Russian Memories

by Olga Alekseevna Novikova

The death of Nicholas Kiréeff was a kind of spark falling on a train of gunpowder. In a month's time the whole of Russia was roused.

"The news of the death of Nicholas Kiréeff," said Aksakoff, in one of his most famous speeches, "at once stimulated hundreds to become volunteers—an event that repeated itself when the news was received of the deaths of further Russian volunteers. Death did not frighten, but, as it were, attracted them. At the beginning of the movement the volunteers were men who had belonged to the army, and chiefly from among the nobles. I remember the feeling of real emotion which I experienced when the first sergeant came requesting me to send him to Servia—so new to me was the existence of such a feeling in the ranks of the people. This feeling soon grew in intensity when, not only old soldiers, but even peasants, came to me with the same request. And how humbly did they persevere in their petition, as if begging alms! With tears they begged me, on their knees, to send them to the field of battle. Such petitions of the peasants were mostly granted, and you should have seen their joy at the announcement of the decision! However, those scenes became so frequent, and business increased to such an extent, that it was quite impossible to watch the expression of popular feeling, or to inquire into particulars from the volunteers as to their motives. 'I have resolved to die for my Faith.' 'My heart burns.' 'I want to help our brethren.' 'Our people are being killed.' Such were the brief answers which were given with great sincerity. I repeat there was not, and could not be, any mercenary motive on the part of the volunteers. I, at least, conscientiously warned every one of the hard lot awaiting him. Privations, wounds, and death were all that these volunteers could expect for themselves, but they rightly guessed that sooner or later the official Russian army would take up their cause."

In less than a month after my brother's death 75 officers of the Imperial Guards at Petrograd resigned their commission in the army, and hurried to Serbia; 120 officers at Moscow and Southern Russia did the same.

The impartial British Ambassador, Lord Augustus Loftus, informed his Government that according to private information 20,000 Cossacks were going to the Balkans in disguise. He also communicated the following characteristic letter:

"Even women, old men, and children speak of nothing but the Slavonic war. The warlike spirit of the Cossacks is on fire, and from small to great they all await permission to fall on the Turks like a whirlwind. At many of the settlements the Cossacks are getting their arms ready, with a full conviction that in a few days the order will be given to fall on the enemies of the Holy Faith and of their Slav brethren. There is at the same time a general murmuring against diplomacy for its dilatoriness in coming to the rescue. Deputies have arrived from many of the Cossack settlements to represent to the Ataman that the Cossacks are no longer able to stand the extermination of the Christians."

Lord Augustus Loftus reluctantly admitted that "neither the Emperor nor Prince Gortschakoff are now able to resist the unanimous appeal of the nation for intervention to protect and save their co-religionists." At that time Russia knew perfectly well that nobody outside her realms cared to share her sacrifices and her work, and that the greatest part of England even threatened her with war—an eventuality which certainly could not be contemplated with indifference.

The tragedy at Zaitschar had lighted a flame that spread throughout the length of Russia. Enormous sums of money were offered with reckless generosity. Foreigners who witnessed the enthusiasm of the movement were astonished. They did not understand the romantic chivalry of the Russian nature. Ivan Aksakoff, the President of the Benevolent Slav Society in Moscow, alone collected more than a million roubles, and everywhere Red Cross Societies sprang up with a suddenness that was amazing. I belonged to the Moscow Red Cross Committee. It was one of our duties to collect money and material for ambulance work. I recollect vividly, although forty years have since passed, how people of all sorts and conditions came to us with their offerings. Women of fashion tendered their jewels, paupers their copper coins. Everybody gave what he could.

I could write volumes about what occurred in those glorious yet tragic days. Everywhere I encountered examples of a deep religious enthusiasm that seemed to animate the whole country, irrespective of class; yet the foreign Press saw in this spontaneous movement only a sham engineered for political purposes.

The years '76 and '77 formed a grand page of Russian history—years of real crusade in our prosaic, materialistic nineteenth century. The crowds of Russians who rushed to meet almost certain death in heroic defence of their oppressed and unarmed Christian brethren in the East, the vast sums of money, offered with spontaneous and reckless generosity, astonished all those foreigners who witnessed the marvellous enthusiasm of that movement.