VI

The school years of a Russian youth are so very different from what

they are in West European schools that I must dwell upon my school

life. Russian youths, as a rule, while they are yet at a lyceum or

in a military school, already take an interest in a wide circle of

social, political, and philosophical matters. It is true that the corps

of pages was, of all schools, the least congenial medium for such a

development; but in those years of general revival, broader ideas

penetrated even into our midst and carried some of us away, without,

however, preventing us from taking a very lively part in ‘benefit

nights’ and all sorts of frolics.

While I was in the fourth form I took an interest in history, and

with the aid of notes made during the lessons--I knew that university

students do it that way--and helping myself with reading, I wrote

quite a course of early mediæval history for my own use. Next year the

struggle between Pope Boniface VIII. and the Imperial power attracted

my special attention, and now it became my ambition to gain admission

to the Imperial library as a reader, in order thoroughly to study that

great struggle. This was contrary to the rules of the library, pupils

of secondary schools not being admitted; our good Herr Becker, however,

smoothed the way out of the difficulty, and I was allowed one day to

enter the sanctuary and to take a seat at one of the readers’ small

tables, on one of the red velvet sofas with which the reading-room was

then furnished.

From various text-books and some books from our own library, I soon

got to the sources. Knowing no Latin, I discovered nevertheless

a rich supply of original sources in Old Teutonic and Old French,

and found an immense æsthetic enjoyment in the quaint structure and

expressiveness of the latter in the Chronicles. Quite a new structure

of society and quite a world of complicated relations opened before me;

and from that time I learned to value far more the original sources of

history than works in which it is generalized in accordance with modern

views--the prejudices of modern politics, or even mere current formulæ

being substituted for the real life of the period. Nothing gives more

impetus to one’s intellectual development than some sort of independent

research, and these studies of mine immensely helped me afterwards.

Unhappily, I had to abandon them when we reached the second form (the

last but one). The pages had to study during the last two years nearly

all that was taught in other military schools in three ‘special’ forms,

and we had an immense amount of work to do for the school. Natural

sciences, mathematics, and military sciences necessarily relegated

history to the background.

* * * * *

In the second form we began seriously to study physics. We had an

excellent teacher--a very intelligent man with a sarcastic turn of

mind, who hated learning from memory, and managed to make us _think_

instead of merely learning facts. He was a good mathematician, and

taught us physics on a mathematical basis, admirably explaining at

the same time the leading ideas of physical research and physical

apparatus. Some of his questions were so original and his explanations

so good that they have engraved themselves for ever on my memory.

Our text-book of physics was pretty good (most text-books for the

military schools had been written by the best men at the time), but

it was rather old, and our teacher, who followed his own system in

teaching, began to prepare a short summary of his lessons--a sort of

_aide-mémoire_--for the use of our form. However, after a few weeks it

so happened that the task of writing this summary fell upon me, and our

teacher, acting as a true pedagogist, trusted it entirely to me, only

reading the proofs. When we came to the chapters of heat, electricity,

and magnetism, they had to be written entirely anew, and this I did,

thus preparing a nearly complete text-book of physics, which was

printed for the use of the school.

In the second form we also began to study chemistry, and we also

had a first-rate teacher--a passionate lover of the subject who had

himself made valuable original researches. The years 1859-61 were

years of a universal revival of taste in the exact sciences: Grove,

Clausius, Joule, and Séguin showed that heat and all physical forces

are but divers modes of motion; Helmholtz began about that time his

epoch-making researches in sound; and Tyndall, in his popular lectures,

made one touch, so to say, the very atoms and molecules. Gerhardt and

Avogadro introduced the theory of substitutions, and Mendeléoff, Lothar

Meyer, and Newlands discovered the periodical law of elements; Darwin,

with his ‘Origin of Species,’ revolutionized all biological sciences;

while Karl Vogt and Moleschott, following Claude Bernard, laid the

foundations of true psychology in physiology. It was a great time of

scientific revival, and the current which directed men’s minds towards

natural science was irresistible. Numbers of excellent books were

published at that time in Russian translations, and I soon understood

that whatever one’s subsequent studies might be, a thorough knowledge

of the natural sciences and familiarity with their methods must lie at

the foundation.

Five or six of us joined together to get some sort of laboratory for

ourselves. With the elementary apparatus recommended for beginners in

Stöckhardt’s excellent text-book we started our laboratory in a small

bedroom of two of our comrades, the brothers Zasétsky. Their father,

an old retired admiral, was delighted to see his sons engaged in so

useful a pursuit, and did not object to our coming together on Sundays

and during the holidays in that room by the side of his own study. With

Stöckhardt’s book as a guide, we systematically made all experiments.

I must say that once we nearly set the house on fire, and that more

than once we poisoned all the rooms with chlorine and similar stuffs.

But the old admiral, when we related the adventure at dinner time, took

it very nicely, and told us how he and his comrades also nearly set a

house on fire in the far less useful pursuit of punch making; while the

mother only said, amidst her paroxysms of coughing: ‘Of course, if it

_is_ necessary for your learning to handle such nasty smelling things,

then there’s nothing to be done!’

After dinner she usually took her seat at the piano, and till late at

night we would go on singing duos, trios, and choruses from the operas.

Or else we would take the score of some Italian or Russian opera and

go through it from the beginning to the end, recitatives and all--the

mother and her daughter taking the parts of the _prime donne_, while we

managed more or rather less successfully to maintain all other parts.

Chemistry and music thus went hand in hand.

* * * * *

Higher mathematics also absorbed a great deal of my time. Four or

five of us had already decided that we should not enter a regiment of

the Guards, where all our time would be given to military drill and

parades, and we intended to enter, after promotion, one of the military

academies--artillery or engineering. In order to do so we had to

prepare in higher geometry, the differential and the beginnings of the

integral calculus, and we took private lessons for that purpose. At the

same time, elementary astronomy being taught to us under the name of

mathematical geography, I plunged into astronomical reading, especially

during the last year of my stay at school. The never-ceasing life of

the universe, which I conceived as _life_ and evolution, became for me

an inexhaustible source of higher poetical thought, and gradually the

sense of man’s oneness with Nature, both animate and inanimate--the

poetry of Nature--became the philosophy of my life.

If the teaching in our school were only limited to the subjects I have

mentioned, our time would already be pretty well occupied. But we also

had to study in the domain of humanitarian science, history, law (that

is, the main outlines of the Russian Code), and political economy in

its essential leading principles, including a course of comparative

statistics; and we had to master formidable courses of military

sciences: tactics, military history (the campaigns of 1812 and 1815 in

all their details), artillery, and field fortification. Looking now

back upon this education I think that apart from the subjects relative

to military warfare, which might have been advantageously substituted

by more detailed studies in the exact sciences, the variety of subjects

which we were taught was not beyond the capacities of the average

youth. Owing to a pretty good knowledge of elementary mathematics

and physics, which we gained in the lower forms, nearly all of us

managed to master all these subjects. Some subjects were neglected by

most of us, especially law, as also modern history, for which we had

unfortunately an old wreck of a master who was only kept at his post in

order to give him his full old age pension. Moreover, some latitude was

given to us in the choice of the subjects we liked best, and, while we

underwent severe examinations in these chosen subjects, we were treated

rather leniently in the remainder. But the chief cause of the relative

success which was obtained in the school was that the teaching was

rendered as concrete as possible. As soon as we had learned elementary

geometry on paper, we re-learned it in the field with poles and the

surveyor’s chain, and next with the astrolabe, the compass, and the

surveyor’s table. After such a concrete training, elementary astronomy

offered no difficulties, while the surveys themselves were an endless

source of enjoyment.

The same system of concrete teaching was applied to fortification. In

the winter we solved such problems as, for instance, the following:

‘Having a thousand men and a fortnight at your disposal, build the

strongest fortification you can build to protect that bridge for a

retreating army;’ and we hotly discussed our schemes with the teacher

when he criticized them. In the summer we applied that knowledge in the

field. To these practical and concrete exercises I entirely attribute

the easiness with which most of us mastered such a variety of subjects

at the age of seventeen and eighteen.

With all that, we had plenty of time for amusement. Our best time was

when the examinations were over, and we had three or four weeks quite

free before going to camp; or when we returned from the camp, and had

another three weeks free before the beginning of the lessons. The

few of us who remained then in the school were allowed, during the

vacations, to go out just as we liked, always finding bed and food

at the school. I worked then in the library, or visited the picture

galleries of the Hermitage, studying one by one all the best pictures

of each school separately; or I went to the different Crown factories

and works of playing cards, cottons, iron, china and glass, which

are open to the public. Or we went out rowing on the Nevá, spending

the whole night on the river, sometimes in the Gulf of Finland with

fishermen--a melancholy northern night, during which the morning dawn

meets the afterglow of the setting sun, and a book can be read in the

open air at midnight. For all this we found plenty of time.

Since those visits to the factories I took a liking to strong and

perfect machinery. Seeing how a gigantic paw, coming out of a shanty,

grasps a log floating in the Nevá, pulls it inside, and puts it under

the saws which cut it into boards; or how a huge red-hot iron bar is

transformed into a rail after it has passed between two cylinders, I

understood the poetry of machinery. In our present factories, machinery

work is killing for the worker, because he becomes a lifelong servant

to a given machine and never is anything else. But this is a matter

of bad organization, and has nothing to do with the machine itself.

Over-work and lifelong monotony are equally bad whether the work is

done with the hand, with plain tools, or with a machine. But, apart

from these, I fully understand the pleasure that man can derive

from the consciousness of the might of his machine, the intelligent

character of its work, the gracefulness of its movements, and the

correctness of what it is doing, and I think that William Morris’s

hatred of machines only proved that the conception of the machine’s

power and gracefulness was missing in his great poetical genius.

Music also played a very great part in my development. From it I

borrowed even greater joys and enthusiasm than from poetry. The Russian

opera hardly existed in those times; but the Italian opera, which had

a number of first-rate stars in it, was the most popular institution

at St. Petersburg. When the _prima donna_ Bósio fell ill, thousands

of people, chiefly of the youth, stood till late at night at the door

of her hotel to get news of her. She was not beautiful, but was so

much so when she sang that young men madly in love with her could be

counted by the hundred; and when she died she had a burial which no

one before had ever had at St. Petersburg. ‘All Petersburg’ was then

divided into two camps: the admirers of the Italian opera and those of

the French stage, which already then was showing in germ the putrid

Offenbachian current which a few years later infected all Europe. Our

form was also divided, half and half, between these two currents, and

I belonged to the former. We were not permitted to go to the pit or to

the balcony, while all the boxes in the Italian opera were always taken

months in advance by subscription, and even transmitted in certain

families as an hereditary possession. But we gained admission, on

Saturday nights, to the passages in the uppermost gallery, and had to

stand there on our legs in a Turkish bath atmosphere; while to conceal

our showy uniforms we used to wear, in that Turkish bath, our black

overcoats, lined with wadding and with a fur collar, tightly buttoned.

It is a wonder that none of us got pneumonia in this way, especially

as we came out overheated with the ovations which we used to make to

our favourite singers, and stood afterwards at the stage door to catch

once more a glimpse of our favourites, and to cheer them. The Italian

opera in those years was in some strange way intimately connected with

the Radical movement, and the revolutionary recitatives in ‘Wilhelm

Tell’ and ‘The Puritans’ were always met with stormy applause and

vociferations which went straight to the heart of Alexander II.;

while in the sixth story galleries, in the smoking-room of the opera,

and at the stage door the best part of the St. Petersburg youth came

together in a common idealist worship of a noble art. All this may seem

childish; but many higher ideas and pure inspirations were kindled in

us by this worship of our favourite artists.