The first thing everybody did was to make themselves thoroughly comfortable: to arrange mattresses and pillows for the night; then they began to make each other’s acquaintance. We had not travelled far before the gipsies began to sing on the platform, and this created some interest. They suggested fortune-telling, but the ex-soldier shouted at them in a gruff voice to begone. One of the officials had his fortune told. The gipsy said she could do it much better for five roubles (ten shillings) than for a few kopecks, which he had given. I had my fortune told, which consisted in a hurried rigmarole to the effect that I was often blamed, but never blamed others; that I could only work if I was my own master, and that I would shortly experience a great change of fortune. The gipsy added that if I could give her five roubles she would tie a piece of bark in my handkerchief which, with the addition of a little bread and salt, would render me immune from danger. The gipsies soon got out. The journey went on uneventfully—
Le moine disait son bréviaire,
La femme chantait,
as in La Fontaine’s fable. We had supper and tea, and the ex-soldier related the experiences of his life, saying he had travelled much and seen the world (he was a Cossack by birth), and was not merely a Moujik. This offended one of the peasants, a bearded man, who walked up from his place and grunted in protest, and then walked back again.
They began to talk politics. The Cossack was asked his opinion on the attitude of the Cossacks. He said their attitude had changed, and that they objected to police service. The photographer from Tchelabinsk corroborated this statement, saying he had been present at a Cossack meeting in Siberia. Then we had a short concert. The photographer produced a mandoline and played tunes. All the inmates of the carriage gathered round him. One of the peasants said: “Although I am an ignorant man” (it was the peasant who had grunted) “I could see at once that he wasn’t simply playing with his fingers, but with something else” (the tortoiseshell that twangs the mandoline). He asked the photographer how much a mandoline cost. On being told thirty roubles he said he would give thirty roubles to be able to play as well as that. Somebody, by way of appreciation, put a cigarette into the mouth of the photographer as he was playing.
Then I went to bed in the next compartment; but not to sleep, because a carpenter, who had the bed opposite mine, told me the whole story of his life which was extremely melancholy. The volunteer appeared later; he had been educated in the Cadet-Corps, and I asked him if he would soon be an officer. “I will never be an officer,” he answered; “I don’t want to be one now.” I asked him if a statement I had read in the newspapers was true to the effect that several officers had telegraphed to the Government that unless they were relieved of police duty they would resign. He said it was quite true; that general discontent prevailed among officers; that the life was getting unbearable; that they were looked down upon by the rest of the people, and besides this they were ordered about from one place to another. He liked the officers whom he was with very much, but they were sick of the whole thing. Then towards one in the morning I got a little sleep. As soon as it was daylight everybody was up, making tea and busily discussing politics. The priest and the tradesman were having a discussion about the Duma, and every one else, including the guard, was joining in.
“Do you understand what the Duma was?” said the tradesman; “the Duma was simply the people. Do you know what all that talk of a movement of liberation means? It means simply this: that we want control, responsibility. That if you are to get or to pay five roubles or fifty roubles you will get or pay five roubles or fifty roubles, not more and not less, and that nobody will have the right to interfere; and that if some one interferes he will be responsible. The first thing the Duma asked for was a responsible Ministry, and the reason why it was dissolved is that the Government would not give that.”
The priest said that he approved of a Duma, but unless men changed themselves no change of government was of any use. “Man must change inwardly,” he said.
“I believe in God,” answered the tradesman, “but it is written in the Scripture that God said: ‘Take the earth and cultivate it,’ and that is what we have got to do; to make the best of this earth. When we die we shall go to Heaven, and then”—he spoke in a practical tone of voice which settled the matter—“then we shall have to do with God.” The priest took out his Bible and found a passage in the Gospel. “This revolutionary movement will go on,” he said, “nothing can stop it now; but, mark my words, we shall see oceans of blood shed first, and this prophecy will come true,” and he read the text about one stone not being left on another.
Then they discussed the priesthood and the part played by priests. “The priests play an abominable part,” said the tradesman; “they are worse than murderers. A murderer is a man who goes and kills some one. He is not so bad as the man who stays at home and tells others to kill. That is what the priests do.” He then mentioned a monk who had preached against the Jews in the South of Russia. “I call that man the greatest criminal, because he stirred up the peasants’ blood, and they went to kill the Jews. Lots of peasants cease to go to church and say their prayers at home because of this. When the Cossacks come to beat them, the priests tell them that they are sent by God. Do you believe they are sent by God?” he asked, turning to the bearded peasant.