It may seem strange that the Duma, which was composed of the flower of intellectual Russia, and certainly had a large section of public opinion behind it, as well as prestige at home and abroad, should have capitulated so tamely.
The truth was that neither in the ranks of the moderate Liberals, nor in those of the Extremists, although they were in some cases men of exceptional talents, was there one man sufficiently strong to be a leader. The man of strong character was on the other side. He was Stolypin; and no one on the side of the Liberals was a match for him. The Liberals were journalists, men of letters, professors, and able lawyers, but there was not one man of action in their ranks.
As soon as the Duma was dissolved and no open revolution came about, I did not think there would be another act in the revolutionary drama for another ten years. I put this on public record at the time, and as it turned out, I was only a year out, as the revolution took place eleven years after the dissolution of the first Duma.
All through those summer months I saw many interesting sights, and made many interesting acquaintances.
One Sunday I spent the afternoon at Peterhof, a suburb of St. Petersburg, where the Emperor used to live. There in the park, amidst the trees, the plashing waterfalls, and the tall fountains, “les grands jets d’eau sveltes parmi les marbres,” the lilac bushes, and the song of many nightingales, the middle classes were enjoying their Sunday afternoon and the music of a band. Suddenly, in this beautiful and not inappropriate setting, the Empress of Russia passed in an open carriage, without any escort, looking as beautiful as a flower. I could not help thinking of Marie Antoinette at the Trianon, and I wondered whether ten thousand swords would leap from their scabbards on her behalf.
The most interesting of my acquaintances in the Duma was Nazarenko, the peasant deputy for Karkoff. Professor Kovolievsky introduced me to him. Nazarenko was far the most remarkable of the peasant deputies. He was 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 had been through a course of primary education, and by subsequently educating himself he had assimilated a certain amount of culture. Besides this, he was an eloquent 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. And 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 Tolstoy.” 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 Tolstoy’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 of 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 Dostoievsky’s books?” “Yes; he knows all about the human soul. When I see a man going downhill, I know exactly how it will happen, and what he is going through, and I could stop him because I have read Dostoievsky.” “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 kind 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.