LANDED PROPRIETORS OF THE OLD SCHOOL
Russian Hospitality--A Country-House--Its Owner Described--His Life,
Past and Present--Winter Evenings--Books---Connection with the Outer
World--The Crimean War and the Emancipation--A Drunken, Dissolute
Proprietor--An Old General and his Wife--"Name Days"--A Legendary
Monster--A Retired Judge--A Clever Scribe--Social Leniency--Cause of
Demoralisation.
Of all the foreign countries in which I have travelled, Russia certainly
bears off the palm in the matter of hospitality. Every spring I found
myself in possession of a large number of invitations from landed
proprietors in different parts of the country--far more than I could
possibly accept--and a great part of the summer was generally spent in
wandering about from one country-house to another. I have no intention
of asking the reader to accompany me in all these expeditions--for
though pleasant in reality, they might be tedious in description--but
I wish to introduce him to some typical examples of the landed
proprietors. Among them are to be found nearly all ranks and conditions
of men, from the rich magnate, surrounded with the refined luxury of
West-European civilisation, to the poor, ill-clad, ignorant owner of a
few acres which barely supply him with the necessaries of life. Let us
take, first of all, a few specimens from the middle ranks.
In one of the central provinces, near the bank of a sluggish, meandering
stream, stands an irregular group of wooden constructions--old,
unpainted, blackened by time, and surmounted by high, sloping roofs
of moss-covered planks. The principal building is a long, one-storied
dwelling-house, constructed at right angles to the road. At the front
of the house is a spacious, ill-kept yard, and at the back an equally
spacious shady garden, in which art carries on a feeble conflict with
encroaching nature. At the other side of the yard, and facing the front
door--or rather the front doors, for there are two--stand the stables,
hay-shed, and granary, and near to that end of the house which is
farthest from the road are two smaller houses, one of which is the
kitchen, and the other the Lyudskaya, or servants' apartments. Beyond
these we can perceive, through a single row of lime-trees, another
group of time-blackened wooden constructions in a still more dilapidated
condition. That is the farmyard.
There is certainly not much symmetry in the disposition of these
buildings, but there is nevertheless a certain order and meaning in the
apparent chaos. All the buildings which do not require stoves are built
at a considerable distance from the dwelling-house and kitchen, which
are more liable to take fire; and the kitchen stands by itself, because
the odour of cookery where oil is used is by no means agreeable, even
for those whose olfactory nerves are not very sensitive. The plan of the
house is likewise not without a certain meaning. The rigorous separation
of the sexes, which formed a characteristic trait of old Russian
society, has long since disappeared, but its influence may still be
traced in houses built on the old model. The house in question is one of
these, and consequently it is composed of three sections--at the one
end the male apartments, at the other the female apartments, and in the
middle the neutral territory, comprising the dining-room and the salon.
This arrangement has its conveniences, and explains the fact that the
house has two front doors. At the back is a third door, which opens from
the neutral territory into a spacious verandah overlooking the garden.
Here lives, and has lived for many years, Ivan Ivanovitch K----, a
gentleman of the old school, and a very worthy man of his kind. If we
look at him as he sits in his comfortable armchair, with his capacious
dressing-gown hanging loosely about him, we shall be able to read at a
glance something of his character. Nature endowed him with large bones
and broad shoulders, and evidently intended him to be a man of great
muscular power, but he has contrived to frustrate this benevolent
intention, and has now more fat than muscle. His close-cropped head
is round as a bullet, and his features are massive and heavy, but
the heaviness is relieved by an expression of calm contentment and
imperturbable good-nature, which occasionally blossoms into a broad
grin. His face is one of those on which no amount of histrionic talent
could produce a look of care and anxiety, and for this it is not to
blame, for such an expression has never been demanded of it. Like
other mortals, he sometimes experiences little annoyances, and on such
occasions his small grey eyes sparkle and his face becomes suffused with
a crimson glow that suggests apoplexy; but ill-fortune has never been
able to get sufficiently firm hold of him to make him understand what
such words as care and anxiety mean. Of struggle, disappointment, hope,
and all the other feelings which give to human life a dramatic interest,
he knows little by hearsay and nothing by experience. He has, in
fact, always lived outside of that struggle for existence which modern
philosophers declare to be the law of nature.
Somewhere about seventy years ago Ivan Ivan'itch was born in the house
where he still lives. His first lessons he received from the parish
priest, and afterwards he was taught by a deacon's son, who had studied
in the ecclesiastical seminary to so little purpose that he was unable
to pass the final examination. By both of these teachers he was treated
with extreme leniency, and was allowed to learn as little as he chose.
His father wished him to study hard, but his mother was afraid that
study might injure his health, and accordingly gave him several holidays
every week. Under these circumstances his progress was naturally
not very rapid, and he was still very slightly acquainted with the
elementary rules of arithmetic, when his father one day declared that he
was already eighteen years of age, and must at once enter the service.
But what kind of service? Ivan had no natural inclination for any
kind of activity. The project of entering him as a Junker in a cavalry
regiment, the colonel of which was an old friend of the family, did not
at all please him. He had no love for military service, and positively
disliked the prospect of an examination. Whilst seeming, therefore,
to bow implicitly to the paternal authority, he induced his mother to
oppose the scheme.
The dilemma in which Ivan found himself was this: in deference to his
father he wished to be in the service and gain that official rank
which every Russian noble desires to possess, and at the same time, in
deference to his mother and his own tastes, he wished to remain at home
and continue his indolent mode of life. The Marshal of the Noblesse, who
happened to call one day, helped him out of the difficulty by offering
to inscribe him as secretary in the Dvoryanskaya Opeka, a bureau which
acts as curator for the estates of minors. All the duties of this office
could be fulfilled by a paid secretary, and the nominal occupant would
be periodically promoted as if he were an active official. This was
precisely what Ivan required. He accepted eagerly the proposal, and
obtained, in the course of seven years, without any effort on his
part, the rank of "collegiate secretary," corresponding to the
"capitaine-en-second" of the military hierarchy. To mount higher he
would have had to seek some place where he could not have fulfilled his
duty by proxy, so he determined to rest on his laurels, and sent in his
resignation.
Immediately after the termination of his official life his married
life began. Before his resignation had been accepted he suddenly found
himself one morning on the high road to matrimony. Here again there was
no effort on his part. The course of true love, which is said never to
run smooth for ordinary mortals, ran smooth for him. He never had even
the trouble of proposing. The whole affair was arranged by his parents,
who chose as bride for their son the only daughter of their nearest
neighbour. The young lady was only about sixteen years of age, and was
not remarkable for beauty, talent, or any other peculiarity, but she had
one very important qualification--she was the daughter of a man who
had an estate contiguous to their own, and who might give as a dowry
a certain bit of land which they had long desired to add to their own
property. The negotiations, being of a delicate nature, were entrusted
to an old lady who had a great reputation for diplomatic skill in such
matters, and she accomplished her mission with such success that in the
course of a few weeks the preliminaries were arranged and the day fixed
for the wedding. Thus Ivan Ivan'itch won his bride as easily as he had
won his tchin of "collegiate secretary."
Though the bridegroom had received rather than taken to himself a wife,
and did not imagine for a moment that he was in love, he had no reason
to regret the choice that was made for him. Maria Petrovna was exactly
suited by character and education to be the wife of a man like Ivan
Ivan'itch. She had grown up at home in the society of nurses and
servant-maids, and had never learned anything more than could be
obtained from the parish priest and from "Ma'mselle," a personage
occupying a position midway between a servant-maid and a governess.
The first events of her life were the announcement that she was to be
married and the preparations for the wedding. She still remembers the
delight which the purchase of her trousseau afforded her, and keeps in
her memory a full catalogue of the articles bought. The first years
of her married life were not very happy, for she was treated by her
mother-in-law as a naughty child who required to be frequently snubbed
and lectured; but she bore the discipline with exemplary patience, and
in due time became her own mistress and autocratic ruler in all domestic
affairs. From that time she has lived an active, uneventful life.
Between her and her husband there is as much mutual attachment as can
reasonably be expected in phlegmatic natures after half a century of
matrimony. She has always devoted her energies to satisfying his simple
material wants--of intellectual wants he has none--and securing his
comfort in every possible way. Under this fostering care he "effeminated
himself" (obabilsya), as he is wont to say. His love of shooting died
out, he cared less and less to visit his neighbours, and each successive
year he spent more and more time in his comfortable arm-chair.
The daily life of this worthy couple is singularly regular and
monotonous, varying only with the changing seasons. In summer Ivan
Ivan'itch gets up about seven o'clock, and puts on, with the assistance
of his valet de chambre, a simple costume, consisting chiefly of a
faded, plentifully stained dressing-gown. Having nothing particular
to do, he sits down at the open window and looks into the yard. As the
servants pass he stops and questions them, and then gives them orders,
or scolds them, as circumstances demand. Towards nine o'clock tea is
announced, and he goes into the dining-room--a long, narrow apartment
with bare wooden floor and no furniture but a table and chairs, all in a
more or less rickety condition. Here he finds his wife with the tea-urn
before her. In a few minutes the grandchildren come in, kiss their
grandpapa's hand, and take their places round the table. As this morning
meal consists merely of bread and tea, it does not last long; and all
disperse to their several occupations. The head of the house begins the
labours of the day by resuming his seat at the open window. When he has
smoked some cigarettes and indulged in a proportionate amount of silent
contemplation, he goes out with the intention of visiting the stables
and farmyard, but generally before he has crossed the court he finds the
heat unbearable, and returns to his former position by the open window.
Here he sits tranquilly till the sun has so far moved round that the
verandah at the back of the house is completely in the shade, when he
has his arm-chair removed thither, and sits there till dinner-time.
Maria Petrovna spends her morning in a more active way. As soon as the
breakfast table has been cleared she goes to the larder, takes stock
of the provisions, arranges the menu du jour, and gives to the cook the
necessary materials, with detailed instructions as to how they are to
be prepared. The rest of the morning she devotes to her other household
duties.
Towards one o'clock dinner is announced, and Ivan Ivan'itch prepares his
appetite by swallowing at a gulp a wineglassful of home-made bitters.
Dinner is the great event of the day. The food is abundant and of good
quality, but mushrooms, onions, and fat play a rather too important part
in the repast, and the whole is prepared with very little attention
to the recognised principles of culinary hygiene. Many of the dishes,
indeed, would make a British valetudinarian stand aghast, but they seem
to produce no bad effect on those Russian organisms which have never
been weakened by town life, nervous excitement, or intellectual
exertion.
No sooner has the last dish been removed than a deathlike stillness
falls upon the house: it is the time of the after-dinner siesta.
The young folks go into the garden, and all the other members of the
household give way to the drowsiness naturally engendered by a heavy
meal on a hot summer day. Ivan Ivan'itch retires to his own room, from
which the flies have been carefully expelled. Maria Petrovna dozes in
an arm-chair in the sitting-room, with a pocket-handkerchief spread
over her face. The servants snore in the corridors, the garret, or the
hay-shed; and even the old watch-dog in the corner of the yard stretches
himself out at full length on the shady side of his kennel.
In about two hours the house gradually re-awakens. Doors begin to creak;
the names of various servants are bawled out in all tones, from bass to
falsetto; and footsteps are heard in the yard. Soon a man-servant issues
from the kitchen bearing an enormous tea-urn, which puffs like a little
steam-engine. The family assembles for tea. In Russia, as elsewhere,
sleep after a heavy meal produces thirst, so that the tea and other
beverages are very acceptable. Then some little delicacies are
served--such as fruit and wild berries, or cucumbers with honey,
or something else of the kind, and the family again disperses. Ivan
Ivan'itch takes a turn in the fields on his begovuiya droshki--an
extremely light vehicle composed of two pairs of wheels joined together
by a single board, on which the driver sits stride-legged; and Maria
Petrovna probably receives a visit from the Popadya (the priest's wife),
who is the chief gossipmonger of the neighbourhood. There is not much
scandal in the district, but what little there is the Popadya carefully
collects, and distributes among her acquaintances with undiscriminating
generosity.
In the evening it often happens that a little group of peasants come
into the court, and ask to see the "master." The master goes to the
door, and generally finds that they have some favour to request. In
reply to his question, "Well, children, what do you want?" they tell
their story in a confused, rambling way, several of them speaking at a
time, and he has to question and cross-question them before he comes to
understand clearly what they desire. If he tells them he cannot grant
it, they probably do not accept a first refusal, but endeavour by means
of supplication to make him reconsider his decision. Stepping forward
a little, and bowing low, one of the group begins in a half-respectful,
half-familiar, caressing tone: "Little Father, Ivan Ivan'itch, be
gracious; you are our father, and we are your children"--and so on.
Ivan Ivan'itch good-naturedly listens, and again explains that he cannot
grant what they ask; but they have still hopes of gaining their point by
entreaty, and continue their supplications till at last his patience is
exhausted and he says to them in a paternal tone, "Now, enough! enough!
you are blockheads--blockheads all round! There's no use talking; it
can't be done." And with these words he enters the house, so as to
prevent all further discussion.
A regular part of the evening's occupation is the interview with the
steward. The work that has just been done, and the programme for the
morrow, are always discussed at great length; and much time is spent in
speculating as to the weather during the next few days. On this latter
point the calendar is always carefully consulted, and great confidence
is placed in its predictions, though past experience has often shown
that they are not to be implicitly trusted. The conversation drags on
till supper is announced, and immediately after that meal, which is an
abridged repetition of dinner, all retire for the night.
Thus pass the days and weeks and months in the house of Ivan Ivan'itch,
and rarely is there any deviation from the ordinary programme. The
climate necessitates, of course, some slight modifications. When it is
cold, the doors and windows have to be kept shut, and after heavy rains
those who do not like to wade in mud have to remain in the house
or garden. In the long winter evenings the family assembles in the
sitting-room, and all kill time as best they can. Ivan Ivan'itch smokes
and meditates or listens to the barrel-organ played by one of the
children. Maria Petrovna knits a stocking. The old aunt, who commonly
spends the winter with them, plays Patience, and sometimes draws from
the game conclusions as to the future. Her favourite predictions are
that a stranger will arrive, or that a marriage will take place, and she
can determine the sex of the stranger and the colour of the bridegroom's
hair; but beyond this her art does not go, and she cannot satisfy the
young ladies' curiosity as to further details.
Books and newspapers are rarely seen in the sitting-room, but for those
who wish to read there is a book-case full of miscellaneous literature,
which gives some idea of the literary tastes of the family during
several generations. The oldest volumes were bought by Ivan Ivan'itch's
grandfather--a man who, according to the family traditions, enjoyed the
confidence of the great Catherine. Though wholly overlooked by recent
historians, he was evidently a man who had some pretensions to culture.
He had his portrait painted by a foreign artist of considerable
talent--it still hangs in the sitting-room--and he bought several pieces
of Sevres ware, the last of which stands on a commode in the corner
and contrasts strangely with the rude home-made furniture and squalid
appearance of the apartment. Among the books which bear his name are
the tragedies of Sumarokof, who imagined himself to be "the Russian
Voltaire"; the amusing comedies of Von-Wisin, some of which still keep
the stage; the loud-sounding odes of the courtly Derzhavin; two or three
books containing the mystic wisdom of Freemasonry as interpreted by
Schwarz and Novikoff; Russian translations of Richardson's "Pamela,"
"Sir Charles Grandison," and "Clarissa Harlowe"; Rousseau's "Nouvelle
Heloise," in Russian garb; and three or four volumes of Voltaire in
the original. Among the works collected at a somewhat later period are
translations of Ann Radcliffe, of Scott's early novels, and of Ducray
Dumenil, whose stories, "Lolotte et Fanfan" and "Victor," once enjoyed a
great reputation. At this point the literary tastes of the family
appear to have died out, for the succeeding literature is represented
exclusively by Kryloff's Fables, a farmer's manual, a handbook of family
medicine, and a series of calendars. There are, however, some signs of
a revival, for on the lowest shelf stand recent editions of Pushkin,
Lermontof, and Gogol, and a few works by living authors.
Sometimes the monotony of the winter is broken by visiting neighbours
and receiving visitors in return, or in a more decided way by a visit
of a few days to the capital of the province. In the latter case Maria
Petrovna spends nearly all her time in shopping, and brings home a large
collection of miscellaneous articles. The inspection of these by the
assembled family forms an important domestic event, which completely
throws into the shade the occasional visits of peddlers and colporteurs.
Then there are the festivities at Christmas and Easter, and occasionally
little incidents of less agreeable kind. It may be that there is a heavy
fall of snow, so that it is necessary to cut roads to the kitchen and
stables; or wolves enter the courtyard at night and have a fight with
the watch-dogs; or the news is brought that a peasant who had been
drinking in a neighbouring village has been found frozen to death on the
road.
Altogether the family live a very isolated life, but they have one bond
of connection with the great outer world. Two of the sons are officers
in the army and both of them write home occasionally to their mother
and sisters. To these two youths is devoted all the little stock of
sentimentality which Maria Petrovna possesses. She can talk of them
by the hour to any one who will listen to her, and has related to the
Popadya a hundred times every trivial incident of their lives. Though
they have never given her much cause for anxiety, and they are now men
of middle age, she lives in constant fear that some evil may befall
them. What she most fears is that they may be sent on a campaign or may
fall in love with actresses. War and actresses are, in fact, the two
bug-bears of her existence, and whenever she has a disquieting dream she
asks the priest to offer up a moleben for the safety of her absent
ones. Sometimes she ventures to express her anxiety to her husband, and
recommends him to write to them; but he considers writing a letter a
very serious bit of work, and always replies evasively, "Well, well, we
must think about it."
During the Crimean War Ivan Ivan'itch half awoke from his habitual
lethargy, and read occasionally the meagre official reports published by
the Government. He was a little surprised that no great victories were
reported, and that the army did not at once advance on Constantinople.
As to causes he never speculated. Some of his neighbours told him that
the army was disorganised, and the whole system of Nicholas had been
proved to be utterly worthless. That might all be very true, but he did
not understand military and political matters. No doubt it would all
come right in the end. All did come right, after a fashion, and he again
gave up reading newspapers; but ere long he was startled by reports much
more alarming than any rumours of war. People began to talk about
the peasant question, and to say openly that the serfs must soon be
emancipated. For once in his life Ivan Ivan'itch asked explanations.
Finding one of his neighbours, who had always been a respectable,
sensible man, and a severe disciplinarian, talking in this way, he took
him aside and asked what it all meant. The neighbour explained that the
old order of things had shown itself bankrupt and was doomed, that a
new epoch was opening, that everything was to be reformed, and that
the Emperor, in accordance with a secret clause of the Treaty with the
Allies, was about to grant a Constitution! Ivan Ivan'itch listened for
a little in silence, and then, with a gesture of impatience, interrupted
the speaker: "Polno duratchitsya! enough of fun and tomfoolery. Vassili
Petrovitch, tell me seriously what you mean."
When Vassili Petrovitch vowed that he spoke in all seriousness, his
friend gazed at him with a look of intense compassion, and remarked, as
he turned away, "So you, too, have gone out of your mind!"
The utterances of Vassili Petrovitch, which his lethargic, sober-minded
friend regarded as indicating temporary insanity in the speaker,
represented fairly the mental condition of very many Russian nobles at
that time, and were not without a certain foundation. The idea about a
secret clause in the Treaty of Paris was purely imaginary, but it was
quite true that the country was entering on an epoch of great reforms,
among which the Emancipation question occupied the chief place. Of
this even the sceptical Ivan Ivan'itch was soon convinced. The Emperor
formally declared to the Noblesse of the province of Moscow that the
actual state of things could not continue forever, and called on the
landed proprietors to consider by what means the condition of their
serfs might be ameliorated. Provincial committees were formed for the
purpose of preparing definite projects, and gradually it became apparent
that the emancipation of the serfs was really at hand.
Ivan Ivan'itch was alarmed at the prospect of losing his authority
over his serfs. Though he had never been a cruel taskmaster, he had not
spared the rod when he considered it necessary, and he believed birch
twigs to be a necessary instrument in the Russian system of agriculture.
For some time he drew consolation from the thought that peasants were
not birds of the air, that they must under all circumstances require
food and clothing, and that they would be ready to serve him as
agricultural labourers; but when he learned that they were to receive
a large part of the estate for their own use, his hopes fell, and he
greatly feared that he would be inevitably ruined.
These dark forebodings have not been by any means realised. His serfs
were emancipated and received about a half of the estate, but in return
for the land ceded they paid him annually a considerable sum, and they
were always ready to cultivate his fields for a fair remuneration. The
yearly outlay was considerably greater, but the price of grain rose,
and this counterbalanced the additional yearly expenditure. The
administration of the estate has become much less patriarchal; much that
was formerly left to custom and tacit understanding is now regulated
by express agreement on purely commercial principles; a great deal more
money is paid out and a great deal more received; there is much less
authority in the hands of the master, and his responsibilities are
proportionately diminished; but in spite of all these changes, Ivan
Ivan'itch would have great difficulty in deciding whether he is a richer
or a poorer man. He has fewer horses and fewer servants, but he has
still more than he requires, and his mode of life has undergone no
perceptible alteration. Maria Petrovna complains that she is no longer
supplied with eggs, chickens, and homespun linen by the peasants, and
that everything is three times as dear as it used to be; but somehow the
larder is still full, and abundance reigns in the house as of old.
Ivan Ivan'itch certainly does not possess transcendent qualities of any
kind. It would be impossible to make a hero out of him, even though his
own son should be his biographer. Muscular Christians may reasonably
despise him, an active, energetic man may fairly condemn him for
his indolence and apathy. But, on the other hand, he has no very
bad qualities. His vices are of the passive, negative kind. He is a
respectable if not a distinguished member of society, and appears a
very worthy man when compared with many of his neighbours who have
been brought up in similar conditions. Take, for instance, his younger
brother Dimitri, who lives a short way off.
Dimitri Ivanovitch, like his brother Ivan, had been endowed by nature
with a very decided repugnance to prolonged intellectual exertion,
but as he was a man of good parts he did not fear a Junker's
examination--especially when he could count on the colonel's
protection--and accordingly entered the army. In his regiment were a
number of jovial young officers like himself, always ready to relieve
the monotony of garrison life by boisterous dissipation, and among these
he easily acquired the reputation of being a thoroughly good fellow. In
drinking bouts he could hold his own with the best of them, and in all
mad pranks invariably played the chief part. By this means he endeared
himself to his comrades, and for a time all went well. The colonel had
himself sown wild oats plentifully in his youth, and was quite disposed
to overlook, as far as possible, the bacchanalian peccadilloes of his
subordinates. But before many years had passed, the regiment suddenly
changed its character. Certain rumours had reached headquarters, and the
Emperor Nicholas appointed as colonel a stern disciplinarian of German
origin, who aimed at making the regiment a kind of machine that should
work with the accuracy of a chronometer.
This change did not at all suit the tastes of Dimitri Ivan'itch. He
chafed under the new restraints, and as soon as he had gained the rank
of lieutenant retired from the service to enjoy the freedom of country
life. Shortly afterwards his father died, and he thereby became owner of
an estate, with two hundred serfs. He did not, like his elder brother,
marry, and "effeminate himself," but he did worse. In his little
independent kingdom--for such was practically a Russian estate in the
good old times--he was lord of all he surveyed, and gave full scope to
his boisterous humour, his passion for sport, and his love of drinking
and dissipation. Many of the mad pranks in which he indulged will long
be preserved by popular tradition, but they cannot well be related here.
Dimitri Ivan'itch is now a man long past middle age, and still continues
his wild, dissipated life. His house resembles an ill-kept, disreputable
tavern. The floor is filthy, the furniture chipped and broken, the
servants indolent, slovenly, and in rags. Dogs of all breeds and sizes
roam about the rooms and corridors. The master, when not asleep, is
always in a more or less complete state of intoxication. Generally
he has one or two guests staying with him--men of the same type as
himself--and days and nights are spent in drinking and card-playing.
When he cannot have his usual boon-companions he sends for one or two
small proprietors who live near--men who are legally nobles, but who are
so poor that they differ little from peasants. Formerly, when ordinary
resources failed, he occasionally had recourse to the violent expedient
of ordering his servants to stop the first passing travellers,
whoever they might be, and bring them in by persuasion or force, as
circumstances might demand. If the travellers refused to accept
such rough, undesired hospitality, a wheel would be taken off their
tarantass, or some indispensable part of the harness would be secreted,
and they might consider themselves fortunate if they succeeded in
getting away next morning.*
* This custom has fortunately gone out of fashion even in
outlying districts, but an incident of the kind happened to
a friend of mine as late as 1871. He was detained against
his will for two whole days by a man whom he had never seen
before, and at last effected his escape by bribing the
servants of his tyrannical host.
In the time of serfage the domestic serfs had much to bear from their
capricious, violent master. They lived in an atmosphere of abusive
language, and were subjected not unfrequently to corporal punishment.
Worse than this, their master was constantly threatening to "shave their
forehead"--that is to say, to give them as recruits--and occasionally he
put his threat into execution, in spite of the wailings and entreaties
of the culprit and his relations. And yet, strange to say, nearly all of
them remained with him as free servants after the Emancipation.
In justice to the Russian landed proprietors, I must say that the class
represented by Dimitri Ivan'itch has now almost disappeared. It was the
natural result of serfage and social stagnation--of a state of society
in which there were few legal and moral restraints, and few inducements
to honourable activity.
Among the other landed proprietors of the district, one of the best
known is Nicolai Petrovitch B----, an old military man with the rank of
general. Like Ivan Ivan'itch, he belongs to the old school; but the two
men must be contrasted rather than compared. The difference in their
lives and characters is reflected in their outward appearance. Ivan
Ivan'itch, as we know, is portly in form and heavy in all his movements,
and loves to loll in his arm-chair or to loaf about the house in a
capacious dressing-gown. The General, on the contrary, is thin, wiry,
and muscular, wears habitually a close-buttoned military tunic, and
always has a stern expression, the force of which is considerably
augmented by a bristly moustache resembling a shoe-brush. As he paces up
and down the room, knitting his brows and gazing at the floor, he looks
as if he were forming combinations of the first magnitude; but those who
know him well are aware that this is an optical delusion, of which he
is himself to some extent a victim. He is quite innocent of deep thought
and concentrated intellectual effort. Though he frowns so fiercely he is
by no means of a naturally ferocious temperament. Had he passed all
his life in the country he would probably have been as good-natured and
phlegmatic as Ivan Ivan'itch himself, but, unlike that worshipper of
tranquillity, he had aspired to rise in the service, and had adopted
the stern, formal bearing which the Emperor Nicholas considered
indispensable in an officer. The manner which he had at first put on as
part of his uniform became by the force of habit almost a part of his
nature, and at the age of thirty he was a stern disciplinarian and
uncompromising formalist, who confined his attention exclusively to
drill and other military duties. Thus he rose steadily by his own merit,
and reached the goal of his early ambition--the rank of general.
As soon as this point was reached he determined to leave the service and
retire to his property. Many considerations urged him to take this step.
He enjoyed the title of Excellency which he had long coveted, and when
he put on his full uniform his breast was bespangled with medals and
decorations. Since the death of his father the revenues of his estate
had been steadily decreasing, and report said that the best wood in his
forest was rapidly disappearing. His wife had no love for the country,
and would have preferred to settle in Moscow or St. Petersburg, but they
found that with their small income they could not live in a large town
in a style suitable to their rank.
The General determined to introduce order into his estate, and become
a practical farmer; but a little experience convinced him that his new
functions were much more difficult than the commanding of a regiment. He
has long since given over the practical management of the property to a
steward, and he contents himself with exercising what he imagines to be
an efficient control. Though he wishes to do much, he finds small scope
for his activity, and spends his days in pretty much the same way as
Ivan Ivan'itch, with this difference, that he plays cards whenever he
gets an opportunity, and reads regularly the Moscow Gazette and Russki
Invalid, the official military paper. What specially interests him is
the list of promotions, retirements, and Imperial rewards for merit and
seniority. When he sees the announcement that some old comrade has been
made an officer of his Majesty's suite or has received a grand cordon,
he frowns a little more than usual, and is tempted to regret that he
retired from the service. Had he waited patiently, perhaps a bit of
good fortune might have fallen likewise to his lot. This idea takes
possession of him, and during the remainder of the day he is taciturn
and morose. His wife notices the change, and knows the reason of it, but
has too much good sense and tact to make any allusion to the subject.
Anna Alexandrovna--as the good lady is called--is an elderly dame
who does not at all resemble the wife of Ivan Ivan'itch. She was long
accustomed to a numerous military society, with dinner-parties, dancing,
promenades, card-playing, and all the other amusements of garrison life,
and she never contracted a taste for domestic concerns. Her knowledge of
culinary affairs is extremely vague, and she has no idea of how to
make preserves, nalivka, and other home-made delicacies, though Maria
Petrovna, who is universally acknowledged to be a great adept in such
matters, has proposed a hundred times to give her some choice recipes.
In short, domestic affairs are a burden to her, and she entrusts them
as far as possible to the housekeeper. Altogether she finds country life
very tiresome, but, possessing that placid, philosophical temperament
which seems to have some casual connection with corpulence, she submits
without murmuring, and tries to lighten a little the unavoidable
monotony by paying visits and receiving visitors. The neighbours within
a radius of twenty miles are, with few exceptions, more or less of
the Ivan Ivan'itch and Maria Petrovna type--decidedly rustic in their
manners and conceptions; but their company is better than absolute
solitude, and they have at least the good quality of being always able
and willing to play cards for any number of hours. Besides this, Anna
Alexandrovna has the satisfaction of feeling that amongst them she is
almost a great personage, and unquestionably an authority in all matters
of taste and fashion; and she feels specially well disposed towards
those of them who frequently address her as "Your Excellency."
The chief festivities take place on the "name-days" of the General and
his spouse--that is to say, the days sacred to St. Nicholas and
St. Anna. On these occasions all the neighbours come to offer their
congratulations, and remain to dinner as a matter of course. After
dinner the older visitors sit down to cards, and the young people
extemporise a dance. The fete is specially successful when the eldest
son comes home to take part in it, and brings a brother officer with
him. He is now a general like his father.* In days gone by one of his
comrades was expected to offer his hand to Olga Nekola'vna, the second
daughter, a delicate young lady who had been educated in one of the
great Instituts--gigantic boarding-schools, founded and kept up by the
Government, for the daughters of those who are supposed to have deserved
well of their country. Unfortunately the expected offer was never made,
and she and her sister live at home as old maids, bewailing the absence
of "civilised" society, and killing time in a harmless, elegant way by
means of music, needlework, and light literature.
* Generals are much more common in Russia than in other
countries. A few years ago there was an old lady in Moscow
who had a family of ten sons, all of whom were generals!
The rank may be obtained in the civil as well as the
military service.
At these "name-day" gatherings one used to meet still more interesting
specimens of the old school. One of them I remember particularly. He was
a tall, corpulent old man, in a threadbare frock-coat, which wrinkled
up about his waist. His shaggy eyebrows almost covered his small, dull
eyes, his heavy moustache partially concealed a large mouth strongly
indicating sensuous tendencies. His hair was cut so short that it was
difficult to say what its colour would be if it were allowed to grow.
He always arrived in his tarantass just in time for the zakuska--the
appetising collation that is served shortly before dinner--grunted out
a few congratulations to the host and hostess and monosyllabic greetings
to his acquaintances, ate a copious meal, and immediately afterwards
placed himself at a card-table, where he sat in silence as long as he
could get any one to play with him. People did not like, however, to
play with Andrei Vassil'itch, for his society was not agreeable, and he
always contrived to go home with a well-filled purse.
Andrei Vassil'itch was a noted man in the neighbourhood. He was the
centre of a whole cycle of legends, and I have often heard that his name
was used with effect by nurses to frighten naughty children. I never
missed an opportunity of meeting him, for I was curious to see and study
a legendary monster in the flesh. How far the numerous stories told
about him were true I cannot pretend to say, but they were certainly
not without foundation. In his youth he had served for some time in the
army, and was celebrated, even in an age when martinets had always a
good chance of promotion, for his brutality to his subordinates. His
career was cut short, however, when he had only the rank of captain.
Having compromised himself in some way, he found it advisable to send in
his resignation and retire to his estate. Here he organised his house on
Mahometan rather than Christian principles, and ruled his servants and
peasants as he had been accustomed to rule his soldiers--using corporal
punishment in merciless fashion. His wife did not venture to protest
against the Mahometan arrangements, and any peasant who stood in the way
of their realisation was at once given as a recruit, or transported to
Siberia, in accordance with his master's demand.* At last his tyranny
and extortion drove his serfs to revolt. One night his house was
surrounded and set on fire, but he contrived to escape the fate that was
prepared for him, and caused all who had taken part in the revolt to
be mercilessly punished. This was a severe lesson, but it had no effect
upon him. Taking precautions against a similar surprise, he continued
to tyrannise and extort as before, until in 1861 the serfs were
emancipated, and his authority came to an end.
* When a proprietor considered any of his serfs unruly he
could, according to law, have them transported to Siberia
without trial, on condition of paying the expenses of
transport. Arrived at their destination, they received
land, and lived as free colonists, with the single
restriction that they were not allowed to leave the locality
where they settled.
A very different sort of man was Pavel Trophim'itch, who likewise came
regularly to pay his respects and present his congratulations to the
General and "Gheneralsha."* It was pleasant to turn from the hard,
wrinkled, morose features of the legendary monster to the soft, smooth,
jovial face of this man, who had been accustomed to look at the bright
side of things, till his face had caught something of their brightness.
"A good, jovial, honest face!" a stranger might exclaim as he looked at
him. Knowing something of his character and history, I could not endorse
such an opinion. Jovial he certainly was, for few men were more capable
of making and enjoying mirth. Good he might be also called, if the word
were taken in the sense of good-natured, for he never took offence,
and was always ready to do a kindly action if it did not cost him any
trouble. But as to his honesty, that required some qualification. Wholly
untarnished his reputation certainly could not be, for he had been a
judge in the District Court before the time of the judicial reforms;
and, not being a Cato, he had succumbed to the usual temptations. He had
never studied law, and made no pretensions to the possession of great
legal knowledge. To all who would listen to him he declared openly
that he knew much more about pointers and setters than about legal
formalities. But his estate was very small, and he could not afford to
give up his appointment.
* The female form of the word General.
Of these unreformed Courts, which are happily among the things of the
past, I shall have occasion to speak in the sequel. For the present I
wish merely to say that they were thoroughly corrupt, and I hasten to
add that Pavel Trophim'itch was by no means a judge of the worst kind.
He had been known to protect widows and orphans against those who wished
to despoil them, and no amount of money would induce him to give an
unjust decision against a friend who had privately explained the case to
him; but when he knew nothing of the case or of the parties he readily
signed the decision prepared by the secretary, and quietly pocketed the
proceeds, without feeling any very disagreeable twinges of conscience.
All judges, he knew, did likewise, and he had no pretension to being
better than his fellows.
When Pavel Trophim'itch played cards at the General's house or
elsewhere, a small, awkward, clean-shaven man, with dark eyes and a
Tartar cast of countenance, might generally be seen sitting at the same
table. His name was Alexei Petrovitch T----. Whether he really had any
Tartar blood in him it is impossible to say, but certainly his ancestors
for one or two generations were all good orthodox Christians. His father
had been a poor military surgeon in a marching regiment, and he himself
had become at an early age a scribe in one of the bureaux of the
district town. He was then very poor, and had great difficulty in
supporting life on the miserable pittance which he received as a salary;
but he was a sharp, clever youth, and soon discovered that even a scribe
had a great many opportunities of extorting money from the ignorant
public.
These opportunities Alexei Petrovitch used with great ability,
and became known as one of the most accomplished bribe-takers
(vzyatotchniki) in the district. His position, however, was so very
subordinate that he would never have become rich had he not fallen upon
a very ingenious expedient which completely succeeded. Hearing that a
small proprietor, who had an only daughter, had come to live in the town
for a few weeks, he took a room in the inn where the newcomers lived,
and when he had made their acquaintance he fell dangerously ill. Feeling
his last hours approaching, he sent for a priest, confided to him that
he had amassed a large fortune, and requested that a will should be
drawn up. In the will he bequeathed large sums to all his relations, and
a considerable sum to the parish church. The whole affair was to be kept
a secret till after his death, but his neighbour--the old gentleman with
the daughter--was called in to act as a witness. When all this had been
done he did not die, but rapidly recovered, and now induced the old
gentleman to whom he had confided his secret to grant him his daughter's
hand. The daughter had no objections to marry a man possessed of such
wealth, and the marriage was duly celebrated. Shortly after this the
father died--without discovering, it is to be hoped, the hoax that had
been perpetrated--and Alexei Petrovitch became virtual possessor of
a very comfortable little estate. With the change in his fortunes he
completely changed his principles, or at least his practice. In all his
dealings he was strictly honest. He lent money, it is true, at from ten
to fifteen per cent., but that was considered in these parts not a very
exorbitant rate of interest, nor was he unnecessarily hard upon his
debtors.
It may seem strange that an honourable man like the General should
receive in his house such a motley company, comprising men of decidedly
tarnished reputation; but in this respect he was not at all peculiar.
One constantly meets in Russian society persons who are known to
have been guilty of flagrant dishonesty, and we find that men who are
themselves honourable enough associate with them on friendly terms. This
social leniency, moral laxity, or whatever else it may be called, is the
result of various causes. Several concurrent influences have tended to
lower the moral standard of the Noblesse. Formerly, when the noble lived
on his estate, he could play with impunity the petty tyrant, and could
freely indulge his legitimate and illegitimate caprices without any
legal or moral restraint. I do not at all mean to assert that all
proprietors abused their authority, but I venture to say that no class
of men can long possess such enormous arbitrary power over those around
them without being thereby more or less demoralised. When the noble
entered the service he had not the same immunity from restraint--on
the contrary, his position resembled rather that of the serf--but he
breathed an atmosphere of peculation and jobbery, little conducive to
moral purity and uprightness. If an official had refused to associate
with those who were tainted with the prevailing vices, he would have
found himself completely isolated, and would have been ridiculed as a
modern Don Quixote. Add to this that all classes of the Russian people
have a certain kindly, apathetic good-nature which makes them very
charitable towards their neighbours, and that they do not always
distinguish between forgiving private injury and excusing public
delinquencies. If we bear all this in mind, we may readily understand
that in the time of serfage and maladministration a man could be
guilty of very reprehensible practises without incurring social
excommunication.
During the period of moral awakening, after the Crimean War and the
death of Nicholas I., society revelled in virtuous indignation against
the prevailing abuses, and placed on the pillory the most prominent
delinquents; but the intensity of the moral feeling has declined, and
something of the old apathy has returned. This might have been predicted
by any one well acquainted with the character and past history of the
Russian people. Russia advances on the road of progress, not in that
smooth, gradual, prosaic way to which we are accustomed, but by a series
of unconnected, frantic efforts, each of which is naturally followed by
a period of temporary exhaustion.