slaves--they were better off as slaves, than they could be if free. It
is a feudal frame of mind, in which it is granted that there are two
classes of people in the country, those who know all and have all, and
those who are inherently inferior in brain quality and so require to be
held in leash, giving their labor in exchange for such kindnesses as
the over-lord wishes to dispense to them.
This mental attitude toward an inferior class, held by the upper class
of Russia, accounts for the American failure, generally speaking, to
understand Russia and the Russians. We persist in thinking of all
Russians as the same, with the exception that some are better educated
than the others, when as a matter of fact there are two different
peoples in Russia. One is a class which expects as a matter of course
to have all the best things which the country provides, and the
government is merely a system upon which hangs a social code, and which
gives out orders, titles of nobility, and administrative positions
which provide incomes.
In a way, the feudal attitude in old Russia was the proper one,
provided the ideal feudal system was carried out; that is, if the
over-lords all used their power to lift up such of their menials as
gave evidence of being possessed of some mental ability.
But the feudal system as it operated, granted no mental ability to any
underling, or “low-born” person, and worked with no other object than
to keep the low-born submerged, and lift to power and position even
worthless members of the upper class.
The son of the noble who could not pass his examinations, graduated
from the university and despite profligacy and licentiousness, rose to
power in the government.
The commoner, though displaying great brilliance, found himself unable
to pass in his examinations year after year if he ever entered the
university at all, and had to give up in despair. But in the arts,
genius succeeded, and produced authors and painters--and the result was
that all writers of great natural ability became revolutionists.
Through them we got our sympathy for the peasants, and as these writers
understood that the lower classes were victimized and exploited by
the system, they presented to us all Russians as people of great
ideals--they extolled the virtues of the exploited and minimized their
faults and limitations. At the same time, they depicted with great
power all the cruelties of the ruling classes.
Thus the Russian peasant reasoned that he had no faults, that if he had
the power he could produce an ideal government, and that because the
ruling classes ruled badly, all that was needed to run the nation was a
kind and generous heart. Thus also the Bolshevist leaders found it easy
to take the Empire into their hands. The upper class of Russia made
Bolshevism possible by keeping the lower class ignorant. And ignorance
is the greatest menace to any nation--the spark in a powder magazine.
As we went eastward, I studied the people, keeping in mind the attitude
of the young woman who felt that Russia was ruined because all the good
things she had known were gone, and because the peasants were worse
off than ever.
And I found that the peasants did not consider themselves any the worse
for having destroyed the old régime; at least, they seemed willing to
endure the hardships they had imposed upon themselves, in the hope that
in due time things would be better.
But my feeling was that they will never live to see things bettered, no
matter how long they may live. There may be less disorder of a kind,
but I doubt if these people will ever escape being exploited till
they have acquired a leaven of education. But to educate them in the
sense by which we define education, means to change their whole mental
attitude toward themselves, their country, and life in general.
To the Russian of the lower class, who has been inarticulate for
generations, there are no degrees of education. He does not realize
that among a thousand persons who have, say, graduated from a
university in the same class, all members of which have taken the same
courses of study, there is any variation of intellect, and difference
in ability, any deeper sense of meanings of things in one individual
than in another. Why should there be? he asks. Are they not all
educated? He thinks of education, as a certain moment in which the
student becomes aware of all knowledge, and acquires all wisdom. And to
the primitive minds of these people, “education” means the ability to
read, write, and figure.
At one station where we changed train crews, a big fellow, with a
gigantic wooly cap, came into our car and sat by the stove. His
assistants paid him much deference. He began to talk with the Czechs,
and once set going, went on like a great phonograph. The Czechs finally
ignored him, and he began to question Werkstein, my interpreter.
Werkstein had difficulty in concealing his amusement at some of the
things the big fellow said, and I got into the conversation.
“This chap is educated,” said Werkstein. “That is why the provodnik and
the brakeman sit here and listen to him talk--they feel that they are
learning something. They almost worship him because he can tell them
things he has read in books.”
“What books has he read?” I asked. “Gorky, Puskin, Tolstoy?”
The conductor threw up his hands in a delirium of joy as he heard me
pronounce the names of the Russian novelists. Now he could show his
fellows that he could talk to the American on common ground.
But when I asked him to name some of the works of these writers that
he had read, he pushed back his cap and scratched his head with a
ponderous paw. He could not remember the titles--but he had read all
their works. But he was utterly ignorant of anything Tolstoy or Gorky
had written--he merely recognized the titles when they were mentioned.
He changed the subject by asserting that we Americans wanted all
Russians to agree on a government, when we Americans could not agree on
our own. I agreed that there were some differences of opinion as to
government in our country, but that in general we agreed fairly well.
“Then why do you have so many presidents?” he asked in triumph.
“We try to have but one,” I said.
“You have more than fifteen now,” he replied, and dug his elbow into
the ribs of a brakeman sitting behind him, to indicate that he had made
a point which I could not refute.
“Who are they?” I asked.
“I cannot remember their names,” he asserted, but holding up a hand,
he began to count on his fingers: “You have presidents in Brazil,
Argentine, Chile, Mexico, ----.” The Czechs interrupted him with roars
of laughter, and Werkstein explained to me. But he insisted that he was
right.
He switched to a map of his own country, a lithograph advertising
American harvesting machinery, and showing by red spots the size of a
dime, the location in Russian cities of their agencies. Naturally, the
spot over Petrograd was as large as the spots on the smaller cities in
the grain districts of Siberia, but he proudly asserted that all these
spots represented cities the size of Petrograd. No, he had never been
to Petrograd, but was it not as big as Harbin?
India, he said, was somewhere near Japan. He had read of Venice,
and its streets of water, but Venice was not in Italy. How could it
be in Italy? Venice was somewhere in Europe, and Italy was not in
Europe--the book he had read about Venice had stated that Venice was
not in Italy, and he stuck by the book.
This man was educated to his fellows. “If this man should go to a small
Russian town, and read from a newspaper for the people of that town, he
could become mayor,” said Werkstein. “He is so ignorant that he thinks
he knows a lot.” Which is not an uncommon delusion, even out of Siberia.
He was also in sympathy with the Bolshevists, having as his only
argument in their favor, the fact that they were “good people.” Now
this man, being a conductor, had a considerable influence over such
peasants as he met, for as a railroad man he travelled much, and as
an “educated man,” had read much. Many gave heed to what he said. And
compared to thousands of Siberians that I encountered, his intellect
was amazingly powerful.
Yet at home I found people who felt that the peasants of Siberia
know what they are doing, and are actuated by a desire to create a
democratic government, and that in a short time they will, and operate
it. But Siberia will fall a prey to some autocrat, who will rule it
by the sword, independently of Petrograd. Such a vast and such a rich
territory, peopled with human beings in the darkness of the Middle
Ages, can have no other fate.
Our progress was delayed for various reasons, the chief one being the
fact that wrecks occurred ahead of us with startling frequency. As a
matter of fact, Bolshevists, or Bolshevist sympathizers, or railroad
men in Bolshevist pay, were causing the wrecks. It was all a system
of sabotage, and being done to hamper the Allies in every way from
opposing the Bolshevists who were fighting.
And as we came into the yards of Manchuria Station, or Mandchuli, at
about daylight one morning, switches were thrown in such a way that
our train, laden with medical supplies for Russian wounded and sick,
and with one car full of women nurses, was derailed, and put on three
tracks. The immunity which we might have claimed from being wrecked,
was lost because we had combined with a Czech military train.
Our Czech commandant took a squad of soldiers to the station, and
demanded the man who had derailed us. But the station-master asserted
that the culprit had disappeared. So no vengeance was taken.
It was forty below zero that morning. The shaggy camels that passed
us, appeared to wear great white coats, for every hair on their bodies
stood out straight, covered with frost. So we had breakfast in the
station restaurant, and waited through the day for the railroad men to
get us back on the rails.
I found the American officer on Intelligence duty at that station,
living in a Russian home, and we went and lunched with the Railroad
Engineers of the Stevens contingent. One of them was an excellent
cook, and we had a splendid meal, the prize of the household being a
large jar of gooseberry jam. The house was fairly good, but despite
its massive proportions, cold as Greenland. And in the time I spent
in Siberia, I never found a house or a hotel that was comfortably
warm, even when I was clad in the heaviest clothing, except the house
occupied by Colonel Morrow in Khabarovsk.
We arrived in Chita, Trans-Baikal, thirteen days after leaving
Vladivostok. As I looked out that morning, over a drear landscape
partly concealed by frozen fog, I had in mind the thousands of exiles
who had marched overland to Chita, for the city in the old days had
been a distributing point for convict labor destined for the mines to
the north.
It was fifty degrees below that morning. I saw a low, white plain, shut
in on three sides by hills, studded with huts. The huts were marked by
white pillars of steam rising straight into the sky--warm air escaping
from the chimneys. The station door was shrouded with ice, and whenever
it opened there was a burst of white steam outward, but upon entering
there was no steam inside--only a warm, odoriferous air. Great icicles
over the door, some of them a foot through, are characteristic of
public buildings in that country during the cold weather.
We learned that we had passed through the city station of Chita, and
had come three versts beyond to “Pervia Chita,” or First Chita, that
being the name of the first station built as the building of the road
progressed toward Vladivostok.
Werkstein got a man with a pony and a cart, and we loaded our baggage.
Then, trailing along after it, walking in order not to freeze our
feet, we skirted the railroad, and came to a railroad bridge over a
gully, which was to lead us to Chita proper.
But just as our wagon approached the bridge, a Russian ran out of a
hut, and let down bars, blowing a horn loudly meanwhile. Our pony had
to stop, and we had to wait.
We spent the time walking to and fro in an effort to keep warm.
Werkstein said there was a train coming, and the bridge guard could
not let us cross after he had been warned. And the time between when
the guard closed the bridge, and the freight train crossed and we
were allowed to pass, was forty-five minutes. At both ends of the
bridge long lines of traffic had been held up, and men and horses
obviously suffered greatly from cold. But _Nitchyvo_! The people are
too good-natured to protest. What does it matter? Nothing, except that
I have observed in lands where people are noted for their good nature,
those people bow their necks under the yoke of a foreign conqueror.
There is a system of philosophy used as a thesis for happy books in the
United States, somewhat akin to New Thought, which can see no evil in
any thing or any person. The heroes and heroines of such books being
depicted as living in happy American homes, insist that everybody
should be happy and can be happy, merely by seeking happiness. But
while these youngsters are being happy, father is making money, and
somebody does a deal of work that the machinery of government, and the
machinery of modern life, may be kept going. And such books sell by
the millions to American people. Happiness should not be the result of
wearing mental blinders. For the curse of Russia was not the Czar, but
the peasants _Nitchyvo_--“no matter.”
XIV
THE CITY OF CONVICTS
My first impressions of Chita were good. It had an excellent though
dirty station, and the buildings were substantial, most of those in the
business district being of stone or brick. There were two big Russian
churches, a synagogue, and a Mohammedan mosque, two local newspapers
being published intermittently, banks which did not at that time boast
of their assets, trade-schools, high schools, and a school conducted
by the clergy but which was temporarily closed, its building having
been commandeered by Ataman Semenoff, the chief of the Trans-Baikal
Cossacks, for an officers’ school. The population was between fifty and
sixty thousand. There were two fairly good hotels, the better one held
by Semenoff as quarters for his officers and their families.
The streets were wide and laid in straight lines. And oddly enough,
in a country which we assume to be buried in snow during the winter,
to walk the streets meant to sink ankle-deep in dust. All the snow I
saw in Chita was a mantle of fine particles on ground which was not
disturbed by traffic. It was too cold to snow.
We found the officer I was to relieve in the Hotel Dayooria. The room
was dark, because the single window was an inch thick with frost. But
there was an electric drop-light. On the window-sill were tea, sugar,
bread and a mess-kit. The scant furniture was dangerous to use, for the
Bolshevists had gone through the hotel and wrecked it.
I was offered a room for myself and interpreter which was bare of
furniture, the walls stripped clean of paper, the window repaired
poorly, at the rate of twenty-five rubles per occupant, or at the then
rate of exchange, about five dollars a day for both.
The halls were filthy dirty, and the odors nauseating. The toilet on
the main floor had plumbing, but not water, and it had been in use
for several months. There was no light in it, and its ventilation was
attended to by the door which opened into the dirty hall. The place
made its presence known throughout the building, and neither proprietor
nor Russian guests felt that there was anything out of the ordinary in
their surroundings.
To travel over the country and find such conditions everywhere,
regarded by the native population as normal, and then to hear of
epidemics which were being fought by the Red Cross doctors, and
thousands of dollars in medical supplies and medicines being shipped
into the country as gifts from the American people, made me wonder if
it would not be better to first use a knout on those responsible for
insanitary conditions beyond description or belief.
There was a great clamor about the danger of typhus, and our medical
men, military and civilian, were much concerned about its spread. There
were slips of paper distributed, printed in Russian, telling what to
do when afflicted with typhus. It was described as a disease caused
by body vermin, and urging personal cleanliness. I have seen many
Siberians read that warning, while they casually scratched themselves.
Generally speaking, the people regard lice as things which create a
slight discomfort, but are not worthy of much attention--about on a par
with flies.
One thing the Siberian does thoroughly--he takes a funeral seriously.
He turns it into a dramatic pageant, and no detail is overlooked. But
he will not turn his hand over to take any precaution against disease,
or the conditions that create it. I asked several Siberians, merely
to get their attitudes, if it would not be well to improve sanitary
conditions. “You will all be sick and die,” I said to one man.
“We may be sick, but we will not die,” he said. “What if we are sick?
The Americanskys are sending medicines to cure us.”
Probably if we demanded good sanitary conditions before we would supply
medical goods, we would be interfering with the people. But if we were
going to contribute medicines to a locality at home which allowed
breeding spots for disease all over the locality, I am willing to wager
that we would demand an improvement of the sanitation, and see that it
was accomplished, even if we had to use some kind of force.
One of my first duties was to call upon Lieutenant General Oba,
commanding the Japanese division, with headquarters at Chita. The
Japanese staff occupied a four-story department store which covered an
entire block. This building had been swept clean of its contents by
looting Bolshevists.
It happened that the Chief of Intelligence in our forces, had been in
Chita several days, and was preparing to return to Vladivostok. He went
with me to Oba’s headquarters, and we took with us a Y. M. C. A. man
who had been a missionary in Japan and who spoke Japanese well.
In the hall there was a wooden dial on a table, with a wooden arrow.
In sectors of the circle, were written Japanese and Russian sentences,
arranged so that when you read the Russian sentence which applied to
the officer you wished to call upon, and turned the arrow to that
sector, it also pointed to a translation in Japanese. Then the guard on
duty learned from this automatic interpreter, your business, and sent
your card in to the proper officer.
We were conducted to a room where we removed our heavy coats and furs,
and presently we were ushered into the presence of Oba. He is a small
man, of dignified but unassuming manners, and most amiable. I liked him
extremely. If I remember correctly, his foreign training was French,
and I missed the Germanic bluntness and the striving for dignity which
so many Japanese officers have as the result of acquiring or copying
German military manners.
Most Japanese officers who attain high rank are in addition to
being accomplished soldiers, astute diplomats. At least that is the
impression they give me. It may be that what I ascribe to astuteness,
is in reality an avoidance of discussing many of the things which
other foreign officers will discuss together with more or less
frankness. Silence is often mistaken for great wisdom. It may be wise
to be silent--if one wishes to appear wise. In a newspaper experience
covering nearly a quarter of a century, I have sometimes found many men
supposed to be oracles, merely to be clams. Once they could be induced
to talk, their limitations were apparent.
I would say that Oba has all the French love of conversation, and in
addition is most frank. There was no reason why he should plunge into a
discussion of Japan in Siberia, and there was no reason why he should
be more than formally polite. Yet every time I had occasion to call
on Oba, he made me feel thoroughly at home, and such occasions proved
to be in the nature of a pleasure rather than an official ordeal. His
abilities as a soldier I do not doubt, but I believe he would serve
Japan well as a diplomat.
Technically, it was proper to call first upon Ataman Semenoff, but
at that time he was confined to his bed suffering from the wounds
inflicted by a bomb thrown at him in a theatre of Chita. So we called
upon his chief of staff, General Verego. There was much intrigue in
Semenoff’s little army of some five thousand, and Verego lost his power
in time, and went away to Harbin.
We also called upon the head of the civil government, or who would
have been the head of the civil government of the province had there
been any civil government--a Mr. Tashkin, who at one time was a member
of the Duma. He proved to be a typical Russian statesman, including
whiskers and glasses. His keen eyes impressed me as being able to see
and understand many things, and I felt that he was only biding his time
till certain military autocracies could be pushed into the background.
He is the type of man upon which Russia will have to depend for
statesmanship, when it gives up government by the sword.
Oba, Semenoff, Tashkin--to me, those three symbolized the situation
in Siberia. Oba, to a certain extent, with the power of the Japanese
Empire behind him, stood behind Semenoff; Semenoff was at outs with
Kolchak, who in Omsk proclaimed himself the Supreme Ruler of Russia;
Semenoff had fought the Bolshevists with his little army while Kolchak
remained inactive in Harbin; Kolchak, the way cleared by Semenoff’s
army, jumped ahead of Semenoff to Omsk and became the chief of all
Russia in theory; Semenoff, ambitious to set himself up as a local
prince if not ambitious to be the dictator of all Russia, resented
being called upon to subordinate himself to Kolchak and have his wings
clipped.
Kalmikoff, being a Cossack, stood with Semenoff so far as he dared,
he in turn backed by Oi, the Japanese commander at Khabarovsk. The
United States stood aloof, merely pleading that all parties come to
agreement. Tashkin remained quiet in the background, holding the thin
thread of his civil power.
Semenoff was charged by Kolchak with treason, and blocking the railroad
and cutting the wires near Chita. Semenoff denied the charges, and
some of his own supply trains were held up near Harbin by General
Horvat, head of the Chinese Eastern section of the Trans-Siberian.
Horvat is said to have taken that action to aid Kolchak in forcing
Semenoff to put his army and himself under the orders of Kolchak. In
the meantime, while these forces should have combined and been whipping
the Bolshevists, the latter were gaining strength and cutting Russia’s
throat.
My chief dined with a Russian family the night he left and expected
his train to arrive about ten o’clock. His interpreter went to the
station and learned that the train would be in about seven. So we sent
hasty word to the colonel, and he left the dinner and hastened to the
station. We pried our way into the usual crowd of refugees and sat on
the colonel’s baggage in the evil-smelling restaurant.
Seven o’clock came, but no train. Inquiry resulted in the information
that it would be there “Sichass,” or presently. The train came at two
the next morning. It was stuffed to suffocation, as usual. The station
commandant fought his way into a second-class car, found a compartment
with accommodations for four persons which held eight, and routed them
all out. The passage in the car was so jammed with people that we had
difficulty in getting in, and had to pass the baggage over the heads of
the crowd. And the eight who had been evicted, together with their food
and cooking utensils, stood around and cursed the commandant.