The same thing can be said about the demand for amnesty. People in England think that the Duma is clamouring exclusively for the release of murderers. The fact is that, as I have said before, the proportion of murderers in prison is small. The bomb-throwers nearly always escape or are killed, whereas the prisons are packed with people who are there by chance and against whom there is not even any accusation.
Again, take the land question: the demands on the Duma seem far less exaggerated to a Russian Conservative than they do to an English Whig. The Russian Conservative may, and probably does, disagree with them, but he does not consider them childishly outrageous. The Duma contains some highly-respected and important landlords, who have all voted in favour of the principle of compulsory expropriation, and I think they know more about the land question in Russia even than the most sensible Englishman.
July 6th (Later).
To-day in the Duma there was a barefooted man in rags, who said he had arrived in St. Petersburg chiefly owing to the kindness of the railway guards. His house had been burnt, owing to some squabble with the police authorities. Another correspondent and I had some talk with him. He thought we were deputies. He said: “Stand up for our rights and I will go back and tell them you are doing so.”
July 6th.
The question of the Inter-Parliamentary Congress to be held in London is arousing interest here. It is not yet decided what delegates are to go. Professor Kovolievski introduced me to one of the peasant members of the Duma—Nazarenko, the deputy for Kharhov—who wished to speak to me about it. Nazarenko is far the most remarkable of the peasant deputies. He is a tall, striking figure, with black hair, a pale face with prominent clearly-cut features, such as Velasquez would have taken to paint a militant apostle. He went through the course of primary education, and by subsequently educating himself he has attained to an unwonted degree of culture. Besides this he is a born speaker and a most original character. “I want to go to London,” he said, “so that the English may see a real peasant and not a sham one, and so that I can tell the English what we, the real people, think and feel about them.” I said I was glad he was going. “I shan’t go unless I am chosen by the others,” he answered. “I have written my name down and asked, but I shan’t ask twice. I never ask twice for anything. When I say my prayers I only ask God once for a thing, and if it is not granted I never ask again. So it’s not likely I would ask my fellow-men twice for anything. I am like that; I leave out that passage in the prayers about being a miserable slave. I am not a miserable slave, neither of man nor of heaven.” “That is what the Church calls spiritual pride,” I answered. “I don’t believe in all that,” he answered. “My religion is the same as that of Tolstoi.” He then pointed to the ikon which is in the lobby of the Duma. “I pay no attention to that,” he said, “It is a board covered with gilt, but a lot of people think that the ikon is God.”
I asked him if he liked Tolstoi’s books. “Yes,” he answered. “His books are great, but his philosophy is weak. It may be all right for mankind thousands of years hence, but it is no use now. I have no friends,” he continued. “Books are my friends. But lately my house was burnt, and all my books with it. I have read a lot, but I never had anybody to tell me what to read, so I read without any system. I did not go to school till I was thirteen.”
“Do you like Dostoievski’s books?” “Yes; he knows all about the human soul. When I see a man going down hill I know exactly how it will happen and what he is going through, and I could stop him because I have read Dostoievski.” “Have you read translations of any foreign books?” “Very few; some of Zola’s books, but I don’t like them because he does not really know the life he is describing. Some of Guy de Maupassant’s stories I have read, but I do not like them either, because I don’t want to know more about that sort of people than I know already.” “Have you read Shakespeare?” “Yes. There is nobody like him. When you read a conversation of Shakespeare’s, when one person is speaking you think he is right, and when the next person answers him you think he is right. He understands everybody. But I want to read Spencer—Herbert Spencer. I have never been able to get his works.” I promised to procure him Herbert Spencer’s works.
I hope he will go to London, for he is a strangely picturesque figure and an original character, this dark-eyed Velasquez-like Nazarenko, proud as Lucifer and full of ideals, a kind of mixture of Shelley and Cato.
July 7th.