It was August, 1914. Rumours of the great conflict were just reaching the remote Siberian provinces. The order for mobilization came, and there was great excitement, even in the death-bound Arctic settlements, as if suddenly a new life had been infused into that land of monotony. Upon the heels of the call to arms came the Tsar’s Manifesto, abolishing the scourge of our national life—vodka, and with it a gigantic wave of popular enthusiasm, sweeping the steppes, valleys, and forests of vast Russia, from Petrograd and Moscow, across the Ural mountains and Siberia, to the borders of China, and the Pacific coast.
There was something sublime about the nation’s response. Old men, who had fought in the Crimean War, in the Turkish Campaign of 1877-78, and The Russo-Japanese War, declared that they never saw such exaltation of spirit. It was a glorious, inspiring, unforgettable moment in one’s life. My soul was deeply stirred, and I had a dim realization of a new world coming to life, a purer, a happier and a holier world.
And when Vasili robbed me of our horse, and I was filled with the dread of Yasha’s fury, intensified by my helplessness in the face of this misfortune, the thought, “WAR!” suddenly flashed into my mind.
“Go to war to help save the country!” a voice within me called.
To leave Yasha for my personal comfort and safety was almost unthinkable. But to leave him for the field of unselfish sacrifice, that was a different matter. And the thought of going to war penetrated deeper and deeper into my whole being, giving me no rest.
When Yasha returned, Prince Gutemurov and several other friends were in the house ready to defend me. He had already learned from the natives, on his way home, that Vasili had escaped on our horse. He could not believe that I would have given his favourite horse to anybody without his permission, and he therefore suspected that I had an intrigue with Vasili, and that I had despatched him to make preparations for an elopement. He made a violent scene, attacking me savagely, with showers of blows. My friends tore him away, which only infuriated him the more. This inability to give vent to his rage made him act like one demented.
His temper was clearly becoming a danger, which called for a remedy. A physician came to Amga only once a month. As Yasha considered himself in good health, there could be no question of suggesting to him that he should consult the physician. It was, therefore, agreed among my friends that Prince Gutemurov should take a walk about the village with the doctor when he arrived, pass by our house as if by accident, and that I should greet them with an invitation to come in for tea. Everything went smoothly. The physician was introduced to Yashka and immediately remarked upon his pallor and his bloodshot eyes.
“What ails you?” he asked Yasha, “you seem to have fever. Let me examine you.”
The result of the examination was the advice to Yasha to go to a hospital for treatment, which he, of course, scoffed at. Privately, the doctor informed Prince Gutemurov that Yasha’s nerves had broken down and that he was dangerous to live with, as he might kill me for some trivial cause. The physician urged that I should leave him at once. But I hesitated. Another quarrel, however, was not long in coming. Yasha actually made another attempt to kill me, but was stopped by our comrades. The cup was full. I decided to escape.
Day and night my imagination carried me to the fields of battle, and my ears rang with the groans of my wounded brethren. The impact of the mighty armies was heard even in uncivilized northern Siberia. There were rumours in the air, rumours of victory and of defeat, and in low voices people talked of torrents of blood and of rivers of maimed humanity, streaming back from the front, and already overflowing into the Siberian plains. My heart yearned to be there, in the seething caldron of war, to be baptized in its fire and scorched in its lava. The spirit of sacrifice took possession of me. My country called me. And an irresistible force from within impelled me.