AMONG MOSCOW STUDENTS
AT Kharkov, on my return journey, I recovered half of my lost luggage;
the other half, a box full of books and papers, had not turned up:
neither by bribes nor by words could it be found. We spent a whole day
searching the Customs House, but failed to find any trace of it. I
learned afterwards that it had been left behind at Ostend, through the
negligence of a porter there. The loss of this box was a matter of
sorrow. All through the winter I felt the loss of it. It was only in
April, after immense correspondence, that I recovered it, and then it
was no use since I had made up my mind to spend the summer on the
mountains.
The loss of my overcoat and of my box had evidently made a deep
impression on Nicholas. He was determined he should lose none of his
things. We were travelling together all the way to Moscow. He was going
to be a student at the University, and he hoped to share lodgings with
me. Our journey took three days. Nicholas’s luggage consisted of nine
heavy portmanteaux and boxes. This luggage was a matter of amazement to
myself, my fellow-travellers and the porters. Surely no one ever before
started from a pine cottage with such an accumulation. How Nicholas came
by it all will always be an interesting page in his life history.
A year ago, Nicholas had been studying in Moscow and supporting himself
by giving lessons in English, music and mathematics. Of all his studies
the favourite was English; and in English he excelled. His professor
regarded him as a lad of promise, and advised him to go for a season to
England and learn to speak the language. Nicholas was of an adventurous
spirit and the advice pleased him. He saved a few pounds and set off for
England. First he went home and told the deacon and his mother. They
were astonished beyond words. They did not, however, forbid the journey;
they blessed him and bade him farewell, commending him to the saints.
His mother kissed the little Ikon which hung round his neck, and looked
her son in the eyes with that peculiar expression of faith which is part
of the In-itself of life. Zhenia kissed him good-bye, and the young
adventurer went out into the wide world into the new lands. His route
was interesting, being the route which so many poor emigrants were
taking at that time, lured by the stories of fabulous wages in England,
America and Canada. He took steamer at Ekaterinoslav and came leisurely
up the Dneiper to Kiev, the busy city generally spoken of as ancient,
though new as Paris and swirling with electric cars. From Kiev he went
by train; third-class to the Konigsberg frontier and thence across
Germany, fourth-class to Hamburg. Does the reader know a fourth-class
emigrant train? It is a series of cattle-trucks for human beings, and
indeed the occupants behave more like animals than human beings.
Anything more filthy, indecent and odious than the condition of a Jews’
train can scarcely be imagined. I think Nicholas felt very sick and
weary before he got to Hamburg. But it was cheap travelling. I think his
whole fare, from Lisitchansk to London, cost less than two pounds ten.
He was a brave boy. I imagine his arrival in London at the dreary docks,
his first view of our appallingly large, dreary city. He did not see the
fairy-tale which it is the fashion to see in London. It was a friendless
desert, a place where everyone was so poor that it took all one’s time
to look after oneself. He wandered about and lost himself, if, indeed,
it were possible to lose himself, since he was already lost when he
arrived that early May morning. There was one thing to do: he had a
Russian’s address in his pocket, the address of a Russian in London. By
dint of asking a new policeman at each turning he found his way to
Russell Square.
Lucky boy! He fell on his feet in Bloomsbury in the Russian colony
there. Russians are very kind to one another, and it would be difficult
not to be kind to Nicholas; he is handsome, witty, musical. One
introduced him to another all the way round, and he found occupation
easily, giving lessons once more in English, music and mathematics. It
was in this first period that he met me. I had written to the Russian
Consul asking if he would recommend me a Russian who would be willing to
give me lessons in the Russian language. He indicated a certain M.
Voronofsky, who referred me to Nicholas. So I came to know him. He was
surely the most affectionate teacher I ever had, and most prodigal he
was in Russian conversation. He gave me hours beyond the stipulated time
of my lesson, and would walk arm-in-arm with me up and down the Strand,
protesting his affection and heaping endearments upon me in a way that
made me fancy what it is like to be a girl. I was, however, in some
respects unlucky in my teachers; as fast as I got one he disappeared and
was next heard of in Barrow-in-Furness. The reason for this lay in the
fact that Messrs Vickers Maxim had obtained a contract to build a
portion of the new Russian fleet. Besides an immense amount of
correspondence with the Russian Admiralty, all plans, specifications and
directions were in Russian, and in technical Russian at that.
Consequently a large Russian staff was required at Barrow, and almost
anyone who applied was accepted at once. I told Nicholas of this, he
applied and was accepted. So for the time I lost him. He worked three
months, literally grinding, doing twelve hours’ work a day. He found out
what it was to be utilised in the English machine. I think he did not
like it, and it was only the joy of earning a pile of money that kept
him at it. He made eighty pounds in three months, which wasn’t bad for a
youngster. But at the end of that time a wave of home-sickness overtook
him. A letter from home said his father was unwell; he interpreted it to
mean his father was dying, packed up his things and left the country. He
had arrived in London with one black box, he went away with—nine heavy
portmanteaux and trunks. He said to me, when he came back from Barrow,
“I want to buy all sorts of things; if I don’t buy them now I shall
never buy them again; I shall never have the money.” Now, to a Russian,
England is a paradise of cheap clothes. Living is dear but clothes are
dirt cheap. In Russia only my lord wears a collar or uses a
handkerchief; an English suit costs five pounds at least, English shirts
cost six or seven shillings each. Nicholas bought a wardrobe of suits
and fancy waistcoats, hats, boots, umbrellas, ties. Such ties he bought
that at several Lisitchansk parties he had to undress partially so as to
satisfy the curiosity of his friends. He bought patent Mikado braces,
the like had never been seen in Little Russia. He bought Zhenia a hat,
and his father a smoking jacket, and his mother a shawl. He bought reams
of delicately-tinted notepaper and envelopes, at which, since those
days, numberless fair Russian girls have gazed; though “fairer than the
paper writ on was the fair hand that writ.” I took him into Straker’s
one day to help him to make some purchases; we spent half an hour
selecting shades of sealing-wax. Well, you can be sure that by the time
he finished his packing there was not much space left in those nine
boxes and bags. I saw him off at Liverpool Street Station. He went home
_via_ the Hook of Holland and in grand style. It was a strange contrast
to his arrival five months before.
Of course he found his father very well when he came to Lisitchansk, and
he spent a very gay autumn there. He was the prodigal come home, but
with the fatted calf under his arm. It was very glorious for him. Yet
from the point of view of material prosperity his return was a mistake.
The tide which leads to fortune had been at the full for him in London.
He had wilfully neglected it.
Success turned his head a little. He lived on glory for a month or two,
and then he heard that I was coming to Russia and he invited me to his
home. His mind became full of plans: he would go to Canada, he would go
to England again, or to Chicago. The first step, however, towards the
realisation of these or any other schemes was to obtain money. He had
spent all his English earnings.
I came and stated my intention of going to Moscow. Nicholas discovered
that Moscow was the best place for him. He would come with me and learn
more English, and he would study for his degree and pay for his living
and his fees by giving lessons.
He ought to have gone straight to Moscow in the autumn, for the
University year commences in September, and the person who starts in
January finds himself hardly circumstanced in many ways. For one thing,
it is very difficult to earn money by teaching. It is a custom in
Russian families of the middle and upper classes to employ what are
known as _repetitors_. A _repetitor_ is a University student who comes
each night to hear the lessons in the family. The boys and girls go to
school in the morning, they prepare their home-lessons in the afternoon,
and in the evening and at night they say them over to _repetitors_. A
student of ability has a fair chance of earning eight or ten pounds a
month by this, and there is scarcely a student in Moscow who does not
glean two or three pounds at least by it. But practically the whole of
this teaching is arranged in September or October, at the commencement
of the session, for all schools work in harmony with the University and
have the same terms and vacations. So Nicholas was coming out of time.
In truth, neither his prospect nor mine would have tempted an investor.
But neither of us understood the position, and each relied a little on
the other. Nicholas thought my journalism would bring me in untold
wealth, and I thought I might be able to get some teaching through him.
So the blind led the blind.
At Moscow we were met by Shura, a Little-Russian friend of Nicholas;
Alexander Sergayef was his name in full, though he was called Shura or
Sasha for short. He was a philological student and shared rooms with a
Greek in the Kislovka. The three of us drove to a lodging-house at
Candlemas Gate (Sretinka Vorota), and the portmanteaux and boxes
followed behind on a dray.
The lodging-house goes by the name of “Samarkand,” which is printed on a
disreputable blue board which hangs outside. It is a dirty establishment
like five hundred of its kind in the city. The lodgers are chiefly
clerks and students, and, before the Governor stepped in with new
regulations, card-sharpers and gamblers. One commonly collided with
queer characters on the stairs—beggars, spies, touts; girls in gay hats
hung on the banisters, smoked cigarettes, flirted with the doorkeeper
and the students. In front the building looked down upon a beer-tavern;
behind it stood the Candlemas Monastery, a church of cheese-yellow and
bottle-green, surrounded by seven purple domes. On each dome was a gilt
cross, and on the cross fat crows often perched. We took a room on the
third floor; it cost two pounds a month—a very cheap price for Moscow.
It was an advantage to us to be nearer the sky than the street; we had
light and air and view. We had more cold, perhaps, but that was a minor
matter. No town houses have fire-places except rich mansions built in
the English style, but there is excellent steam-heating, and even on the
coldest days we never felt a chill, though we were high up and exposed
to the wind. For me, indeed, it was a most pleasant experience to be
able to turn out of bed in the morning and feel the room as warm as it
was when I went to bed. Russian houses, even the poorest, are more
comfortable in winter than the English.
Our room was a large one, having five chairs and three rickety little
tables, besides a couple of couches and two beds. In a grey corner an
Ikon of the Virgin hung. I, for my part, had my own Ikon, a print of
Millet’s “Angelus,” which I placed in front of my table. It made even
this poor room a living, breathing home. It was my reminder of England.
Since those days when I lived at Samarkand it has become very sacred to
me.
We were very poor. I think when I had bought an overcoat and Nicholas
had paid his fees we had just three pounds between us. We lived on black
bread, milk and fried pork. I wrote my articles, he went and hawked
about the town for lessons.
Among the precious things in the capacious pockets of that overcoat
which was stolen was a book on the _Russian Peasant_. This had been
given me by a London editor who let me have “a shot at reviewing it.” I
grieved not a little that this had been lost before I had read it
thoroughly. I had only glanced through it in the train. My loss did not
deter me from writing the article, however. What was my surprise when in
the second week of my stay at Moscow, almost by return of post, the
editor wrote, “Review excellent, fire away, try something else.” I felt
very cheerful and reflected that by mid-February at the latest I should
receive my first cheque.
But meanwhile it became apparent that we stood a chance to starve. We
were living on an average of less than fourpence a day each. In a
note-book, which I kept at that time, I see that on January 14th I spent
5d. on food, on the 15th, 4d. The figures are interesting:—
January 16th 6d.
January 17th 3d.
January 18th 4d.
January 19th 3d.
January 20th 1d.
January 21st 5d.
January 22nd 2d.
and so on.
On the 28th Shura came round to see us, told us his Greek companion had
left him, and invited us to come and live with him. Forthwith the three
of us, the nine boxes and bags and my luggage, proceeded in sledges to
the Kislovka, and we took up our abode in the students’ quarter.
The district known as the Kislovka lies at the back of the University.
It is an ugly aggregation of lodging-houses. Each lodging-house is
composed of students’ dens. Some students have rooms to themselves, but
for the most part a single one is let to two or three students. Three
young men, like ourselves, will sleep, eat, study and receive company in
the same room. We had to pay about fourteen shillings a month each, so
the arrangement seemed more economical. Then Shura earned about four
pounds a month giving lessons, so the financial position was much
improved. Then, on the second night after we had been there, Nicholas
won fifteen shillings off a Frenchman at cards. Then on February 5th
there came a letter to me from a London newspaper enclosing a cheque in
respect of a Christmas article I had sent in. It was too late for this
Christmas, they would use it next. It was evident we should not starve.
On Saturday Shura had an “At Home” day. We always stayed up all night on
Saturdays. In the afternoons we bought rolls and sausage and caviare and
tinned herring and cheese to make a spread. About five or six o’clock
the guests would arrive—five or six girl students and the same number of
men. There were not chairs to go round, so many of them sat on the beds.
Then we talked in the way that only Russians can. On the floor lay
cigarette-ends, volumes on law and philosophy, dust of past ages, vodka
droppings from the last gathering, old clothes, newspapers, picture
postcards. The walls were plastered with prints, portraits of members of
the Duma, a large newspaper picture of Tolstoy, cartoons from European
papers, etc. My “Angelus” Ikon looked almost sorrowfully upon the scene.
There was no real Russian Ikon there. Shura told me he had pitched it
out of the window when he came. He didn’t believe in God. In the course
of the evening one of the students present would read a tale from
Tchekhof or Andrief, another would read a few verses from Nadson, their
favourite poet. Nicholas would play on the guitar and sing little
Russian songs. I would get through a game at chess with someone. Then we
would all play some games at forfeit with the girls. The time passed
very quickly. One samovar would succeed another until after midnight,
and glasses of weak tea circulated till dawn. At last we would take the
girls home, and then come back and sleep an hour or two before
breakfast. It was a godless way of beginning the Sunday.
Shortly after the first “At Home” I discovered a way in which an
Englishman can make a small fortune in Moscow. I put an advertisement in
the _Russian Word_ to this effect:—
“Young Englishman from London, well-educated, seeks lessons,
speaks French and Russian.”
The answers to this soon made me the richest of the three in the little
room. My lowest price was four shillings a lesson of one hour. An
Englishman can get that easily in Moscow. I became a _repetitor_. First
I had a French girl to teach, the daughter of a cotton manufacturer. She
didn’t like me and I lost that lesson after a fortnight, but I got
lessons with an engineer, with two German boys and a Russian boy; and a
woman engaged me to give a series of lectures on English literature at a
girls’ college. For the last named I received six shillings a lecture.
Then Nicholas got three pounds a month to coach a boy for his
matriculation; we were all thriving.
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