GENERAL JANUARY, THE CONQUEROR
After Napoleon Bonaparte’s defeated legions had fled from Russia to
freeze and starve and die by thousands in a frenzied attempt to get
back to France, the victorious commander of the Russian army said that
his two greatest aides had been General January and General February.
The relentless cold and storm of a Russian winter were foes too strong
for Bonaparte to conquer. They sent him to St. Helena, and the same
strong foes this winter are going to rout and banish the Bolsheviki.
The Russian revolution began with a bread riot and it will culminate
in a bread riot. When the people of Russia get hungry enough, they
are going to stop talking about “no annexations or contributions,”
“all the power to the soviets,” and the rest, and demand a government
that shall govern, and as soon as possible put the country back on a
normal basis. When the thermometer falls to 45 degrees below zero, and
a fifty-miles-an-hour wind is driving sleet and snow in their faces,
people can no longer stand twenty-four hours in line to buy food for
their children. Especially when their clothes are thin and worn and
their boots are dropping off their feet.
I have told something about the food situation in Russia. The clothing
situation and the fuel situation are, if anything, worse. If you want
to buy a pair of shoes in Petrograd you must take two days to do it
and you must put much money in your purse. There is an American shoe
store on the Nevsky Prospect and every day the line of people trying
to get in and buy shoes was so great that it blocked traffic and the
city authorities finally had to close the street entrance. The line now
forms in a court or lane in the rear of the store and the customers are
admitted, a few at a time, through the back door. This American shoe
store is very popular because the shoes are of excellent quality and
the prices are regarded as reasonable. A woman can buy a pair of boots
there as low as $25. Men’s shoes are somewhat dearer. But the stock was
running low when I was there in the summer, and when it gives out I
don’t see how they are going to replenish it. On a corner of the Grand
Morskaia there was another shoe store, in front of which a crowd stood
all day long and all night. The queue extended around the corner, and
I have seen it when it stretched to the Moika canal a very long block
away. This is a store where cheaper shoes were sold. It represented an
attempt on the part of one of the fleeting ministries to relieve the
shoe shortage. Large quantities of shoes and leather were purchased and
were then being distributed through authorized channels in the shop on
the Morskaia.
In order to buy a pair of those shoes a man or a woman went there
and got a place in line. Each stood in line until his or her turn
came to be admitted to the shop, a long and weary business. When he
gained admission to the shop and the clerk got around to waiting on
him he received--a pair of shoes? Not a bit of it. He got a ticket
with a number on it. The ticket entitled the customer to come back at
some future date, stand in line and claim a pair of shoes which were
probably at the time being made--provided he could afford to pay a
minimum of ten dollars for them.
When I was in Poland with the women soldiers, the Botchkareva Battalion
of Death, the regiment was delayed in its further progress toward the
fighting line by a dearth of boots in which to march. About half the
women soldiers received boots along with their other equipment before
they left Petrograd, but the other half wore, with their khaki uniform,
the women’s shoes, often worn and tattered, in which they had enlisted.
One day there was great rejoicing in the barrack. The boots had come,
and the rest of the afternoon was spent in sorting out from the pile
a pair to fit each girl. I was interested in those boots, for they
were mute but eloquent witnesses of the poverty of life in Russia. Not
a pair was new. They were all second-hand, remade and mended boots,
and I strongly suspect that most of them had been taken off the feet
of dead soldiers. They had, in many cases, new feet or new soles, but
the majority of them were merely mended and patched. Coarse, stiff,
malodorous and badly put together as these were, the girls were only
too glad to get them. The Adjutant, Skridlova, and one or two of the
well-to-do soldiers had their boots made to order, and they paid ninety
dollars a pair for them. Seventy-five dollars for a pair of women’s
boots is not an unheard-of price.
What is true of boots and shoes is true of almost every other clothing
commodity. I ran out of gloves while I was in Russia, but, after
hearing what gloves cost in Petrograd, I went without. You could get
cotton gloves as low as a dollar and eighty cents a pair. They were
ugly and shapeless, but people bought and wore them. If you wanted a
pair of kid gloves and you knew where you could find them and had time,
you could buy them for three to five dollars. They were the kind that
an American department store might put on a table in the center aisle
and sell for fifty cents to attract customers in the dull season. A man
pays a dollar for a fifteen-cent collar in Petrograd. He pays several
dollars for a decent pair of socks. What he pays for a suit of clothes
staggers the imagination. There are only two things that are cheap
to buy in Russia just now: cats and dogs. You can buy a magnificent
wolfhound or other thoroughbred dog, or a pure bred Persian or Angora
cat for a song in Petrograd, because people can’t afford to feed pet
animals. Mr. Basil Miles, attached to the Root mission, took home with
him two Russian wolfhounds that are going to make him the most envied
man in the next dog show in his town, and the song he sang to get them
was too short to mention.
Russia is a very cold country and almost every one, rich and poor
alike, wears furs. The rich wear sable, mink and ermine, and the poor
wear rabbit and sheep skin. But furs just now are as difficult to buy
as other clothing indispensables. There are several special reasons for
this shortage of fur in a fur country. There are not so many people
hunting furs since the war, and the pelts are scarcer; and besides,
the Russians have never cured and dyed their own furs. They sent them
to Germany to be prepared for market, and, of course, the war put
a stop to that. Aside from these special reasons, the fur shortage
and all the food, clothing and other shortages are caused by two
main obstacles. There is plenty of food in the empire, plenty of raw
materials for clothing. But the transportation system has almost broken
down and they cannot distribute food or raiment. Also the factory
system has all but broken down, and they cannot produce the clothing.
There are besides minor and contributory obstacles, some of which I
shall describe. The main reason why Russia will starve and freeze this
winter is because the people of Russia have allowed their railroad
system to go to pieces, and because they have, to an almost incredible
extent, ceased to do any work.
I cannot speak as an expert about the railroad situation, nor would
mere figures and statistics give the reader any adequate picture of the
railroad demoralization. To say that on May 15, 1917, the then Minister
of Ways and Communications reported to the Duma that more than 25 per
cent. of the total number of locomotives in the empire were laid up for
repairs wouldn’t begin to express the thing. The average reader does
not know that 5 per cent. of “sick” locomotives is considered high by
competent railroad managers. I might go further and say that the number
of freight cars loaded from May 15 to May 31, 1917, was 87,000 poods
less than the number loaded between those dates in 1916, but that
would not mean much. Few outside of Russia know what a pood is. As a
matter of fact it is thirty-six pounds. But figures cannot adequately
describe the situation.
What told the tale of railroad demoralization to me was the constant
anxiety I heard voiced on all sides by people trying to buy their
winter stock of wood and coal. There is an endless quantity of wood in
Russia. Great forests of pine and cedar and birch--beautiful forests.
I had often marveled at them from the windows of my railway carriage
passing through Finland and the country between Petrograd and Moscow.
Plenty of this wood has been cut. I saw thousands and thousands of
cords of it piled up along the railroad tracks, and of course there
must have been much more elsewhere. Petrograd is built on a marsh and
the ground is drained by picturesque if rather badly smelling canals
which run through the city and empty into the Neva. Down one of the
widest of these--the Moika, which I crossed every day--a constant
line of barges, loaded with wood, floated slowly, drawn by horses and
sometimes by men walking along a towpath beside the canal. I used to
watch those bargeloads of wood and wonder why, with such an almost
unparalleled means of distributing wood after it got there, the people
of Petrograd should be troubled about the winter fuel supply. Not
nearly enough of it was getting there last summer; that was all. The
quantity that floated down the Moika and the other canals and got
stacked up in woodyards and in the courtyards of apartment houses,
hotels, hospitals, factories and even palaces, was not half the normal
quantity. There weren’t enough flat cars and locomotives running to get
the wood as far as the city limits.
I tried the experiment of keeping house with the wife of the _Outlook_
correspondent after he left Russia on a mission. We had a charming
little apartment offered us rent free, with a maid thrown in, if we
would live in it and keep it from being looted. Every one who knew a
Cossack or other reliable soldier, or an American, did that when they
went to the country from Petrograd. We gave up housekeeping after a
week and went back to hotels, partly because the maid could not get
us enough to eat, and partly because we never had any hot water. The
landlord of the apartment house had cut off the wood. He said that
he couldn’t get wood enough to warm the house next winter, much less
provide warm baths for the tenants in summer.
The railroad situation was visualized for me on a dreadful two days and
nights’ journey I took on a Russian railroad last July. Miss Beatty, of
the San Francisco _Bulletin_, was with me, and the train was so small
and so crowded that the only berth we could get was an upper one three
feet wide. The two of us slept in that berth, Miss Beatty’s head one
way and mine the other. Every time the train struck a rough place on
the rails the _Bulletin_ came near losing its star reporter, for she
had the outside, just above an open window. That railway carriage could
have seated, by close crowding, eleven passengers. On the last night
of the journey twenty-five people were packed into it. They took turns
sitting down.
Every railroad train you get on is about as crowded as that, and one
of the most difficult things to buy at present is a railroad ticket.
To buy one you usually have to bribe the ticket agent or the hotel
manager. You go to the office of the International Wagons-Lits and tell
them that you want to go to Moscow or Kazan. You want to go to-morrow
or in three days, some near date. The clerk shakes his head. “I might
be able to get you a ticket and a berth in three days,” he will say.
“Of course, you will have to pay a supplement; say, sixty rubles.”
Pressed for particulars he will explain that some one will have to be
paid to stand in line for the ticket. I paid forty rubles extra to
Bennet’s, which is the Cook’s of Petrograd, for a ticket to Moscow,
and that was considered a bargain. When I wanted to return I asked
the hotel management in Moscow how much they would charge to send to
the station and get me a ticket, and they said one hundred rubles.
The ruble was then about thirty cents, so I would have had to pay, in
addition to the cost of the ticket, which had just been raised about 50
per cent., thirty dollars. I got the ticket in almost the only other
way possible. I acted as a courier carrying confidential papers from a
foreign consulate in Moscow to an embassy in Petrograd, and the consul
used his official influence to get me a ticket for the regular price
only.
On the 21st of July the Minister of Ways and Communications ordered a
reduction of 50 per cent. in the number of travelers passing between
Petrograd and Moscow, in view, he explained, of the shortage of fuel
and rolling stock. Soon it will be next to impossible to buy, for love
or money, a ticket or a sleeping berth between the two points in Russia.
This is nearly true now on the Trans-Siberian Railroad. Every Tuesday
evening at 8 o’clock the weekly express on that famous line leaves
the Nikolai station, Petrograd, and every berth is filled every week.
What those passengers paid extra for their tickets forms one of the
principal topics of conversation during the long trip over Siberia.
The passengers beguile the weary journey swapping experiences of how
they came to be there at all. I have known people who waited weeks
for a chance to pay the extortionate supplement. The Trans-Siberian
post train which leaves every night and makes stops along the way is a
sight to behold before it leaves. The people crowd the train platform
and fight for a place near the edge. As the train backs slowly into
the station shed, the travelers run to meet it, climb in the windows,
drag their women and children in, rush the platforms and fight like
tigers to get in the doors. The number of carriages to each train has
been reduced gradually until now the train is too short to hold the
travelers.
But didn’t we send a railroad commission to Russia, and didn’t the
papers say something about some 5,000 locomotives and 23,000 freight
cars sent to Vladivostock? We did send a railroad commission, headed
by John Stevens, of Panama canal fame, one of the greatest organizers
and executives in the United States. This commission has done good
work. It has shown the Russians how they could immediately increase
the efficiency of their railroads 60 per cent. We have sent many
locomotives and freight cars to Russia. Nevertheless the transportation
problem remains unsolved.