The English in Russia have always been much more respected than liked; and latterly they have become most intensely hated, from the political position in which Great Britain stands towards that country. Among us, if a Russian were in company, it is not probable that he would find any difference in the manner in which he was received because the two governments are at war; but the Russians are really not enlightened enough to separate the individual from the nation, and think it a proof of patriotism to show their resentment to any son or daughter of England whom they may chance to meet. As soon as the Declaration of War was known, there was a marked and very disagreeable change in the manners of even my oldest and most attached friends: it seemed that those few words were sufficient to sever the bonds of amity, and to place a barrier of ice between those who had previously been on the closest terms of intimacy; indeed, I verily believe that they would just as readily have touched a toad as have shaken hands with an English person. This intolerant feeling of course found vent in words, as well as in silent indications; and at last it reached so great a height, that it became almost impossible for any one to remain in the country who was obliged to come into daily contact with them. No opprobrious term was too coarse for us: “those dogs,” “those swine the English,” were expressions so general, that we were not surprised to hear them even from the lips of ladies of rank and education. Added to this was the impossibility of making any reply, unless in the most guarded terms; for the immense number of spies, and their excessive pleasure at catching a stray word or so, would have subjected either a lady or a gentleman to the most disagreeable visits of an emissary of the secret police, and a summons to Count Orloff’s office. Indeed I was told of two Englishmen who were requested to present themselves at that place, for speaking disrespectfully of the Russian journals in a coffee-house, and expressing some well-founded doubts of the veracity of their contents. I was informed that they received a severe reprimand, and were ordered to believe all that was written under the government sanction—a thing extremely difficult to do, seeing the extraordinary falsehoods inserted in the papers, and the wonderful triumphs of Russian valour recounted; but to be sure the word victory is as easily written as the word defeat; and it certainly sounds much more agreeably to the ear. Although we English did not believe the accounts published, yet it was extremely annoying to hear the exulting remarks of the Russians on the supposed advantages obtained by their armies. The majority of the people professed to believe the accounts given, and very likely they really did so, as only a select few are acquainted with anything like the truth. I was told that even the Emperor himself is not always informed of the extent of his losses, because so few have the courage to tell him of them. A friend of mine accidentally heard two military generals[21] talking of the great reverses the Russian arms had experienced; they were speaking in an under-tone, but she distinctly heard the words—
“It is very strange that three generals should have fallen, and so few soldiers slain!”
“How!” exclaimed the other, “few? why, we have lost altogether forty thousand men!”
This was before the fatal siege of Silistria, or just at its commencement: so the thousands that have perished altogether by the sword and pestilence must amount to a fearful number. Even while I was at St. Petersburg, it was affirmed that the Russians had lost since their entry into the principalities, at the lowest estimate, seventy thousand men.
The absurd falsehoods daily published for the amusement of the Russians, and the abuse of our nation, we can well afford to laugh at in England; but it is widely different to one standing alone in a foreign land, and among the enemies of one’s country. None but those who have been placed in such a position can have any idea of the grief and heartburning it causes, nor how very difficult it is to remain silent on hearing such expressions as, “There will be plenty of English blood shed this year, thank God!” “We must have some new hospitals built for the wounded when the British fleet is destroyed!” “Count Besborodku has made a present of cannon to the Emperor, to shoot those swine when they approach us!” “There won’t be many of the British that will ever return home again!” “The first victory we gain over those dogs of islanders,” &c. &c. Amid all their resentment and hatred towards the English, it was strange to remark how tenderly the French were treated, as if they were a people too insignificant and helpless to merit any other sentiment but that of the most profound pity and compassion, the victims of English policy, and as if they were merely a cat’s-paw to serve the turn of our government. The Russians expressed the greatest contempt for them in the light of antagonists: “We have beaten them before, and we will beat them again,” was a phrase a thousand times repeated, for they vauntingly boast of having defeated la grande armée in 1812, and of having hunted the French out of their country as if they were sheep; but all Europe knows what truth there is in Russian history.
The Russians expressed great friendship for Lord Aberdeen, and intense hatred of Lord Palmerston, whom they blamed as the prime mover of public affairs, and as the author indirectly of all their misfortunes. I may mention en passant that the names of Napier and Palmerston inspired the lower classes with so great a terror, that the women used to frighten the children by saying that the English Admiral was coming! And among the common men, after exhausting all the opprobrious terms they could think of (and the Russian language is singularly rich in that respect), one would turn to the other and say, “You are an English dog!” Then followed a few more civilities, which they would finish by calling each other “Palmerston,” without having the remotest idea of what the word meant; but as the very climax of hatred and revenge, they would bawl out “Napier!” as if he were fifty times worse than Satan himself.
There was an English lady of influence in St. Petersburg, of whose great wit and penetration the Russians stood in the most profound dread and awe. I shall never forget the unbounded rage with which they related an anecdote of her, which showed how deeply they felt the cut they had received, and how true they knew her words were. Soon after the Battle (?) of Sinope, one of the Russian nobles was so obliging as to call on her, expressly to hear what she would say concerning that glorious feat of valour or cowardice, and in the course of conversation remarked that it must be very disagreeable to her to reside on the quay.
“Why so, your Excellence?”
“Because,” replied he, “it must be so annoying to you to hear the cannon fired in honour of our victories!”
“Oh! dear, no!” was the reply; “not in the least; it happens so very seldom.”