A year in Russia

by Maurice Baring

CHAPTER XXV
IN THE COUNTRY AFTER THE DISSOLUTION

Near Moscow, August 1st.

I have been staying for the last three days in the country quite close to Moscow. I thought I should get away for a time from politics, from talk of new Cabinets, new eras, liberal autocracy, strong-handed reform, and other such pleasing illusions. I was mistaken. Politics filter through everywhere now; in a third-class railway carriage, at the station buffets, in the public parks, in the villages.

As regards the various opinions I heard expressed the prevailing one is this: that the new Prime Minister’s programme of strong-handed Liberal reform is a repetition of the programme of the last five Ministers of the Interior.

M. Stolypin says these last five Premiers were all mistaken in their policy; in the meantime (people say) it is difficult to see in what respects his programme is to differ from theirs. And we have no evidence as yet that M. Stolypin is an infinitely more capable man than Count Witte. Some people, referring to the official denial of the article that appeared in the semi-official newspaper Rossia, with regard to foreign intervention, say: “If M. Stolypin cannot control the first page of his official newspaper, how can he expect to control Russia?” Others commenting on his intention to initiate social reform and put a stop to the political movement, say that this effort is the very root and kernel of the whole trouble in Russia; that the mistake of would-be reformers has always consisted in their not understanding that social reforms are impossible unless they are preceded by political reforms. (M. Leroy-Beaulieu, in his splendid book on Russia, writes in a most illuminating fashion on this very point.)

As regards what is actually happening in Moscow, the town is empty and quiet; public meetings are forbidden, small political gatherings in private houses are held only under surveillance of the police; gatherings of the “Black Gang” are said to be allowed; the Press is certainly subjected to a rigid censorship; the Morning Post arrived blacked out yesterday for the first time for two years; the manifesto of the ex-members is being spread, likewise the manifesto of the Social Democrats. I have not seen anybody who thinks that an era of peace and resigned content has begun.

Near the house where I am living there is a village; as this village is so close to the town of Moscow I thought that its inhabitants would be suburban, and therefore not representative of peasant life. This is not so. The nearness to Moscow seems to make no difference at all. I was walking through the village on Saturday morning when a peasant who was sitting on his doorstep called me and asked me if I would like to eat an apple. I accepted his invitation. He said he presumed I was living with X., as other Englishmen had lived there before. Then he asked abruptly, “Is Marie Alexandrovna in your place?” I said my hostess’s name was Marie Karlovna. “Of course,” he said, “I don’t mean here, but in your place, in your country.” I didn’t understand. Then he said it again very loud, and asked if I was deaf. I said I wasn’t deaf and that I understood what he said, but I did not know to whom he was alluding. “Talking to you,” he said, “is like talking to a Tartar. You look at one and don’t understand what one says.” Then it suddenly flashed on me that he was alluding to the Queen of England. “You mean Queen Alexandra,” I said, “the sister of the Empress Marie Feodorovna.” “That’s what I mean,” he said. It afterwards appeared that he considered that England had been semi-Russianised owing to this relationship; he thought of course that both the Queen and the Empress were Russians.

Two more peasants joined us, and one of them brought a small bottle (the size of a sample) of vodka and a plate of cherries. “We will go and drink this in the orchard,” they said. So we went to the orchard. “You have come here to learn,” said the first peasant, a bearded man, whose name was Feodor. “Many Englishmen have been here to learn. I taught one all the words that we use.” I said I was a correspondent; that I had just arrived from St. Petersburg, where I had attended the sittings of the Duma. “What about the Duma?” asked the other peasant. “They’ve sent it away. Will there be another one?” I said a manifesto spoke of a new one. “Yes,” said Feodor, “there is a manifesto abolishing punishments.” I said I hadn’t observed that clause. “Will they give us back our land?” asked Feodor. “All the land here belongs to us really.” Then followed a long explanation as to why the land belonged to them. It is the property, as a matter of fact, of the Crown. I said I did not know. “If they don’t give it back to us we shall take it,” he said simply. Then one of the other peasants added, “Those manifestoes are not written by the Emperor but by the ‘authorities.’” (The same thing was said to me by a cabman at St. Petersburg, his reason being that the Emperor would say “I,” whereas the manifesto said “We.”) Then they asked me why they had not won the war; and whether it was true that the war had been badly managed. “We know nothing,” he said. “What newspaper tells the truth? Where can we find the real truth? Is it to be found in the Russkoe Slovo?” (a big Moscow newspaper). They asked me about the Baltic Fleet and why Admiral Nebogatoff had hoisted a signal which meant “Beat us.”

Then I went away, and as I was going Feodor asked me if I would like to go and see the haymaking the next day. If so I had better be at his house at three o’clock in the afternoon. The next day, Sunday, I kept my appointment, but found nobody at home in the house of Feodor except a small child. “Is Feodor at home?” I asked. Then a man appeared from a neighbouring cottage and said: “Feodor is in the inn—drunk.” “Is he going to the haymaking?” I asked. “Of course he’s going.” “Is he very drunk?” I asked. “No, not very; I will tell him you are here.” And the man went to fetch him. Then a third person arrived, a young peasant in his Sunday clothes, and asked me where I was going. I said I was going to make hay. “Do you know how to?” he asked. I said I didn’t. “I see,” he said, “you are just going to amuse yourself. I advise you not to go. They will be drunk, and there might be unpleasantness.”

Then Feodor arrived, apparently perfectly sober except that he was rather red in the face. He harnessed his horse to a cart. “Would I mind not wearing my hat but one of his?” he asked. I said I didn’t mind, and he lent me a dark blue yachting cap, which is what the peasants wear all over Russia. My shirt was all right. I had got on a loose Russian shirt without a collar. He explained that it would look odd to be seen with some one wearing such a hat as I had. It was a felt hat. The little boy who was running about the house was Feodor’s son. He was barefooted, and one of his feet was bound up. I asked what was the matter with it. The bandage was at once taken off and I was shown the remains of a large blister and gathering. “It’s been cured now,” Feodor said. “It was a huge blister. It was cured by witchcraft. I took him to the Wise Woman and she put something on it and said a few words and the pain stopped, and it got quite well. Doctors are no good; they only cut one about. I was kicked by a horse and the pain was terrible. I drank a lot of vodka and it did no good; then I went to the Wise Woman and she put ointment on the place and she spoke away the pain. We think it’s best to be cured like this—village fashion.” I knew this practice existed, but it was curious to find it so near Moscow. It was like finding witchcraft at Surbiton.