he spoke of Moscow. Though his face might be calm and its expression
grave before, only let Moscow be mentioned and it would light up at
once, as with sparkling eyes he would exclaim:--
"Moscow!--oh, you must see Moscow: nothing in the world is like it. You
_must_ see it."
But it is really the Kremlin which makes Moscow unique, with an
intangible influence and sense of association connected with it that no
one can describe, as one thinks of its historic past and of Napoleon!
The Kremlin! I had read and heard descriptions of it from time to time,
but was in no way prepared for that vast area of palaces, churches,
treasuries, great houses, and barracks, enclosed by glorious walls and
towers and entered by impressive gateways, over which one gazed with
wondering eyes when seen first under the blue sky and brilliant winter
sun.
[Illustration: _The Gate of the Redeemer, Moscow._]
It is no use attempting to describe it; but Moscow is the Kremlin, and
to _feel_ the Kremlin is to _know_ Moscow.
Upon entering the Spassky Gate, or Gate of the Redeemer, every hat has
to be removed in honour of the _ikon_ of the Saviour which is placed
above it. The picture was placed there, by the Tsar Alexis, in 1647, to
be regarded as the "palladium of the Kremlin," and the order was given
then that hats should be removed when passing through. The law is
rigorously enforced still, and though it is sometimes a trial--I had
frostbite in consequence when I last went through a year ago--yet the
act is almost an instinctive one when entering or leaving the Kremlin.
Warsaw, again--for no one in this generation can dissociate it from
Russia and call it Polish only--with its glorious position on the
Vistula in the midst of its great plain, though not so ancient and
inspiring as Cracow, in Galicia, is full of moving appeal to the
national and historic sense for those who visit it for the first time,
and especially, as in my own case, when entering the empire by that
route. I have seen Warsaw in spring, summer, and winter, and always felt
its charm; and I have not felt more deeply moved for a long time than
by the Emperor's proclamation that he intended the Poles once more to be
a nation and--there can be but little doubt about it--with Warsaw as its
capital.
Riga also, the great shipping-port on the Baltic, which I have entered
by sea and by land, and when coming in by sea have had the pleasure of
seeing our beautiful English church on the shore with its graceful spire
standing out conspicuously, yet blending in with other towers and
pinnacles. How very characteristic of the Baltic and attractive the city
is, with its blending of the Teuton and Slav populations! But how
essentially Russian it is in all its leading features, while different
from all other Russian cities! It is so wherever one goes both on this
and on the other side of the Urals. There always seems to be something
specially characteristic in these great centres of population; and they
all seem as if, unlike other towns, they had each their own interesting
story to tell for those who have ears to hear.
Town or city life in Russia is not very representative of the true life
of the country and its people, though it undoubtedly exerts a widespread
influence upon their general social life; for Russia's vast population
is not gathered together in either towns or cities, but in hamlets and
villages. Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace tells us that when he wrote his
first book on Russia, in 1877, there were only eleven towns with a
population of over 50,000 in European Russia, and that, in 1905, they
had only increased to thirty-four. The increase of the future will no
doubt be more rapid when the war is over.
The great cities will probably, as practically all the cities of Europe
have done of late years, follow the lead of Paris under Baron Hausmann
in the character of their imposing blocks of houses and wide boulevards,
and one capital will be much the same as any other in Europe in its
general appearance and social life.
Russian cities, however, even the capital, though ever becoming more
cosmopolitan, still possess their many distinctive and interesting
features, costumes, and customs, and are most picturesque and
interesting, of course, during the long winter. It gives one a shock
almost to go for the first time to Warsaw or Petrograd--at Moscow there
is always the Kremlin--in the middle of the summer. There is little to
distinguish them then, apart from the ever-glorious beauty of the
churches, from Buda-Pest or Vienna.
But in the winter! Then it is everywhere still characteristic Russia.
The sledges, for instance, with their _troikas_! They are the same
carriages or _droschkes_ as in summer, but with runners instead of
wheels. Horses are harnessed in the same way in both seasons, and even
the coachmen seem to wear exactly the same dress all the year round,
edged with fur like their caps, though the padding inside the coat
_must_ be less in summer, one would think. The sledges of nobles and
other wealthy people, used in the winter only, are painted and decorated
most attractively. To drive out on a winter night, under a sky brilliant
with stars, the air extraordinarily keen, bracing, and stimulating, the
bells tinkling from the high and graceful yoke which rises from the
central horse of the three, wrapped in furs, and with no sounds but the
bells and the crack of whips and the subdued crunching of the snow, is
to taste one of the joys of life, and feel to the full, with happiness
in the feeling, "This is Russia!"
[Illustration: _A Well-clad Coachman._]
The coachmen pad up their robes of blue to an enormous extent, so that
they seem to bulge out over their seat. It is said to be a custom dating
from Catherine's days and from her requirements that there should be at
least twelve inches of good stuff between her coachman's skin and her
nose! But the present reason for the custom, which prevails, as far as I
know, in no other country, is that there is an objection to a thin
coachman. When I was speaking of the absurdity of these grotesque
padded-out figures to a lady whom I had taken into dinner one night in
Moscow, she at once said:--
"Well, I must say I like my coachman to look comfortable and well fed, I
should hate a thin one."
Dickens's fat boy in Pickwick must commend himself to Russia, for they
love Dickens and read him in translation and the original all through
the empire, as just what a driver ought to be. I should think coachmen
in Russia, however, _ought_ to be fat without any padding-up, for they
are all merry and good-tempered, their blue eyes and pleasant faces
under their furry caps giving the impression of perfect health. They sit
on their boxes all day without any violent exercise, and probably have
good and abundant food, and above all they sleep. However long you keep
your coachman, even in the depth of winter, he does not mind, for he
invariably seems to go to sleep while waiting, and to have an absolutely
unlimited capacity for gentle and peaceful slumber. I am not at all sure
whether my driver on the steppes has not usually been asleep even when
we have been going at full speed, the centre horse trotting swiftly, the
other two, according to custom, at the gallop.
The _dvornik_ is another institution in town life. He is an indoor
servant in great houses, usually about the front hall, to open the door
for those who go out, ready for all sorts of odd things; or he may be a
head out-of-doors servant; or he may give general help for three or four
or more smaller establishments; but he has to be there, and cannot be
dismissed, for he is _ex officio_ a member of the police and has to make
his report from time to time. It must give a little sense of espionage,
but still, as with the passport, it is only the evil-minded or
evil-living who need to be afraid of the _dvornik's_ report, and it must
be remembered also that the Russian Government has long had cause to
dread the revolutionary spirit, and has had to fight for its very life
against it.
This is the darker side of life in Russia; and as far as my experience
goes it is the only dark side, for it must be evident that a designing
_dvornik_ may do untold harm, and specially--as I have known to be the
case--in official and diplomatic establishments. The custom opens out
possibilities of blackmail also, and one can only hope that it will pass
away in what so many of us feel are to be for Russia the better days to
come.
Russians are very hospitable, not only lavish in its exercise where
ample means allow, but naturally and by custom thoroughly and truly
ready, even in the homes of the very poor, to welcome the coming guest.
This is brought out in every book one reads of Russia, but by no one
more touchingly than by Mr. Stephen Graham in his _Tramp's Sketches_,
when he journeyed constantly amongst the very poor and found them always
ready to "share their crusts." Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace says the
same about the wealthier classes: "Of all the foreign countries in which
I have travelled Russia certainly bears off the palm in the matter of
hospitality."
An interesting feature of a Russian meal, luncheon, or dinner, is its
preliminary, the _zakouska_. It probably dates from the time when guests
came from long distances, as they do still in the country, and would be
hungry upon their arrival, and yet would have to wait until all the
guests had come. It would be, and indeed in some houses to which I have
been is still, understood, that if you were asked for a certain time the
dinner would follow in the course of an hour or two; and so the "snack"
was provided, and laid out upon the sideboard. The great dinners or
banquets in London are "7 for 7-30," to give time for guests to
assemble.
The _zakouska_, however, remains the custom still at every meal, and
consists of caviare sandwiches, _pate de foie gras_, and various kinds
of deliciously cured fish. Strangers to the country, not understanding
this particular custom, for it is provided in the drawing-room,
ante-room, or in the dining-room itself, sometimes enjoy it so much and
partake so freely, that they feel unequal to the meal which follows, and
then have the pain of seeing their host and hostess quite mortified and
hurt by their not doing full justice to the good things provided. I
remember being entertained at supper in Libau by the good consul and his
family, at the St. Petersburg Hotel, when the _zakouska_ provided was so
abundant and attractive that we all decided that we could not go beyond
it to anything more substantial.
Another special and characteristic feature of Russian life, and one
which it seems impossible to transplant to another country, for many of
my friends have tried it, is the _samovar_ or large urn with a central
flue for burning or smouldering charcoal. The _samovar_ is always near
at hand, and ready to be brought in at short notice to furnish what one
can only call the national beverage of tea. The steaming urn is a very
cheerful object in the room, and when tea is made and guests are served,
the teapot is placed on the top of the central flue and everything is
kept bubbling hot. On the steppes I used to boil my eggs in the space
between the flue and the outside cover, though this was not held to be
good for the tea. Tea is provided and enjoyed everywhere in Russia,
drunk very hot, rather weak and almost always with sugar, though _not_
with lemon except in great houses and hotels. "Slices of lemon," to my
amazement I was told, as I travelled off the track of railways and
sometimes on, "are an English custom!"
Tea is always taken in tumblers set in a little metal frame with a
handle. On the trains for the poorest passengers there is often hot
water, and always at stations on the way; and emigrants, as they travel,
may be said to do so teapot in hand. It is China tea and light in
colour, and, as the custom amongst the poorer classes is to put only a
moderate quantity of tea into the _tchinak_ or teapot, to begin with,
and to fill up with hot water as they go on drinking for an indefinite
time, it must be very weak indeed at the end. Not even at the start is
it strong, or what some public schoolboys call "beefy." At the end it
can hardly have even a flavour of tea about it, though they go on
drinking it quite contentedly. Across the Urals and amongst the Kirghiz
I found the custom was not to put sugar in the tea but in the mouth, and
drink the tea through it, and just above the Persian frontier jam was
taken in the same way, to flavour and sweeten the tea in the act of
drinking.
Russian houses, in the great cities, are much the same as in other
capitals, though perhaps rather more spacious and richly furnished. The
rooms for entertainment and daily use open out of each other, of course,
and the beautiful stoves of porcelain have not, as yet, given way to
central heating. Double windows in all the rooms are the rule all
through the long winter, with a small pane let in for ventilation; and
thus a cosy and comfortable sense of warmth is experienced everywhere
whilst indoors, which renders it, strange as it may seem, unnecessary to
wear, as in our own country, warm winter under-garments. Comfortably
warm by night or day, without extra clothing or extra blankets whilst
indoors, and wrapped in thick warm furs when out of doors, the winter is
not as trying in Russia as in more temperate countries. One takes a cold
bath, indeed, in that country with more enjoyment than anywhere else,
for, though the water gives an almost electric shock with its icy sting,
yet, as soon as one steps out into the warm air of the bath-room and
takes up the warm towels, the immediate reaction brings at once a glow
of pure enjoyment. There is every comfort in a Russian house, especially
in the winter.
The country house, or _datcha_, is a necessity for those who have to
live in Russia all the year round, as the cities and great towns are
very hot and dusty, and often full of mosquitoes in the two or three
months of summer, which is quite tropical in its character.
Thus there are the two extremes, an Arctic winter and a tropical summer.
The country houses are entirely summer residences, with great verandahs
and balconies and other facilities for life in the open, and are often
placed amongst pine-woods or by the sea. Some of my friends use their
_datchas_ in winter also; and it is interesting to see how balconies and
verandahs which in summer are filled with carpets, furniture, and
plants, and are quite open on every side to meet the needs of the family
and its guests all through the day in the open air, in winter are closed
in by double windows fitted in on every side, and thus are made into
additional and altogether different rooms.
The homes of the Russian nobility are very richly and artistically
appointed in every particular. I stayed with friends a couple of years
ago who had taken such an establishment for the summer; and furniture,
pictures, china, arrangements and decorations of rooms all gave striking
testimony to the wealth and cultivated tastes of the absent family.
Even beyond the Urals, at the Kyshtim Mine, when first I visited it and
was the guest of the managing director, I was amazed at the sumptuous
character of his abode built by the former owners of the mine.
It is a vast building approached by a great courtyard and in the Greek
style of architecture, with towers in different places giving it a
fortress-like appearance in the distance. The rooms are extraordinarily
large and numerous, and here and there are bits of Venetian furniture,
old paintings, and rich carpets. On going straight through the great
salon, which one enters from the outer door and into the open air on the
other side, one is again under a great portico with Greek pillars,
capitals, and frieze, looking out over a large sheet of water towards
hills and forests. I could not help saying to myself in amazement the
first time I went there, "And this is Siberia!"
I am not at all sure that social life upon European lines will not
develop more rapidly in Siberia than in European Russia. Even now I do
not know any railway station in Russia proper that can compare with that
of Ekaterinburg, just where Siberia really begins, in all its
arrangements for the travelling public and especially in the equipment
of its restaurant and dining-rooms, where every comfort in the way of
good food and good service is provided for the traveller, and French and
German are freely spoken.
It is impossible to write on the general social life without mentioning,
though one cannot do more, certain recent events which must have a
tremendous influence upon Russia's future, socially as well as
nationally. There is, for instance, the Emperor's proclamation against
the _vodka_ monopoly hitherto enjoyed by the government, which prohibits
State _vodka_ selling for ever. The effect upon the public life of the
great cities has been astonishing already. No one could have believed
that the "stroke of a pen," so to speak, could have wrought such a
change in the habits of a people. It remains to be seen, of course, how
long the change will last; but, though Acts of Parliament cannot make
people sober, it is a grand step in the right direction to decide that
they shall not make them drunk, as the encouragement given by the State
to the sale of _vodka_ must certainly have done.
Could any other modern government have made a sacrifice such as Russia
has made in giving up the expectation of nearly L100,000,000 of revenue
for the social well-being of her people? Truly she deals with "large
spaces!"
Moreover, the _vodka_ proclamation comes in the natural course of
things, and can have been but very little hurried by the war; for things
were already moving in that direction. Last year but one--1913--a scheme
of "local option" was introduced into the empire; and, in every commune
within its boundaries, I am assured, men and women alike having the vote
for the purpose, the inhabitants were allowed to decide for themselves
whether they would allow _vodka_ to be sold in their villages and towns.
It was recognized that if the men enjoyed getting drunk the wives and
mothers were the sufferers, and so they were allowed to vote.
The whole country, therefore, before the war broke out, was prepared to
face a great issue. And the general war cry, "We've a greater foe to
fight than the Germans!" shows how they faced it, and gives them that
ideal which should enable them to go far. They are out for a holy war,
and far-reaching influences are clearly at work which will profoundly
and permanently affect the whole social conditions and well-being of the
people.
Then there is the proclamation concerning the resuscitation of Poland.
This also does not come at all as an overwhelming surprise to many of
us, as it has been fairly well known that the Emperor, and some at
least of his principal advisers, have for some time had ever-increasing
constitutional, even democratic, sympathies. It has been more and more
felt of late that what is called Russification, as practised towards the
Finns, would go no further; and indeed, as far as they were concerned,
would be reversed. No thoughtful person who has marked the trend of
events since 1908 could doubt the direction in which higher and
responsible Russian thought was moving. But who can possibly foresee the
far-reaching effect of raising up a great Polish nation once more and
recognizing the Roman Catholic Church as the Church of that part of the
empire, with Russians and Poles, Orthodox and Roman Catholic living
together in amity and international unity?
"I have just been staying," writes Mr. Stephen Graham in the _Times_ for
October 29, 1914, "in the fine old city of Wilna, a city of courtly
Poles, the home of many of the old noble families of Poland. It is now
thronged with Russian officers and soldiers. Along the main street is an
incessant procession of troops, and as you look down you see vistas of
bayonet-spikes waving like reeds in a wind. As you lie in bed at night
you listen to the tramp, tramp, tramp of soldiers. Or you look out of
the window and see wagons and guns passing for twenty minutes on end,
or you see prancing over the cobbles and the mud the Cossacks of the
Don, of the Volga, of Seven Rivers. In the days of the revolutionary
outburst the Poles bit their lips in hate at the sight of the Russian
soldiers, they cursed under their breath, darted out with revolvers,
shot, and aimed bombs. To-day they smile, tears run down their cheeks;
they even cheer. Whoever would have thought to see the day when the
Poles would cheer the Russian troops marching through the streets of
their own cities? The Russians are forgiven!"
No one who has known Russia and Poland before the war could read this
description without deep emotion.
"A very touching spectacle," he continues, "may be seen every day just
now at the Sacred Gate of Wilna. Above the gateway is a chapel with
wide-open doors showing a richly-gilded and flower-decked image of the
Virgin. At one side stands a row of leaden organ-pipes, at the other
stands a priest. Music is wafted through the air with incense and the
sound of prayers. Down below in the narrow, muddy roadway kneel many
poor men and women with prayer-books in their hands. They are Poles. But
through the gateway come incessantly, all day and all night, Russian
troops going to the front. And every soldier or officer as he comes
lifts his hat and passes through the praying throng uncovered. This is
beautiful. Let Russia always be so in the presence of the Mother of
Poland."
It is impossible to read of that scene also, and recall at the same time
past relations of the two Churches here mentioned, without dreaming
dreams and seeing visions of social unity such as has never yet been
known, both for Russia and all other countries to which she has so nobly
and unselfishly given a social lead and invitation to follow on.
Note from p. 27, "M. Bourtzeff."--There was a notice in the
_Times_ of February 4th last as follows: "A Reuter telegram
from Petrograd of yesterday's date states that M. Bourtzeff has
been sentenced to deportation to Siberia." I have never been
able, however, to obtain any confirmation of this from Russian
officials in this country, nor do the Russian Embassy know
anything about it. I hope it will prove that a sentence was
passed _pro forma_, and that the Emperor, as in Miss Malecska's
case, at once remitted the sentence, or that M. Bourtzeff was
merely requested to live in Siberia for the present rather than
in Russia, and I personally should think that no great
hardship. I feel that we must await further particulars before
being able to form correct impressions of this important case.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See end of this chapter, p. 45.