“All countries are in the same condition for a man who desires to attract to himself the attention of the authorities—vous m’entendez! But that is not all! I have my personal amour-propre.... Sacrebleu! I have my internal policy; I have my prerogatives! I wish to introduce my view—sapristi! I wish that people should act in harmony with my views, not in contradiction to them. It is my right; if you like to put it so, it is my caprice. You lay a responsibility on me; you demand of me this and that ... allow me, too, to have my caprice. I hope that this does not amount to any monstrous pretentiousness on my part?”
“But the law, monseigneur? How can you reconcile caprices with the law?”
“La loi! Parlez moi de ça! nous en avons quinze volumes, mon cher!”[[33]]
Here our conversation broke off. Although the administrative theory expressed in the last exclamation of my interlocutor was quite new to me, still I acknowledge frankly that the coolness with which he spoke of the law pleased me. Monseigneur Maupas had often said to me, “In case of need, mon cher, even the law can alter,” but he said it softly, as if afraid that any one should hear. And now suddenly—this clearness, this daring, this élan—how could one fail to be charmed by them! The Cossacks are a bold race altogether, and inclined to see enemies where we, people of an older civilisation, see only protection and surety. These people are absolutely fresh, and are free from all those prejudices which burden the life of a Western. They look upon the so-called “moral duties” with the most easy-going cheerfulness, but, on the other hand, no one can compare with them in matters of physical exertion; and as for their activity at table, with the bottle, with women—there they are undoubtedly the first warriors in the whole world. I, for instance, have never once seen my amphytrion drunk, although the quantity of liquor consumed by him before my eyes is, indeed, hardly credible. Never once did he lay down his arms before the enemy, and all the effect that wine ever produced on him consisted in a change of colour and a certain extra animation in romancing.
“I CANNOT REMEMBER HOW THE CEREMONY WAS PERFORMED.”
I am none the less bound to acknowledge that the significance of Pompadours in Russian society continued to appear to me wanting in clearness. I could not conceive that there could exist anywhere an administrative caste, the duties of which should consist in hindering (I consider the word “intervene” too serious for such an occupation), and which, when reminded of the law, could answer, “’Pristi! nous en avons quinze volumes!” For the rest, I ascribed my doubts, not to my own want of comprehension, but rather to the prince’s incapacity to formulate his thought clearly. It was evident that he himself did not understand in what his administrative rôle consists; and this is quite comprehensible if we remember that in Russia up to the present time[[34]] the corps of cadets are regarded as the nurseries of the administration. In these institutions the pupils are put through a detailed course of study in only one science, which bears the name of “Zwon popêta razdawaiss”[[35]] (the prince was in an exceedingly merry humour when he told me this long name, and I am convinced that in no other European country is there a science with such a name); the other sciences, without which it is impossible to get on in any human society, are passed over more than superficially. It is, therefore, not in the least surprising that persons who have received such an education prove incapable of expressing their thoughts coherently and consequentially, but get along how they can with such senseless exclamations as “Sapristi!” “Ventre de biche!” “Parlez moi de ça!” and so on.
Only when the inhospitable Steppe received us in its stern embrace, that is to say, when we arrived at our destination, did I even to some extent realise what my exalted amphytrion meant by his prerogatives.
Until we entered the confines of that tract of country over which the Prince de la Klioukwà’s Pompadourical sway extended, his conduct was in some degree moderate. He beat the drivers with a leniency of which I can only speak with the greatest admiration (as for his behaviour when abroad, of that I need not speak—it was the very pink of courtesy). But no sooner did he see the boundary-post which marks the beginning of his jurisdiction, than he drew his sword from its scabbard, made the sign of the cross, and, turning to the driver, uttered a cry of gloomy significance. We flew along like an arrow from the bow, and the remaining fifteen versts to the posting station were taken at a gallop. He, however, considered that we were not going fast enough, for every five minutes he would encourage the driver with violent blows of his sword.
I was unable to understand the cause of his anger, but I have never seen any human being so enraged. I confess that I was very much afraid the axle-tree of our carriage would break, as, if that had happened, we should inevitably have perished. But to persuade him not to hurry the driver was impossible, for furious driving along the roads is one of those prerogatives to which the Pompadours most passionately cling.