One heavily whiskered old peasant of Kitsa made me see this injustice. We had crawled into Kitsa on the second night after the evacuation of Shenkursk, with the weather about twenty below zero and bringing with us ninety-seven wounded on sleds. The senior medical officer had selected the best houses in Kitsa for hospital purposes, and one could never forget how cheerfully on ten minutes' notice those peasant people got themselves and their things out of the way and helped to get the patients in and warm and fed. Two of these houses belonged to my bewhiskered friend. He was something of a magnate in Kitsa. And it turned out that we were to use his houses for hospital purposes for months after that night, sending him and his on their northward way, for safety in the company of refugees from seven other villages. His property interests in Kitsa, however, were too important in his old life to be ignored and in a few days he was back with a sled convoy as a common driver, a labor which he persisted in as long as the fortunes of war permitted for the sake of the opportunity it gave him to look things over. Knowing that the hospital was an American affair the old man was quite delighted that his houses had been chosen for this purpose.
"America dobra," he said to me exultantly.
One day I happened to discover that in both houses the private rooms in which the precious family possessions had been stored and secured by heavy padlocks had been broken open and the contents looted and despoiled. Most of the fabrics and silverware and family gods pulled out of trunks and bureaus were of no use or interest to soldiers and had been thrown on the floor and trampled underfoot. It was wanton and heartless, and believing that our boys had at least had a hand in it I was ashamed and chagrined. It was painful to remember the gleam of faith in the old Mongolian eyes when he said "America dobra."
When he came again and I saw him the gloom on his face was terrible. He had seen the wreck. Apologetically I offered my condolences: "America ne dobra." "No," he said slowly in Russian, "no, war is at fault. War is not good. America dobra."
So I had to think again. I hadn't seen far enough into the soul behind this bushy face. And I didn't smile cynically as I handed him the cigarette.
After a while we learned to discriminate between "Amerikanski" and "Amerika." The peasants often handed us personal compliments, but we learned that when they praised America they were not talking about us but about an idea, an ideal, a dream—would I could say a fact!
These Russian peasants have not read American history. They do not know American politics. Most of them probably have not read five hundred words about America in all their lives. But they have heard and talked about America some, and thought about America more. Perhaps there are many well-read Americans who could profitably think about America more, even at a loss of time to read. And now the moujik of North Russia and his wife and children have all of them seen Americans—real live ones—and liked them.
How much the Russian peasant liked the American soldier it is a little difficult for me to convey without seeming to exaggerate. I was skeptical about it for months. It might be bear love. He was always begging for cigarettes, and one could easily see through his cupidity and simple craft. But I saw American soldiers billeted in Russian homes and mixing with the Russians so much that I am sure that I know the true sentiments in this case. I have been asked by English soldiers more than once: "Why is it that the Russians like the Yankees so much better than they do us?"
I asked this question, without the comparison, of an intelligent looking Russian soldier: "Why do you Russians like the Yanks so well?" "Because they shake hands like men," he answered thoughtfully. "Because they treat us as equals. Because they are good to the Russian people," and the next day when we were talking about the same subject he said: "It is because they represent America to us that we like the Yankee soldiers."
Yet there was another side to this picture. When first I came to Archangel there was in all people a wonderful faith in Mr. Wilson. I marveled how all these Russians could have learned so much about him. They knew what he had said. They knew what he stood for before the world. I wondered if the people at home knew as well. Pictures of the American President soon made their appearance and were given great prominence throughout the city and in every village. I was calling on the editor of a Russian newspaper hundreds of miles up the river one day. He could use a few English words and I a few Russian. Mr. Wilson's picture hung over his desk. "The friend of the Russian people," he said, pointing to the picture, and as he looked at it tears slowly gathered. Turning toward me he said brokenly: "He is the one man in all the world who can lead Russia out of her troubles." And I gathered that one reason for this faith was because the Bolsheviki respected and feared Mr. Wilson. This man was on the Bolshevik black list. His paper was radically socialistic, however, and the editor was quite distrustful of the results of the Allied expedition. But he believed in Mr. Wilson. "He will soon speak," he said, "and then all Russia will follow him."