LANDMARKS IN RUSSIAN
LITERATURE
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
WITH THE RUSSIANS IN MANCHURIA
A YEAR IN RUSSIA
RUSSIAN ESSAYS AND STORIES
LANDMARKS IN
RUSSIAN LITERATURE
BY
MAURICE BARING
SECOND EDITION
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First Published_ _March 10th 1910_
_Second Edition_ _1910_
DEDICATED
TO
ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON
PREFACE
The chapters in this book on Tolstoy and Tourgeniev, and those on
Chekov and Gogol have appeared before. That on Tolstoy and Tourgeniev
in _The Quarterly Review_; those on Chekov and Gogol in _The New
Quarterly_; my thanks are due to the Editors and Proprietors concerned
for their kindness in allowing me to reprint these chapters here.
The chapter on Russian Characteristics appeared in _St. George’s
Magazine_; the rest of the book is new. In writing it I consulted,
besides many books and articles in the Russian language, the following:
The Works of Turgeniev. Translated by Constance Garnett. Fifteen vols.
London: Heinemann, 1906.
The Complete Works of Count Tolstoy. Translated and edited by Leo
Wiener. Twenty-four vols. London: Dent, 1904-5.
Le Roman Russe. By the Vicomte E. M. de Vogüé. Paris: Plon, 1897.
Tolstoy as Man and Artist: with an Essay on Dostoievski. By Dimitri
Merejkowski. London: Constable, 1902.[1]
Ivan Turgeniev: la Vie et l’Œuvre. By Émile Haumant. Paris: Armand
Colin, 1906.
The Life of Tolstoy. First Fifty Years. By Aylmer Maude. London:
Constable, 1908.
A Literary History of Russia. By Prof. A. Brückner. Edited by Ellis H.
Minns. Translated by H. Havelock. London and Leipsic: Fisher Unwin,
1908.
Realities and Ideals of Russian Literature. By Prince Kropotkin.
Russian Poetry and Progress. By Mrs. Newmarch. John Lane.
By far the best estimate of Tolstoy’s work I have come across in
England in the last few years was a brilliant article published in the
Literary Supplement of the _Times_, I think in 1907, which, it is to be
hoped, will be republished.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] This is an abridgment of a larger book by the author.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. RUSSIAN CHARACTERISTICS 1
II. REALISM OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE 17
III. GOGOL AND THE CHEERFULNESS OF THE
RUSSIAN PEOPLE 39
IV. TOLSTOY AND TOURGENIEV 77
V. THE PLACE OF TOURGENIEV 116
VI. DOSTOIEVSKY 125
VII. PLAYS OF ANTON TCHEKOV 263
INTRODUCTION
A book dealing with the literature of a foreign country appeals to
a double audience: the narrow circle of people who are intimately
familiar with that literature in its original tongue, and the large
public which is imperfectly acquainted even with translations of some
of its books. One of these audiences must necessarily be sacrificed.
For if you address yourself exclusively to the specialists, the larger
public will be but faintly interested; while if you have the larger
public in view alone, the narrower circle of those who are familiar
with the language will hear nothing from you which they do not already
know too well. In the case of a literature such as Russian, it is
obvious which audience has the claim to the greater consideration;
but while this book is addressed to those who are interested in but
not intimately familiar with Russian literature, I entertain the hope
that these essays may not prove entirely uninteresting to the closer
students of Russian. I have tried to make a compromise, and while
especially addressing myself to the majority, not to lose sight of the
minority altogether.
The standpoint from which I approach Russian literature is less that
of the scholar than of an admiring and sympathetic friend. I have
tried to understand what the Russians themselves think about their own
literature, and in some manner to reflect their point of view as it
struck me either in their books or in conversation with many men and
women of many classes throughout several years.
It has always seemed to me that there are two ways of writing about
a foreign literature: from the outside and from the inside. Take a
language like French, for instance, and the study of French poetry
in particular. Many English students of French poetry seem to me to
start from the point of view that although much French verse has many
excellent qualities, those qualities which are peculiarly French and
which the French themselves admire most are not worth admiring. Thus it
is that we have had many excellent critics telling us that although the
French poetry of the Renaissance is admirable and the French Romantic
epoch produced men of astounding genius, yet the poets of another sort,
whom the French set up on a permanent pinnacle as models of classic
perfection, such as Racine or La Fontaine, are not poets at all. Some
critics have even gone further, and have maintained that admirable as
the French language is as an instrument for writing prose, it cannot
properly be used as a vehicle for writing poetry, and that French
poetry cannot be considered as being in the same category or on the
same footing as the verse of other nations. This is what I call the
outside view, and I am not only not persuaded of its truth, but I am
convinced that it is false, for two reasons:--
First, because I cannot help thinking that the natives of a country
must be the best judges of their own tongue and of its literature,
and that foreign critics, however acute, may fail to appreciate
certain shades of meaning and sound which particularly appeal to the
native--for instance, I am sure it is more difficult for a foreigner
to appreciate the music of Milton’s diction than for an Englishman.
Secondly, since I learnt French at the same time as I learnt English,
and became familiar with French verse long before I was introduced to
the works of English poets, from my childhood up to the present day
French poetry has seemed to me to be just as beautiful as the poetry
of any other country, and the verse of Racine as musical as that of
Milton. I have, moreover, sometimes suspected that the severe sentences
I have seen passed on the French classics by English critics were
perhaps due to imperfect familiarity with the language in question, and
that it even seemed possible that in condemning French verse they were
ignorant of the French laws of metre and scansion; such ignorance would
certainly prove a serious obstacle to proper appreciation.
This digression is to make clear what I mean when I say that I have
tried to approach my subject from the inside; that is to say, I
have tried to put myself into the skin of a Russian, and to look at
the literature of Russia with his eyes, and then to explain to my
fellow-countrymen as clearly as possible what I have seen. I do not
say I have succeeded, but I have been greatly encouraged in the task
by having received appreciative thanks for my former efforts in this
direction from Russians who are, in my opinion, the only critics
competent to judge whether what I have written about their people and
their books hits the mark or not.
One of the great difficulties in writing studies of various Russian
writers is the paradoxical thread that runs through the Russian
character. Russia is the land of paradoxes. The Russian character and
temperament are baffling, owing to the paradoxical elements which are
found united in them. It is for this reason that a series of studies
dealing with different aspects of the Russian character often have
the appearance of being a series of contradictory statements. I have
therefore in the first chapter of this book stated what I consider to
be the chief paradoxical elements of the Russian character. It is the
conflicting nature of these elements which accounts for the seemingly
contradictory qualities that we meet with in Russian literature. For
instance, there is a passive element in the Russian nature; there
is also something unbridled, a spirit which breaks all bounds of
self-control and runs riot; and there is also a stubborn element, a
tough obstinacy. The result is that at one moment one is pointing out
the matter-of-fact side of the Russian genius which clings to the earth
and abhors extravagance; and at another time one is discoursing on the
passion certain Russian novelists have for making their characters
wallow in abstract discussions; or, again, the cheerfulness of Gogol
has to be reconciled with the “inspissated gloom” of certain other
writers. All this makes it easy for a critic to bring the charge of
inconsistency against a student whose object is to provide certain
side-lights on certain striking examples, rather than a comprehensive
view of the whole, a task which is beyond the scope and powers of the
present writer.
The student of Russian literature who wishes for a comprehensive view
of the whole of Russian literature and of its historic significance
and development, cannot do better than read Professor Brückner’s
solid and brilliant _Literary History of Russia_, which is admirably
translated into English.
The object of my book is to interest the reader in Russia and Russian
literature, and to enable him to make up his mind as to whether he
wishes to seek after a more intimate knowledge of the subject.
The authors whose work forms the subject of this book belong to the
period which began in the fifties and ended before the Russo-Japanese
War. The work of Tchekov represents the close of that epoch which
began with Gogol. After Tchekov the dawn of a new era was marked by
the startling advent of Maxim Gorky into Russian literature. Then came
the war, and with it a torrent of new writers, of new thoughts, of new
schools, of new theories of art. The most remarkable of these writers
is no doubt Andreev; but in order to discuss his work as well as that
of other writers who followed in his train, it would be necessary to
write another book. The student of Russian literature will notice that
I have omitted many Russian authors who are well known in the epoch
which I have chosen. I have omitted them for reasons which I have
already stated at the beginning of this Introduction, namely, that
there is not in England a large enough circle of readers interested
in Russian literature to the extent of wishing to read about its less
well-known writers. I think the authors I have chosen are typical of
the generations they represent, and I hope that this book may have
the effect of leading readers from books _about_ Russia and Russian
literature, to the country itself and its books, so that they may be
able to see with their own eyes and to correct the impressions which
they have received secondhand.
LANDMARKS IN RUSSIAN LITERATURE
CHAPTER I
RUSSIAN CHARACTERISTICS
The difficulty in explaining anything to do with Russia to an English
public is that confusion is likely to arise owing to the terms
used being misunderstood. For instance, if one describes a Russian
officer, a Russian bureaucrat, a Russian public servant, or a Russian
schoolmaster, the reader involuntarily makes a mental comparison with
corresponding people in his own country, or in other European countries
where he has travelled. He necessarily fails to remember that there
are certain vital differences between Russians and people of other
countries, which affect the whole question, and which make the Russian
totally different from the corresponding Englishman. I wish before
approaching the work of Russian writers, to sketch a few of the main
characteristics which lie at the root of the Russian temperament by
which Russian literature is profoundly affected.
The principal fact which has struck me with regard to the Russian
character, is a characteristic which was once summed up by Professor
Milioukov thus: “A Russian,” he said, “lacks the cement of hypocrisy.”
This cement, which plays so important a part in English public and
private life, is totally lacking in the Russian character. The Russian
character is plastic; the Russian can understand everything. You
can mould him any way you please. He is like wet clay, yielding and
malleable; he is passive; he bows his head and gives in before the
decrees of Fate and of Providence. At the same time, it would be a
mistake to say that this is altogether a sign of weakness. There is a
kind of toughness in the Russian character, an irreducible obstinacy
which makes for strength; otherwise the Russian Empire would not exist.
But where the want of the cement of hypocrisy is most noticeable, is
in the personal relations of Russians towards their fellow-creatures.
They do not in the least mind openly confessing things of which
people in other countries are ashamed; they do not mind admitting to
dishonesty, immorality, or cowardice, if they happen to feel that
they are saturated with these defects; and they feel that their
fellow-creatures will not think the worse of them on this account,
because they know that their fellow-creatures will understand. The
astounding indulgence of the Russians arises out of this infinite
capacity for understanding.
Another point: This absence of hypocrisy causes them to have an
impatience of cant and of convention. They will constantly say: “Why
not?” They will not recognise the necessity of drawing the line
somewhere, they will not accept as something binding the conventional
morality and the artificial rules of conduct which knit together our
society with a bond of steel. They may admit the expediency of social
laws, but they will never prate of the laws of any society being
divine; they will merely admit that they are convenient. Therefore,
if we go to the root of this matter, it comes to this: that the
Russians are more broadly and widely human than the people of other
European or Eastern countries, and, being more human, their capacity
of understanding is greater, for their extraordinary quickness of
apprehension comes from the heart rather than from the head. They are
the most humane and the most naturally kind of all the peoples of
Europe, or, to put it differently and perhaps more accurately, I should
say that there is more humanity and more kindness in Russia than in
any other European country. This may startle the reader; he may think
of the lurid accounts in the newspapers of massacres, brutal treatment
of prisoners, and various things of this kind, and be inclined to
doubt my statement. As long as the world exists there will always be
a certain amount of cruelty in the conduct of human beings. My point
is this: that there is less in Russia than in other countries, but the
trouble up to the last two years has been that all excesses of any kind
on the part of officials were unchecked and uncontrolled. Therefore, if
any man who had any authority over any other man happened to be brutal,
his brutality had a far wider scope and far richer opportunities than
that of a corresponding overseer in another country.
During the last three years Russia has been undergoing a violent
evolutionary process of change, what in other countries has been called
a revolution; but compared with similar phases in other countries,
and taking into consideration the size of the Russian Empire, and the
various nationalities which it contains, I maintain that the proportion
of excesses has been comparatively less. There are other factors in the
question which should also be borne in mind; firstly, that politically
Russia is about a century behind other European countries, and the
second is that Russians accept the fact that a man who does wrong
deserves punishment, with a kind of Oriental fatality, although the
pity which is inherent in them causes them to have a horror of capital
punishment.
Now, let us take the first question, and just imagine for a moment
what the treatment of the poor would be in England were there no such
thing as a _habeas corpus_. Imagine what the position of the police
would be, if it held a position of arbitrary dominion; if nobody were
responsible; if any policeman could do what he chose, with no further
responsibility than that towards his superior officers. I do not
hesitate to say that were such a state of things to exist in England,
the position of the poor would be intolerable. Now, the position of
the poor in Russia is not intolerable; it is bad, owing to the evils
inseparable from poverty, drink, and the want of control enjoyed by
public servants. But it is not intolerable. Were it intolerable, the
whole of the Russian poor, who number ninety millions, would have long
ago risen to a man. They have not done so because their position is
not intolerable; and the reason of this is, that the evils to which
I have alluded are to a certain extent mitigated by the good-nature
and kindness inherent in the Russian temperament, instead of being
aggravated by an innate brutality and cruelty such as we meet with in
Latin and other races.
Again, closely connected with any political system which is backward,
you will always find in any country a certain brutality in the matter
of punishments. Perhaps the cause of this--which is the reason why
torture was employed in the Middle Ages, and why it is employed
in China at the present day--is that only a small percentage of
the criminal classes are ever arrested; therefore when a criminal
is caught, his treatment is often unduly severe. If you read, for
instance, the sentences of corporal punishment, etc., which were
passed in England in the eighteenth century by county judges, or
of the punishments which were the rule in the Duke of Wellington’s
army in the Peninsular War, they will make your hair stand on end by
their incredible brutality; and England in the eighteenth century was
politically more advanced than Russia is at the present day.
With regard to the second point, the attitude of Russians towards the
question of punishments displays a curious blend of opinion. While
they are more indulgent than any other people when certain vices and
defects are concerned, they are ruthless in enforcing and accepting the
necessity of punishment in the case of certain other criminal offences.
For instance, they are completely indulgent with regard to any moral
delinquencies, but unswervingly stern in certain other matters; and
although they would often be inclined to let off a criminal, saying:
“Why should he be punished?” at the same time if he is punished,
and severely punished, they will accept the matter as a part of the
inevitable system that governs the world. On the other hand, they are
indulgent and tolerant where moral delinquencies which affect the man
himself and not the community are concerned; that is to say, they
will not mind how often or how violently a man gets drunk, because
the matter affects only himself; but they will bitterly resent a man
stealing horses, because thereby the whole community is affected.
This attitude of mind is reflected in the Russian Code of Laws. The
Russian Penal Code, as M. Leroy-Beaulieu points out in his classic
book on Russia, is the most lenient in Europe. But the trouble is,
as the Liberal members of the Duma are constantly repeating, not
that the laws in Russia are bad, but that they are overridden by the
arbitrary conduct of individual officials. However, I do not wish
in this article to dwell on the causes of political discontent in
Russia, or on the evils of the bureaucratic régime. My object is
simply to point out certain characteristics of the Russian race, and
one of these characteristics is the leniency of the punishment laid
down by law for offences which in other countries are dealt with
drastically and severely; murder, for instance. Capital punishment
was abolished in Russia as long ago as 1753 by the Empress Elizabeth;
corporal punishment subsisted only among the peasants, administered
by themselves (and not by a magistrate) according to their own local
administration, until it was abolished by the present Emperor in 1904.
So that until the revolutionary movement began, cases of capital
punishment, which only occurred in virtue of martial law, were rare,
and from 1866 to 1903 only 114 men suffered the penalty of death
throughout the whole of the Russian Empire, including the outlying
districts such as Caucasus, Transbaikalia, and Turkestan;[2] and even
at the present moment, when the country is still practically governed
by martial law, which was established in order to cope with the
revolutionary movement, you can in Russia kill a man and only receive
a few years’ imprisonment. It is the contrast of the lenient treatment
meted out to non-political prisoners with the severity exercised
towards political offenders which strikes the Russian politician
to-day, and it is of this contradiction that he so bitterly complains.
The fact, nevertheless, remains--in spite of the cases, however
numerous, which arose out of the extraordinary situation created by the
revolutionary movement, that the sentence of death, meted out by the
judicial court, is in itself abhorrent to the Russian character.
I will now give a few minor instances illustrating the indulgent
attitude of the Russian character towards certain moral delinquencies.
In a regiment which I came across in Manchuria during the war there
were two men; one was conscientious, brave to the verge of heroism,
self-sacrificing, punctilious in the performance of his duty, and
exacting in the demands he made on others as to the fulfilment of
theirs, untiringly energetic, competent in every way, but severe and
uncompromising. There was another man who was incurably lax in the
performance of his duty, not scrupulously honest where the Government
money was concerned, incompetent, but as kind as a human being can
be. I once heard a Russian doctor who was attached to this regiment
discussing and comparing the characters of the two men, and, after
weighing the pros and cons, he concluded that as a man the latter was
superior. Dishonesty in dealings with the public money seemed to him
an absolutely trifling fault. The unswerving performance of duty, and
all the great military qualities which he noted in the former, did not
seem to him to count in the balance against the great kindness of heart
possessed by the latter; and most of the officers agreed with him. It
never seemed to occur to these men that any one set of qualities, such
as efficiency, conscientiousness, or honesty, were more indispensable,
or in any way superior to any other set of qualities. They just noticed
the absence of them in others, or, as often happened, in themselves,
and thought they were amply compensated for by the presence of other
qualities, such as good-nature or amiability. And one notices in
Russian literature that authors such as Dostoievsky are not content
with showing us the redeeming points of a merely bad character, that
is to say, of a man fundamentally good, but who indulges in vice or in
crime; but they will take pleasure in showing you the redeeming points
of a character which at first sight appears to be radically mean and
utterly despicable. The aim of these authors seems to be to insist
that, just as nobody is indispensable, so nobody is superfluous. There
is no such thing as a superfluous man; and any man, however worthless,
miserable, despicable and mean he may seem to be, has just as much
right to be understood as any one else; and they show that, when he
is understood, he is not, taking him as a whole, any worse than his
fellow-creatures.
Another characteristic which strikes one in Russian literature, and
still more in Russian life, especially if one has mingled in the lower
classes, is the very deeply rooted sense of pity which the Russians
possess. An Englishman who is lame, and whom I met in Russia, told
me that he had experienced there a treatment such as he had never
met before in any other country. The people, and especially the poor,
noticed his lameness, and, guessing what would be difficult for him to
do, came to his aid and helped him.
In the streets of Moscow and St. Petersburg you rarely see beggars beg
in vain; and I have observed, travelling third class in trains and in
steamers, that when the poor came to beg bread for food from the poor,
they were never sent empty away. During the war I always found the
soldiers ready to give me food, however little they had for themselves,
in circumstances when they would have been quite justified in sending
me about my business as a pestilential nuisance and camp-follower. It
is impossible for a man to starve in Russia. He is perfectly certain
to find some one who will give him food for the asking. In Siberia
the peasants in the villages put bread on their window-sills, in
case any fugitive prisoners should be passing by. This fundamental
goodness of heart is the most important fact in the Russian nature;
it, and the expression of it in their literature, is the greatest
contribution which they have made to the history of the world. It is
probably the cause of all their weakness. For the defects indispensable
to such qualities are slackness, and the impossibility of conceiving
self-discipline to be a necessity, or of recognising the conventional
rules and prejudices which make for solidity, and which are, as
Professor Milioukov said, as cement is to a building.
The result of the absence of this hard and binding cement of prejudice
and discipline is that it is very difficult to attain a standard of
efficiency in matters where efficiency is indispensable. For instance,
in war. In a regiment with which I lived for a time during the war
there was a young officer who absolutely insisted on the maintenance of
a high standard of efficiency. He insisted on his orders being carried
out to the letter; his fellow-officers thought he was rather mad. One
day we had arrived in a village, and one of the younger officers had
ordered the horses to be put up in the yard facing the house in which
we were to live. Presently the officer to whom I have alluded arrived,
and ordered the horses to be taken out and put into a separate yard,
as he considered the arrangement which he found on his arrival to be
insanitary--which it was. He went away, and the younger officer did not
dream of carrying out his order.
“What is the use?” he said, “the horses may just as well stay where
they are.”
They considered this man to be indulging in an unnecessary pose, but
he was not, according to our ideas, in the least a formalist or a
lover of red tape; he merely insisted on what he considered to be
an irreducible minimum of discipline, the result being that he was
a square peg in a round hole. Moreover, when people committed, or
commit (and this is true in any department of public life in Russia),
a glaring offence, or leave undone an important part of their duty, it
is very rare that they are dealt with drastically; they are generally
threatened with punishment which ends in platonic censure. And this
fact, combined with a bureaucratic system, has dangerous results, for
the official often steps beyond the limits of his duty and takes upon
himself to commit lawless acts, and to exercise unlawful and arbitrary
functions, knowing perfectly well that he can do so with impunity,
and that he will not be punished. And one of the proofs that a new
era is now beginning in Russia is a series of phenomena never before
witnessed, and which have occurred not long ago--namely, the punishment
and dismissal of guilty officials, such as, for instance, that of
Gurko, who was dismissed from his post in the Government for having
been responsible for certain dishonest dealings in the matter of the
Famine Relief.
Of course such indulgence, or rather the slackness resulting from it,
is not universal. Otherwise the whole country would go to pieces. And
yet so far from going to pieces, even through a revolution things
jogged on somehow or other. For against every square yard of slackness
there is generally a square inch of exceptional capacity, and a square
foot of dogged efficiency, and thus the balance is restored. The
incompetency of a Stoessel, and a host of others, is counterbalanced
not only by the brilliant energy of a Kondratenko, but by the hard
work of thousands of unknown men. And this is true throughout all
public life in Russia. At the same time, the happy-go-lucky element,
the feeling of “What does it matter?” of what they call _nichevo_, is
the preponderating quality; and it is only so far counterbalanced by
sterner qualities as to make the machine go on. This accounts also for
the apparent weakness of the revolutionary element in Russia. The ranks
of these people, which at one moment appear to be so formidable, at the
next moment seem to have scattered to the four winds of heaven. They
appear to give in and to accept, to submit and be resigned to fate.
But there is nevertheless an undying passive resistance; and at the
bottom of the Russian character, whether that character be employed
in revolutionary or in other channels, there is an obstinate grit of
resistance. Again, one is met in Russian history, from the days of
Peter the Great down to the present day, with isolated instances of
exceptional energy and of powers of organisation, such as Souvorov,
Skobelieff, Kondratenko, Kilkov, and, to take a less known instance,
Kroustalieff (who played a leading part in organising the working
classes during the great strike in 1905).
The way in which troops were poured into Manchuria during the war
across a single line, which was due to the brilliant organisation of
Prince Kilkov, is in itself a signal instance of organisation and
energy in the face of great material difficulties. The station at
Liaoyang was during the war under the command of a man whose name
I have forgotten, but who showed the same qualities of energy and
resource. On the day Liaoyang was evacuated, and while the station was
being shelled, he managed to get off every train safely, and to leave
nothing behind. There were many such instances which are at present
little known, to be set against the incompetence and mismanagement of
which one hears so much.
It is perhaps this blend of opposite qualities, this mixture of
softness and slackness and happy-go-lucky _insouciance_ (all of which
qualities make a thing as pliant as putty and as yielding as dough)
with infinite capacity for taking pains, and the inspiring energy and
undefeated patience in the face of seemingly insuperable obstacles,
which makes the Russian character difficult to understand. You have,
on the one hand, the man who bows his head before an obstacle and
says that it does not after all matter very much; and, on the other
hand, the man who with a few straws succeeds in making a great palace
of bricks. Peter the Great was just such a man, and Souvorov and
Kondratenko were the same in kind, although less in degree. And again,
you have the third type, the man who, though utterly defeated, and
apparently completely submissive, persists in resisting--the passive
resister whose obstinacy is unlimited, and whose influence in matters
such as the revolutionary propaganda is incalculable.
It has been constantly said that Russia is the land of paradoxes, and
there is perhaps no greater paradox than the mixture in the Russian
character of obstinacy and weakness, and the fact that the Russian is
sometimes inclined to throw up the sponge instantly, while at others
he becomes himself a tough sponge, which, although pulled this way and
that, is never pulled to pieces. He is undefeated and indefatigable in
spite of enormous odds, and thus we are confronted in Russian history
with men as energetic as Peter the Great, and as slack as Alexeieff the
Viceroy.
People talk of the waste of Providence in never making a ruby without
a flaw, but is it not rather the result of an admirable economy, which
never deals out a portion of coffee without a certain admixture of
chicory?
FOOTNOTES:
[2] See Tagantseff, _Russian Criminal Law_.