Russian codfish from Arkhangel, but very clean and active; her son, a
big, fresh-colored fellow, with a mop of dark brown curls, well set off
by his scarlet cotton blouse; his wife, a slender, red-cheeked brunette,
with delicate, pretty features; and their baby girl. They treated us
like friends come to make a call; refused to accept money for their
cream; begged us to allow them to prepare the _samovar_, as a favor to
them, and send for white rolls, as they were sure we could not eat their
sour black bread; and expressed deep regret that their berries were all
gone, as the season was past. They showed us over their house in the
prettiest, simplest way, and introduced us to the dark storeroom where
their spare clothing and stores of food for the winter, such as salted
cucumbers in casks, and other property, were packed away; to a narrow
slip of a room on the front, where the meals for the family were
prepared with remarkably few pots and no pans; to the living-room, with
its whitewashed stone-and-mud oven in one corner, for both cooking and
heating, a bench running round the walls on three sides, and a clean
pine table in the corner of honor, where hung the holy images. They had
a fine collection of these images, which were a sign of prosperity as
well as of devotion. The existence of another tiny room also bore
witness to easy circumstances. In this room they slept; and the baby,
who was taking her noonday nap, was exhibited to us by the proud papa.
Her cradle consisted of a splint market basket suspended from the
ceiling by a stout wire spring, like the spring of a bird-cage, and
rocked gently. The baby gazed at us with bright, bird-like eyes and
smiled quietly when she woke, as though she had inherited her parents'
gentle ways. We believed them when they said that she never cried; we
had already discovered that this was the rule with Russian children of
all classes.
They were much interested to learn from what country we came. I was
prepared to find them unacquainted with the situation of America, after
having been asked by an old soldier in the park, "In what district of
Russia is America?" and after having been told by an _izvostchik_ that
the late Empress had come from my country, since "Germany" meant for him
all the world which was not Russia, just as the adjective "German"
signifies anything foreign and not wholly approved.
"Is America near Berlin?" asked our peasant hosts.
"Farther than that," I replied.
They laughed, and gave up the riddle after a few more equally wild
guesses.
"It is on the other side of the world," I said.
"Then you must be nearer God than we are!" they exclaimed, with a sort
of reverence for people who came from the suburbs of heaven.
"Surely," I said, "you do not think that the earth is flat, and that we
live on the upper side, and you on the lower?"
But that was precisely what they did think, in their modesty, and, as it
seemed a hopeless task to demonstrate to them the sphericity of the
globe, I left them in that flattering delusion.
I asked the old woman to explain her holy pictures to me, as I always
enjoyed the quaint expressions and elucidations of the peasants, and
inquired whether she thought the _ikona_ of the Virgin was the Virgin
herself. I had heard it asserted very often by over-wise foreigners that
this was the idea entertained by all Russians, without regard to class,
and especially by the peasants.
"No," she replied, "but it shows the Virgin Mother to me, just as your
picture would show you to me when you were on the other side of the
world, and remind me of you. Only--how shall I say it?--there is
more power in a wonder-working _ikona_ like this."
She handed me one which depicted the Virgin completely surrounded by a
halo of starlike points shaded in red and yellow flames. It is called
"the Virgin-of-the-Bush-that-burned-but-was-not-consumed," evidently a
reminiscence of Moses. She attached particular value to it because of
the aid rendered on the occasion which had demonstrated its
"wonder-working" (miraculous) powers. It appeared that a dangerous fire
had broken out in the neighborhood, and was rapidly consuming the
close-set wooden village, as such fires generally do without remedy. As
the fire had been started by the lightning, on St. Ilya's Day (St.
Elijah's), no earthly power could quench it but the milk from a
jet-black cow, which no one chanced to have on hand. Seeing the flames
approach, my old woman, Domna Nikolaevna T., seized the holy image, ran
out, and held it facing the conflagration, uttering the proper prayer
the while. Immediately a strong wind arose and drove the flames off in a
safe direction, and the village was rescued. She had a thanksgiving
service celebrated in the church, and placed I know not how many candles
to the Virgin's honor, as did the other villagers. Thus they had learned
that there was divine power in this _ikona_, although it was not,
strictly speaking, "wonder-working," since it had not been officially
recognized as such by the ecclesiastical authorities.
These people seemed happy and contented with their lot. Not one of them
could read or write much, the old woman not at all. They cultivated
berries for market as well as carried on the milk business; and when we
rose to go, they entreated us to come out on their plot of land and see
whether some could not be found. To their grief, only a few small
cherries were to be discovered,--it was September,--and these they
forced upon us. As we had hurt their feelings by leaving money on the
table to pay for the cream, we accepted the cherries by way of
compromise. The old woman chatted freely in her garden. She had been a
serf, and, in her opinion, things were not much changed for the better,
except in one respect. All the people in this village had been crown
serfs, it seemed. The lot of the crown serfs was easier in every way
than that of the ordinary private serfs, so that the emancipation only
put a definite name to the practical freedom which they already enjoyed,
and added a few minor privileges, with the ownership of a somewhat
larger allotment of land than the serfs of the nobility received. I knew
this: she was hardly capable of giving me so complete a summary of their
condition. But--it was the usual _but_, I found--they had to work
much harder now than before, in order to live. The only real improvement
which she could think of, on the inspiration of the moment, was, that a
certain irascible crown official, who had had charge of them in the
olden days, and whose name she mentioned, who had been in the habit of
distributing beatings with a lavish hand whenever the serfs displeased
him or obeyed reluctantly, had been obliged to restrain his temper after
the emancipation.
"Nowadays, there is no one to order us about like that, or to thrash
us," she remarked.
We found our fuddled old peasant guide hanging about for "tea-money,"
when we bade farewell to my friend Domna, who, with her family, offered
us her hand at parting. He was not too thoroughly soaked with "tea"
already not to be able to draw the inference that our long stay with the
milkwoman indicated pleasure, and he intimated that the introduction fee
ought to be in proportion to our enjoyment. We responded so cheerfully
to this demand that he immediately discovered the existence of a dozen
historical monuments and points of interest in the tiny village, all
invented on the spot; and when we dismissed him peremptorily, he took
great care to impress his name and the position of his hut on our
memories, for future use.
We had already seen the only object of any interest, the large church
far away down the mile-long street. We had found a festival mass in
progress, as it happened to be one of the noted holidays of the year. As
we stood a little to one side, listening to the sweet but
unsophisticated chanting of the village lads, who had had no training
beyond that given in the village school, a woman approached us with a
tiny coffin tucked under one arm. Trestles were brought; she set it down
on them, beside us. It was very plain in form, made of the commonest
wood, and stained a bright yellow with a kind of thin wash, instead of
the vivid pink which seems to be the favorite hue for children's coffins
in town. The baby's father removed the lid, which comprised exactly half
the depth, the mother smoothed out the draperies, and they took their
stand near by. Several strips of the coarsest pink tarlatan were draped
across the little waxen brow and along the edges of the coffin. On these
lay such poor flowers as the lateness of the season and the poverty of
the parents could afford,--small, half-withered or frost-bitten
dahlias, poppies, and one stray corn-flower. The parents looked gently
resigned, patient, sorrowful, but tearless, as is the Russian manner.
After the liturgy and special prayers for the day, the funeral service
was begun; but we went out into the graveyard surrounding the church,
and ran the gauntlet of the beggars at the door,--beggars in the midst
of poverty, to whom the poor gave their mites with gentle sympathy.
Russian graveyards are not, as a rule, like the sunny, cheerful homes of
the dead to which we are accustomed. This one was especially melancholy,
with its narrow, tortuous paths, uncared-for plots, and crosses of
unpainted wood blackened by the weather. The most elaborate monuments
did not rise above tin crosses painted to simulate birch boughs. It was
strictly a peasant cemetery, utterly lacking in graves of the higher
classes, or even of the well to do.
On its outskirts, where the flat, treeless plain began again, we found a
peasant sexton engaged in digging a grave. His conversation was
depressing, not because he dwelt unduly upon death and kindred subjects,
but because his views of life were so pessimistic. Why, for example, did
it enter his brain to warn me that the Finnish women of the neighboring
villages,--all the country round about is the old Finnish
Ingermannland,--in company with the women of his own village, were in
the habit of buying stale eggs at the Tzarskoe Selo shops to mix with
their fresh eggs, which they sold in the market, the same with intent to
deceive? A stale egg explains itself as promptly and as thoroughly as
anything I am acquainted with, not excepting Limburger cheese, and
Katiusha and I had had no severe experiences with the women whom he thus
unflatteringly described. He seemed a thoroughly disillusioned man, and
we left him at last, with an involuntary burden of misanthropic ideas,
though he addressed me persistently as _galubtchik_,--"dear little
dove," literally translated.
If I were to undertake to chronicle the inner life of Tzarskoe, the
characteristics of the inhabitants from whom I received favors and kind
deeds without number, information, and whatever else they could think of
to bestow or I could ask, I should never have done. But there is much
that is instructive in all ranks of life to be gathered from a prolonged
sojourn in this "Imperial Village," where world-famed palaces have their
echoes aroused at seven in the morning by a gentle shepherd like the
shepherd of the remotest provincial hamlets, a strapping peasant in a
scarlet cotton blouse and blue homespun linen trousers tucked into tall
wrinkled boots, and armed with a fish-horn, which he toots at the
intersection of the macadamized streets to assemble the village cattle;
where the strawberry peddler, recognizable by the red cloth spread over
the tray borne upon his head, and the herring vender, and rival
ice-cream dealers deafen one with their cries, in true city fashion;
where the fire department alarms one by setting fire to the baker's
chimneys opposite, and then playing upon them, by way of cleaning them;
where Tatars, soldiers, goats, cows, pet herons, rude peasant carts,
policemen, and inhabitants share the middle of the road with the
liveried equipages of royalty and courtiers; where the crows and pigeons
assert rights equal to those of man, except that they go to roost at
eight o'clock on the nightless "white nights;" and where one never knows
whether one will encounter the Emperor of all the Russias or a
barefooted Finn when one turns a corner.
VII.
A STROLL IN MOSCOW WITH COUNT TOLSTOY.
"Have you ever visited a church of the Old Believers?" Count Tolstoy
asked me one evening. We were sitting round the supper-table at Count
Tolstoy's house in Moscow. I was just experimenting on some pickled
mushrooms from Yasnaya Polyana,--the daintiest little mushrooms which
I encountered in that mushroom-eating land. The mushrooms and question
furnished a diversion which was needed. The baby and younger children
were in bed. The elders of the family, some relatives, and ourselves had
been engaged in a lively discussion; or, rather, I had been discussing
matters with the count, while the others joined in from time to time. It
began with the Moscow beggars.
"I understand them now, and what you wrote of them," I said. "I have
neither the purse of Fortunatus nor a heart of flint. If I refuse their
prayers, I feel wicked; if I give them five kopeks, I feel mean. It
seems too little to help them to anything but _vodka_; and if I give ten
kopeks, they hold it out at arm's length, look at it and me
suspiciously; and then I feel so provoked that I give not a copper to
any one for days. It seems to do no good."
"No," said Count Tolstoy with a troubled look; "it does no good. Giving
money to any one who asks is not doing good; it is a mere civility. If a
beggar asks me for five kopeks, or five rubles, or five hundred rubles,
I must give it to him as a politeness, nothing more, provided I have it
about me. It probably always goes for _vodka_."
"But what is one to do? I have sometimes thought that I would buy my man
some bread and see that he ate it when he specifies what the money is
for. But, by a singular coincidence, they never ask for bread-money
within eye-shot of a bakery. I suppose that it would be better for me to
take the trouble to hunt one up and give the bread."
"No; for you only buy the bread. It costs you no personal labor."
"But suppose I had made the bread?--I can make capital bread, only I
cannot make it here where I have no conveniences; so I give the money
instead."
"If you had made the bread, still you would not have raised the grain,
--plowed, sowed, reaped, threshed, and ground it. It would not be your
labor."
"If that is the case, then I have just done a very evil thing. I have
made some caps for the Siberian exiles in the Forwarding Prison. It
would have been better to let their shaved heads freeze."
"Why? You gave your labor, your time. In that time you could probably
have done something that would have pleased you better."
"Certainly. But if one is to dig up the roots of one's deeds and
motives, mine might be put thus: The caps were manufactured from
remnants of wool which were of no use to me and only encumbered my
trunk. I refused to go and deliver them myself. They were put with a lot
of other caps made from scraps on equally vicious principles. And,
moreover, I neither plowed the land, sowed the grass, fed the sheep,
sheared him, cleansed and spun the wool, and so on; neither did I
manufacture the needle for the work."
The count retreated to his former argument,--that one's personal labor
is the only righteous thing which can be given to one's fellow-man; and
that the labor must be given unquestioningly when asked for.
"But it cannot always be right to work unquestioningly. There are always
plenty of people who are glad to get their work done for them. That is
human nature."
"We have nothing to do with that," he answered. "If a man asks me to
build his house or plow his field, I am bound to do it, just as I am
bound to give the beggar whatever he asks for, if I have it. It is no
business of mine _why_ he asks me to do it."
"But suppose the man is lazy, or wants to get his work done while he is
idling, enjoying himself, or earning money elsewhere for _vodka_ or what
not? I do not object to helping the weak, or those who do not attempt to
shirk. One must use discrimination."
But Count Tolstoy persisted that the reason for the request was no
business of the man anxious to do his duty by aiding his fellow-men,
although his sensible wife came to my assistance by saying that she
always looked into the matter before giving help, on the grounds which I
had stated. So I attacked from another quarter.
"Ought not every person to do as much as possible for himself, and not
call upon others unless compelled to do so?"
"Certainly."
"Very good. I am strong, well, perfectly capable of waiting on myself.
But I detest putting on my heavy Russian galoshes, and my big cloak; and
I never do either when I can possibly avoid it. I have no right to ask
you to put on my galoshes, supposing that there were no lackey at hand.
But suppose I were to ask it?"
"I would do it with pleasure," replied the count, his earnest face
relaxing into a smile. "I will mend your boots, also, if you wish."
I thanked him, with regret that my boots were whole, and pursued my
point. "But you _ought_ to _refuse_. It would be your duty to teach me
my duty of waiting on myself. You would have no right to encourage me in
my evil ways."
We argued the matter on these lines. He started from the conviction that
one should follow the example of Christ, who healed and helped all
without questioning their motives or deserts; I taking the ground that,
while Christ "knew the heart of man," man could not know the heart of
his brother-man,---at least not always on first sight, though
afterward he could make a tolerably shrewd guess as to whether he was
being used as a cat's-paw for the encouragement of the shiftless. But he
stuck firmly to his "resist not evil" doctrine; while I maintained that
the very doctrine admitted that it was "evil" by making use of the word
at all, hence a thing to be preached and practiced against. Perhaps
Count Tolstoy had never been so unfortunate as to meet certain specimens
of the human race which it has been my ill-luck to observe; so we both
still held our positions, after a long skirmish, and silence reigned for
a few moments. Then the count asked, with that winning air of good-will
and interest which is peculiar to him:--
"Have you ever visited a church of the Old Believers?"
"No. They told me that there was one in Petersburg, but that I should
not be admitted because I wore a bonnet instead of a kerchief, and did
not know how to cross myself and bow properly."
"I'll take you, if you like," he said. "We will go as guests of the
priest. He is a friend of mine." Then he told us about it. Many years
ago, a band of Kazaks and their priests migrated across the frontier
into Turkey because they were "Old Believers;" that is to say, they
belonged to the sect which refused to accept the reforms of errors
(which had crept into the service-books and ritual through the
carelessness of copyists and ignorance of the proper forms) instituted
by the Patriarch Nikon in the time of Peter the Great's father, after
consulting the Greek Patriarchs and books. In earlier times, these Old
Believers burned themselves by the thousand. In the present century,
this band of Kazaks simply emigrated. Then came the Crimean war. The
Kazaks set out for the wars, the priest blessed them for the campaign,
and prayed for victory against Russia. Moreover, they went to battle
with their flock, and were captured. Prisoners of war, traitors to both
church and state, these three priests were condemned to residence in a
monastery in Suzdal. "I was in the army then," said Count Tolstoy, "and
heard of the matter at the time. Then I forgot all about it; so did
everybody else, apparently. Long afterward, an Old Believer, a merchant
in Tula, spoke to me about it, and I found that the three priests were
still alive and in the monastery. I managed to get them released, and we
became friends. One died; one of the others is here in Moscow, a very
old man now. We will go and see him, but I must find out the hour of the
evening service. You will see the ritual as it was three hundred years
ago."
"You must not utter a word, or smile," said one of the company. "They
will think that you are ridiculing them, and will turn you out."
"Oh, no," said the count. "Still, it is better not to speak."
"I have had some experience," I remarked. "Last Sunday, at the Saviour
Cathedral, I asked my mother if I should hold her heavy fur coat for
her; and she smiled slightly as she said, 'No, thank you.' A peasant
heard our foreign tongue, saw the smile, and really alarmed us by the
fierce way in which he glared at us. We only appeased his wrath by
bowing low when the priest came out with the incense."
So that plan was made, and some others.
When we were descending the stairs, Count Tolstoy came out upon the
upper landing, which is decorated with the skin of the big bear which
figures in one of his stories, and called after us:--
"Shall you be ashamed of my dress when I come to the hotel for you?"
"I am ashamed that you should ask such a question," I answered; and he
laughed and retreated. I allowed the lackey to put on my galoshes and
coat, as usual, by the way.
The next afternoon there came a series of remarkable knocks upon our
door, like a volley of artillery, which carried me across the room in
one bound. Servants, messengers, and the like, so rarely knock in Russia
that one gets into the way of expecting to see the door open without
warning at any moment, when it is not locked, and rather forgets what to
do with a knock when a caller comes directly to one's room and announces
himself in the ordinary way. There stood Count Tolstoy. He wore a
peasant's sheepskin coat (_tulup_). The _tulup_, I will explain, is a
garment consisting of a fitted body and a full, ballet skirt, gathered
on the waist line and reaching to the knees. The wool is worn on the
inside. The tanned leather exterior varies, when new, from snow white to
gray, pale or deep yellow, or black, according to taste. A little
colored chain-stitching in patterns on the breast and round the neck
gives firmness where required. In this case the _tulup_ was of a deep
yellow hue; over it streamed his gray beard; peasant boots of gray felt,
reaching to the knee, and a gray wool cap of domestic manufacture
completed his costume.
"It is too cold for our expedition, and I am afraid that I started a
little late also," he said, as he divested himself of his sheepskin. "I
will find out the exact hour of service, and we will go on Christmas
Eve."
It was only 15 to 20 degrees below zero Fahrenheit, and I felt inclined
to remonstrate. But it is useless to argue with a Russian about the
thermometer; and, moreover, I discovered that the count had come all the
long way on foot, and was probably afraid of freezing us. I politely but
not quite truthfully agreed that Christmas Eve was a better time.
Presently he proposed to go to the shop where books for popular reading
are published by the million at from one and a half to five kopeks. He
had business there in connection with some popular editions of the
masterpieces of all ages and literatures.
The temperature of our room was 65 degrees, but the count's felt boots
and a cardigan jacket, worn over his ordinary costume of dark blue
trousers and strap-belted blouse, made him uncomfortable, and he sought
coolness in the hall while we donned our outdoor garments. The only
concession in the way of costume which I could make to suit the occasion
was to use a wool instead of a fur cap.
This was not sufficient to prevent us from being a remarkable trio in
the eyes of all beholders, beginning with the real _muzhik_ ("boots")
and the waiter, who were peering round corners in disapproval. Our
appearance at the door effected a miracle. I could not believe my ears,
but not one of the numerous cabbies standing in front of the hotel
opened his lips to offer his services. Ordinarily, we had to run the
gauntlet of offers. On this occasion the men simply ranged themselves in
a silent, gaping row, and let us pass in peace. I had not supposed that
anything could quell a Russian cabby's tongue. Did they recognize the
count? I doubt it. I had been told that every one in Moscow knew him and
his costume; but diligent inquiry of my cabbies always elicited a
negative. In one single instance the man added: "But the count's a good
gentleman and a very intimate friend of a chum of mine!"
"Are you a good walker?" asked the count, as he plied his thick stick,
evidently recently cut in the grove adjoining his house. "I walk
everywhere myself. I never ride; I can't, for I never have any money."
I announced myself as a crack pedestrian,--but not when burdened with
Russian coat and galoshes. And I added: "I hope that you do not expect
us to walk all those versts to church, because we must stand through the
whole service afterward; they would be too strict to allow us chairs."
"We will go in the horse-cars, then," he replied. "But this constant use
of horses is a relic of barbarism. As we are growing more civilized, in
ten years from now horses will have gone out of use entirely. But I am
sure that, in enlightened America, you do not ride so much as we do
here."
Familiar as I am with Count Tolstoy's theories, this was a brand-new one
to me. I thought of several answers. Bicycles I rejected as a
suggestion, because the physical labor seems to be counterbalanced by
the cost of the steel steed. I also restrained myself from saying that
we were coming to look upon horses as a rather antiquated, slow, and
unreliable mode of locomotion. I did not care to destroy the count's
admiration for American ways too suddenly and ruthlessly, so I said:--