Sitting opposite me in the second-class carriage of the express train
which was crawling at a leisurely pace from Moscow to the south was a
little girl who looked as if she were about twelve years old, with her
mother. The mother was a large fair-haired person, with a good-natured
expression. They had a dog with them, and the little girl, whose whole
face twitched every now and then from St. Vitus’ dance, got out at
nearly every station to buy food for the dog. On the same side of the
carriage, in the opposite corner, another lady (thin, fair, and wearing
a pince-nez) was reading the newspaper. She and the mother of the child
soon made friends over the dog. That is to say, the dog made friends
with the strange lady and was reproved by its mistress, and the strange
lady said: “Please don’t scold him. He is not in the least in my way,
and I like dogs.” They then began to talk.
The large lady was going to the country. She and her daughter had been
ordered to go there by the doctor. She had spent six weeks in Moscow
under medical treatment, and they had now been told to finish this cure
with a thorough rest in the country air. The thin lady asked her the
name of her doctor, and before ascertaining what was the disease in
question, recommended another doctor who had cured a friend of hers,
almost as though by miracle, of heart disease. The large lady seemed
interested and wrote down the direction of the marvellous physician.
She was herself suffering, she said, from a nervous illness, and her
daughter had St. Vitus’ dance. They were so far quite satisfied with
their doctor. They talked for some time exclusively about medical
matters, comparing notes about doctors, diseases, and remedies. The thin
lady said she had been cured of all her ills by aspirin and cinnamon.
In the course of the conversation the stout lady mentioned her husband,
who, it turned out, was the head of the gendarmerie in a town in
Siberia, not far from Irkutsk. This seemed to interest the thin lady
immensely. She at once asked what were his political views, and what she
herself thought about politics.
The large lady seemed to be reluctant to talk politics and evaded the
questions for some time, but after much desultory conversation, which
always came back to the same point, she said:--
“My husband is a Conservative; they call him a ‘Black Hundred,’ but it’s
most unfair and untrue, because he is a very good man and very just.
He has his own opinions and he is sincere. He does not believe in the
revolution or in the revolutionaries. He took the oath to serve the
Emperor when everything went quietly and well, and now, although I have
often begged him to leave the Service, he says it would be very wrong
to leave just because it is dangerous. ‘I have taken the oath,’ he says,
‘and I must keep it.’”
Here she stopped, but after some further questions on the part of the
thin lady, she said: “I never had time or leisure to think of these
questions. I was married when I was sixteen. I have had eight children,
and they all died one after the other except this one, who was the
eldest. I used to see political exiles and prisoners, and I used to
feel sympathy for them. I used to hear about people being sent here and
there, and sometimes I used to go down on my knees to my husband to
do what he could for them, but I never thought about there being any
particular idea at the back of all this.” Then after a short pause she
added: “It first dawned on me at Moscow. It was after the big strike,
and I was on my way home. I had been staying with some friends in the
country, and I happened by chance to see the funeral of that man Bauman,
the doctor, who was killed. I was very much impressed when I saw that
huge procession go past, all the men singing the funeral march, and
I understood that Bauman himself had nothing to do with it. Who cared
about Bauman? But I understood that he was a symbol. I saw that there
must be a big idea which moves all these people to give up everything,
to go to prison, to kill, and be killed. I understood this for the first
time at that funeral. I cried when the crowd went past. I understood
there was a big idea, a great cause behind it all. Then I went home.
“There were disorders in Siberia: you know in Siberia we are much freer
than you are. There is only one society. The officials, the political
people, revolutionaries, exiles, everybody, in fact, all meet
constantly. I used to go to political meetings, and to see and talk with
the Liberal and revolutionary leaders. Then I began to be disappointed
because what had always struck me as unjust was that one man, just
because he happened to be, say, Ivan Pavlovitch, should be able to rule
over another man who happened to be, say, Ivan Ivanovitch. And now
that these Republics were being made, it seemed that the same thing was
beginning all over again--that all the places of authority were being
seized and dealt out amongst another lot of people who were behaving
exactly like those who had authority before. The arbitrary authority was
there just the same, only it had changed hands, and this puzzled me very
much, and I began to ask myself, ‘Where is the truth?’”
“What did your husband think?” asked the thin lady.
“My husband did not like to talk about these things,” she answered. “He
says, ‘I am in the Service, and I have to serve. It is not my business
to have opinions.’”
“But all those Republics didn’t last very long,” rejoined the thin lady.
“No,” continued the other; “we never had a Republic, and after a time
they arrested the chief agitator, who was the soul of the revolutionary
movement in our town, a wonderful orator. I had heard him speak several
times and been carried away. When he was arrested I saw him taken to
prison, and he said ‘Good-bye’ to the people, and bowed to them in the
street in such an exaggerated theatrical way that I was astonished and
felt uncomfortable. Here, I thought, is a man who can sacrifice himself
for an idea, and who seemed to be thoroughly sincere, and yet he behaves
theatrically and poses as if he were not sincere. I felt more puzzled
than ever, and I asked my husband to let me go and see him in prison. I
thought that perhaps after talking to him I could solve the riddle, and
find out once for all who was right and who was wrong. My husband let me
go, and I was admitted into his cell.
“‘You know who I am,’ I said, ‘since I am here, and I am admitted
inside these locked doors?’ He nodded. Then I asked him whether I could
be of any use to him. He said that he had all that he wanted; and like
this the ice was broken, and I asked him presently if he believed in
the whole movement. He said that until the 17th of October, when the
Manifesto had been issued, he had believed with all his soul in it; but
the events of the last months had caused him to change his mind. He now
thought that the work of his party, and, in fact, the whole movement,
which had been going on for over fifty years, had really been in vain.
‘We shall have,’ he said, ‘to begin again from the very beginning,
because the Russian people are not ready for us yet, and probably
another fifty years will have to go by before they are ready.’
“I left him very much perplexed. He was set free not long afterwards, in
virtue of some manifesto, and because there had been no disorders in our
town and he had not been the cause of any bloodshed. Soon after he came
out of prison my husband met him, and he said to my husband: ‘I suppose
you will not shake hands with me?’ And my husband replied: ‘Because
our views are different there is no reason why both of us should not be
honest men,’ and he shook hands with him.”
The conversation now became a discussion about the various ideals of
various people and parties holding different political views. The large
lady kept on expressing the puzzled state of mind in which she was.
The whole conversation, of which I have given a very condensed report,
was spread over a long time, and often interrupted. Later they reached
the subject of political assassination, and the large lady said:--
“About two months after I came home that year, one day when I was out
driving with my daughter in a sledge the revolutionaries fired six shots
at us from revolvers. We were not hit, but one bullet went through the
coachman’s cap. Ever since then I have had nervous fits and my daughter
has had St. Vitus’ dance. We have to go to Moscow every year to be
treated. And it is so difficult. I don’t know how to manage. When I am
at home I feel as if I ought to go, and when I am away I never have a
moment’s peace, because I cannot help thinking the whole time that my
husband is in danger. A few weeks after they shot at us I met some of
the revolutionary party at a meeting, and I asked them why they had shot
at myself and my daughter. I could have understood it if they had shot
at my husband. But why at us? He said: ‘When the wood is cut down, the
chips fly about.’[*] And now I don’t know what to think about it all.
[*] A Russian proverb.
“Sometimes I think it is all a mistake, and I feel that the
revolutionaries are posing and playing a part, and that so soon as they
get the upper hand they will be as bad as what we have now; and then
I say to myself, all the same they are acting in a cause, and it is a
great cause, and they are working for liberty and for the people. And,
then, would the people be better off if they had their way? The more I
think of it the more puzzled I am. Who is right? Is my husband right?
Are they right? Is it a great cause? How can they be wrong if they are
imprisoned and killed for what they believe? Where is the truth, and
what is truth?”