There seems to be no hope. Russia, apparently, lacks the coördination
and singleness of purpose necessary for one. And so many unseen
influences are at work. There is no agreement among the people as to
what they want. Each faction is secretly encouraged to war against the
other in order to weaken each other and blur the reason and end in the
people's minds. Besides, of course, nothing can be done as long as the
army can be used to crush any demonstration against the Government. But
if I were a Russian, all my hate would be directed against the traitors
of my country, rather than at the Germans, who, after all, are
political enemies. I would carry a gun against those who sell my country
and make capital out of her suffering.
In every newspaper there are accounts of enormous graft by Ministers and
companies under contract to the Government for military supplies. One
case was translated to me the other day. Some men high up in the
Government took over a contract for a certain number of cavalry saddles
and bridles. They sold it to the Jews, making a tremendous rake-off. The
Jews, to get any profit, were obliged to furnish poor material. At the
trial, where some officers were testing them, the bridles broke in their
hands like paper and the saddles split into ribbons.
Then there was a sugar factory in Kiev, whose owner wrote to the
Minister of the Interior, I think it was, and offered his factory, only
asking an estimate of the approximate amount of sugar the Government
would need turned out each day. No answer was made. The owner wrote
again. Still no answer. He went to Petrograd himself to find out why the
Department paid no attention to his letters. The Minister informed him
his letters had lacked the required war-tax stamps and had been turned
over to the proper authorities, who would speedily proceed to fine him
for his evasion of the law.
I went up to a military hospital to-day. I wonder how I can write you
about it. The insignificance of personalities--whether any one lives or
dies seems to have no importance. Just life seems to matter any more,
and the forward movement of humanity--at least, you must believe the
movement is forward in spite of the horror of mangled bodies and
destroyed minds; otherwise, you would go mad, though you are outside of
it all. How the proportions of things are twisted after going through a
hospital. Things that counted before don't seem to count any more. You
take refuge in generalities to get out of your mind a look you have seen
in a soldier's eyes.
It was an improvised hospital,--some building or other turned into a
place to receive the hundreds of wounded that are pouring into Kiev
every day. It was a big room, with rows and rows of beds, and in every
bed a man. One man was wounded in the back, and his breath whistled
through the open hole like steam through an escape valve. His face was
wound in white bandages. Others were there, dying from terrible stomach
wounds. One man's head moved from side to side incessantly, as though he
could never again find comfort on earth. Some moan. Others lay
absolutely motionless, their faces terrible dead-white masks. Their
bodies looked so long and thin under the sheets, with their toes turned
up. It was indescribably terrifying to think that human beings could go
through so much and continue to live. I was more frightened than ever
before in my life. The smell of blood--the closeness of the hot
sick-room--flies buzzing about. I saw brown varnish-like stains on some
of the white bandages. The indifferent, business-like attitude of the
nurses infuriated me. But, of course, they can't be any other way and
deal with it all.