The Playground of Satan

by Beatrice C. Baskerville

"Oh, I didn't think of that," she said, repentant.

"Well, I must get back. Mother, we'll have to have these two young Russians to lunch. They're not very presentable ... but it's war-time."

He hurried put, leaving Minnie in contrition. She had ruffled him when she wanted to please him above all things. Father Constantine could not believe his ears. Social intercourse between Russians and Poles was exceedingly restricted. A few tufthunters and the descendants of those men who had winked at Russia's share in Poland's three partitions kept up a certain amount of relationship with the Russian Government; went to the official receptions given by the Governor General of Warsaw, who was also Commander of the troops stationed in Poland. Whilst in office he was lodged at the Royal Palace in Warsaw, once the winter home of Poland's kings. But these were the very few, as few were the members of old Polish families who had charges at the Imperial Court of Russia. The vast majority of Poles, rich and poor, aristocratic and humble, lived their lives apart from the Russian Bureaucrats in their midst, who fattened on the country, reaping a harvest in peculation, drawing extra pay whilst there, on the lying legend that they carried their lives in their hands and slept with revolvers under their pillows for fear Polish insurgents should murder them in the night. They knew perfectly well that the Poles had long since ceased to dream of independence won by rebellion; that they had learned the lessons of eighteen sixty-three and four. But they made alarming reports to St. Petersburg to enhance the value of their own services. The Poles knew that, at least for the time being, their one way of resisting Russification was to develop the agricultural and commercial resources of their country as much as possible, despite their conqueror's efforts; to preserve their native customs in spite of persecution; to teach their native language despite restriction and to cling to their national faith despite persecution from the Holy Synod and the indifference of Rome, who looked with dread upon Russia and dared not protest. But since the Russians in their midst were there to suppress all signs of their national life, the Poles shunned intercourse with them as much as possible; those who did not were marked men. Ruvno had never shown the least inclination to mix with Russians. Both Ian and his father before him declined a charge at the Imperial Court; it was an unwritten law in the family, as in so many others, that whilst the men had to learn a little Russian in order to transact necessary business, the women must not know a word. This rule has done more to preserve the Polish language in humble homes and in great than anything else.

So you can understand Father Constantine's surprise when he heard Ian say that two Muscovites, as they are generally called in Poland, were to sit at his patron's table. Nobody had fought harder, in his modest way, against the Russification of his country than the old priest. He was apt to see but Russian faults, just as the Russians had eyes only for Polish shortcomings. Had such a thing happened a week ago he would have expressed his displeasure at the sudden crumbling up of Ruvno traditions and excused himself from the meal. But he thought things over for a minute and remarked to the silent room:

"Well, the Russians are fighting on the right side this time."

In his tone and the gesture of his thin hands were much eloquence, and a hint that he had wiped his account against Russia off the slate; that the sufferings of Siberian exile were to rankle no more. From that day forth they never heard him say a hard word against Russians, never caught him speaking of them as Muscovites, a term of hatred and contempt, but as Russians, children of the big land of Rus, fighting in a big struggle for the good cause of humanity.

The Countess said nothing for a moment. She had always avoided Russians, knew nothing of their language, treated those whom evil chance threw in her way with dignified civility, which was meant to make them feel that they were barbarians and she of an old civilization. But she was ready to call Russia an acquaintance, a possible friend in the near future, if they only kept their word to fight the Prussians who were killing defenseless women and children in Kalisz and Belgium. Ian had described the two visitors as "not very presentable." She knew what he meant. She had seen dozens of Russian officers who were not presentable, in the streets of Warsaw and Plock; at the races, at restaurants, in trains. They were noisy and none too clean; they spoke nothing but Russian and probably put their knives in their mouths. They would smell of pitch. She never quite understood why Russians of this type smelt of pitch, but the fact remained. Ian said it was something to do with the tanning of their shoe-leather. Perhaps it was. Anyway, it was not quite the kind of smell she cared to have at her table or in her sitting-room. And yes, they would expect some of the strong, raw vodka which peasants drink. However, she had always been ready to take a sporting chance on the sudden events of life, and said cheerfully:

"I expect we shall have more of them before the war is over. So the sooner you and I pick up a few Russian words, Vanda, the better for us."

Vanda did not answer. She was thinking of Joseph, who had gone to fight with the race that had violated Belgium and slaughtered the children of Kalisz.

Minnie only nodded. Her thoughts were for Ian. She felt she had said too much that morning and was regretting it.