In the year 1876 in all our papers, and in every mouth, were variations on the same theme:
"England is the principal cause of all our sacrifices and losses. England's obedient slave, Turkey, refuses all our most legitimate demands in favour of our co-religionists, our brethren by race. Turkey's insolent opposition is England's doing. Besides, the Russian Government hesitated to present her Ultimatum to the Sultan—not being prepared for war."
And so it really was. Russia then was as pacific and unprepared for fighting as she was at the beginning of the present gigantic Armageddon. Russia imagined that everybody understood that she was not coveting new acquisitions, and was quite unprepared for war, which was true enough—indeed she seemed as if she never cared to be prepared. She lived in a fool's Paradise, insisting on universal peace as at The Hague Conference, and as if the whole world were composed of "the friends" (better known as "Quakers").
The present diabolical war has taught us many good lessons, including the necessity for prudence in the future. It will also teach us to develop our own endless resources without depending on foreign help, which is always paid for not only at usual, but at monstrous prices, such as those which now exist at Petrograd and Moscow.
But hostile as Russia was in 1876 to any kind of war, yet, when the Balkan troubles commenced, crowds of poor Russians, preferring death to peace at any price, rushed to that country, concealing even from their relatives and friends their determination to support the Slavs, notwithstanding the complete unpreparedness of the latter. That was perhaps pure folly on the part of our volunteers, but a sublime and heroic folly, of which we are now proud. At that time, however, I, at all events (in spite of all) only felt the bitterness of indignation and despair with our Government and with England's policy.
My brother, Nicholas, as a member of the Slavonic Benevolent Society, went to Belgrade, Sofia and Cettingje. But he went armed only with money collected for ambulances and for the establishment of medical depôts, where medical aid could be obtained. The insurrection in Bosnia and Herzegovina was already spreading, and no preparations had been made. The helplessness of the wretched Balkan Slavs was simply appalling. As Nicholas had distributed all the money entrusted to him, and had sent in all his accounts to the Benevolent S. Society to the last copeck, our brother Alexander and I expected his speedy return to Russia.
In fact, I had Alexander's letter in my pocket, where he spoke of Nicholas' splendid business-like arrangement, when I read in all the papers a short but terrible telegram: "Hadji Ghiray is killed at Zaitcher"—it was Nicholas Kiréeff. He had joined the Serbians under an assumed name, as we later discovered.
My horror at this news was indescribable. I could not believe it. But it was soon followed by a wire from Alexander which said: "The Emperor has sent for me and informed me of our brother's death. He allows me to go to you at once, and we will go to see Mother in Italy. She must be now at Lucca, and probably knows nothing as yet of our misfortune."
I shall hope to be forgiven for quoting Kinglake's account of my brother's sacrifice. It was characteristically Russian in its Quixotism:
"The young Nichol ... Kiréeff was a noble, and being by nature a man of an enthusiastic disposition, with the romantic example before him in the life of his father, he had accustomed himself to the idea of self-sacrifice. Upon the outbreak of Prince Milan's insurrection, he went off to Servia with the design of acting simply under the banner of the Red Cross, and had already entered upon his humane task, when he found himself called upon by General Tchernaieff to accept the command of what we may call a brigade—a force of some five thousand infantry, consisting of volunteers and militiamen, supported, it seems, by five guns; and before long, he not only had to take his brigade into action, but to use it as the means of assailing an entrenched position at Rakovitz. Young Kiréeff very well understood that the irregular force entrusted to him was far from being one that could be commanded in the hour of battle by taking a look with a field-glass and uttering a few words to an aide-de-camp; so he determined to carry forward his men by the simple and primitive expedient of personally advancing in front of them. He was a man of great stature, with extraordinary beauty of features, and, whether owing to the midsummer heat, or from any wild, martyr-like, or dare-devil impulse, he chose, as he had done from the first, to be clothed altogether in white. Whilst advancing in front of his troops against the Turkish battery he was struck—first by a shot passing through his left arm, then presently by another one which struck him in the neck, and then again by yet another one which shattered his right hand and forced him to drop his sword; but, despite all these wounds, he was still continuing his resolute advance, when a fourth shot passed through his lungs, and brought him, at length, to the ground, yet did not prevent him from uttering—although with great effort—the cry of 'Forward! Forward!' A fifth shot, however, fired low, passed through the fallen chief's heart and quenched his gallant spirit. The brigade he had commanded fell back, and his body—vainly asked for soon afterwards by General Tchernaieff—remained in the hands of the Turks."[[1]]