Part 1

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THE LAND OF RIDDLES

(RUSSIA OF TO-DAY)

BY HUGO GANZ

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN AND EDITED BY

HERMAN ROSENTHAL

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON 1904

Copyright, 1904, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

_All rights reserved._

Published November, 1904.

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE PREFACE v

I. INTRODUCTION 1

II. WARSAW 8

III. WARSAW--_Continued_ 17

IV. ST. PETERSBURG 24

V. ST. PETERSBURG--_Continued_ 33

VI. ARTIST AND PROFESSOR--ILYA RYEPIN 44

VII. THE HERMITAGE 60

VIII. THE HERMITAGE--_Continued_ 69

IX. THE CAMORRA--A TALK WITH A RUSSIAN PRINCE 83

X. SÄNGER'S FALL 94

XI. THE PEOPLE'S PALACE OF ST. PETERSBURG (NARODNI DOM) 103

XII. RUSSIA'S FINANCIAL FUTURE 111

XIII. THE RUSSIAN FINANCES 123

XIV. A FUNERAL 133

XV. THE CHINOVNIK (THE RUSSIAN OFFICIAL) 144

XVI. THE SUFFERINGS OF THE JEWS 154

XVII. THE JEWISH QUESTION 167

XVIII. PLEHVE 173

XIX. THE ADMINISTRATION OF JUSTICE 182

XX. THE IMPERIAL FAMILY AS THE PUBLIC SEES IT 196

XXI. PUBLIC OPINION AND THE PRESS 206

XXII. SOME REALITIES OF THE LEGAL PROFESSION 217

XXIII. THE STUDENT BODY IN RUSSIA 226

XXIV. BEFORE THE CATASTROPHE 235

XXV. SECTARIANS AND SOCIALISTS 245

XXVI. MOSCOW 257

XXVII. MOSCOW--_Continued_ 270

XXVIII. A VISIT TO TOLSTOÏ 285

XXIX. A VISIT TO TOLSTOÏ--_Continued_ 295

XXX. A VISIT TO TOLSTOÏ--_Continued_ 310

PREFACE

In this volume is presented to American readers an unbiased description of the real state of affairs in Russia to-day. The sketches here brought together are the result of a special visit to Russia by Mr. Hugo Ganz, the well-known writer of Vienna, who was furnished with the best of introductions to the various circles of Russian society, and had thus exceptional opportunities to acquire reliable information.

Were not the reputation of the author and the standard of his informants alike absolutely above suspicion, it would seem incredible that such conditions as those depicted could exist in the twentieth century in a country claiming a place among civilized nations. Indeed, whereas Japan has incontestably proved that she is emerging from the darkness of centuries, Russia is content to remain in a state of semi-barbarism which might be looked for in the Middle Ages.

Since the sketches were written, the birth of an heir to the imperial throne and the assassination of Von Plehve have altered Russian conditions to a certain extent. But though the appointment of Svyatopolk-Mirski seems at first sight to afford ground for congratulation, it is evident that even with the best intentions the new minister of the interior will hardly be able to effect much amelioration until the entire system of the Russian government is changed.

Several of the articles in the following pages have appeared in the Berlin _Nation_ and in the Frankfort _Zeitung_, and have received very favorable notice in the German press. It is intended to publish an edition of the book in German, but the present translation is the only authorized one in the English language.

HERMAN ROSENTHAL

NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY, _October 1, 1904_.

THE LAND OF RIDDLES

(RUSSIA OF TO-DAY)

I

INTRODUCTION

Shortly before my departure from Vienna I chanced to meet an acquaintance, a Viennese writer.

"Are you really going to Russia?" said he. "I almost envy you, for it is to us a land of riddles. It has great artists and writers and undoubtedly a highly educated upper stratum of the nation; at the same time it displays political conditions really barbarous in their backwardness. How are these co-ordinated? How is the maintenance possible, in the close proximity of comparatively free governments, of a régime which knows no personal liberty, no privacy of the mails, and in which there is but one master--namely, the absolute police?"

"You are raising the very questions which lead me there," I replied. "We do not know Russia. We wonder at its great writers, but we cannot conceive how their greatness is possible under the existing conditions of public life, which remind one of a penitentiary rather than of a civilized state. And the question that persistently arises is whether our conception of these conditions corresponds to reality, or whether we are laboring under such a delusion as would befall one attempting to judge public life in Germany from the speeches of Bebel and other radicals. In truth, we know only the opposition or revolutionary literature of Russia; and, as far as appearances go, it is hardly credible that a system such as it describes and brands for its _inhuman_ wickedness can long retain the ascendency."

"You are going, then, without prejudices?"

"I think I may say that I have none. We have long been cured of the notion that one and the same form of government may be prescribed as the only one leading to contentment in all times and in all countries. Deductive philosophy in political science has been replaced by inductive realistic philosophy, and a true understanding of existing conditions appears now to us of greater moment than the most beautiful ideals. Above all things, I feel myself free from the childish moral valuation of different political beliefs. One person may be at the same time a conservative and a gentleman or a radical and a knave. Should I come to the conclusion that Russian absolutism is or can be defended in good faith by upright Russian patriots there will be nothing to prevent my freely admitting it. An unbiased observer should not be wedded to any doctrine."

"In that case I shall be doubly curious as to the results of your studies."

We parted.

I have cited here this characteristic conversation because it demonstrates better than any introduction what the intelligent European is nowadays eager to discover about Russia, and what led me in the depth of winter, at the critical moment before the outbreak of a great war, to the northern empire. That this war was imminent was then (at the beginning of January) apparent to every statesman free from official bias. There was scarcely a foreboding of it in Russia itself. For me, however, that particular moment was of value, for it offered an opportunity to study for a short time Russian society, first in a state of calm, and then in the excitement which naturally followed the declaration of war. I made provision for both war and peace and set out on my journey.

To be sure, I was not as light of heart as if I had been preparing to spend the winter on the Riviera or in Sicily. The climate had no terrors for me, for I knew that nowhere is one so well protected from the severity of the season as in the regions where ice and snow hold sway for at least one-third of the year. But it was the gorgon-headed Russian police that confronted me threateningly. My aim in travel was the study of political conditions, the unreserved discussion with clear-sighted and well-informed persons of the existing state of affairs. It was my purpose to record carefully my impressions and observations, and to report them to all who were interested in my studies. But we are told that all political conversation is forbidden in Russia. One may subject himself and his friends to great annoyance by allowing some meddling ear-witness to catch accidentally a fragment of a political conversation. Writing and note-taking are even more dangerous; for the police open all letters, and they are not deterred by any conscientious scruples from confiscating the notes even of foreigners when they appear suspicious. Ambassadors and consuls are loath to engage in altercations with the Russian police, for statesmanship enjoins friendly relations with the government of the powerful Russian empire, and when an inconvenient foreigner disappears somewhere in darkest Russia--as was the case with a French engineer who came in conflict with the police in a concert-hall and was never seen again--no one is disturbed by the incident. All these reflections were not cheering to me, who, besides, was unfamiliar with the language of the country. None the less was I averse to returning home without my whole skin or with empty hands.

Here I would state that I did not experience the slightest annoyance throughout my entire journey. I was not subjected to police surveillance, nor did I notice in my meagre correspondence the least trace of police interference--the latter being probably due to the extreme precautions taken by me in sending my mail in inconspicuous envelopes. And yet what a condition of things for a great country--that every traveller who wishes to enter its territory must arm himself with precautionary measures, as if he were preparing to visit a robber's den! Is it compatible with the usages of modern Europe, forsooth, that no step may be taken in this country without one's being provided with documents of identification; that one may not cross the boundary either into or out of the country without the special permission of the consulate or of the police? Is Russia a state or a prison? Is it a modern Tauris full of terrors to the stranger? I am not now speaking of the passport difficulties peculiar to Jews, who, generally speaking, can hardly obtain entrance to holy Russia, and who, when they succeed in gaining admission, must be in constant dread of unpleasantness in every town and in every hotel. I merely ask whether it is compatible with the good name of a state that still wishes to exchange courtesies with neighboring states to appear in the popular imagination as a ferocious monster ignoring right and without decency? How can trade and intercourse develop; how can the unimpeded flow of the sap of culture, the circulation of the national blood, take place in a land where terror guards the boundaries and where the reputation of arbitrariness impedes all progress? And what modern state or system of national economy may, without the unimpeded circulation of the sap of culture, maintain itself at a level corresponding to the modern requirements of its internal and external productive capacity? Are the advantages of an all-controlling police system in any degree proportionate to its innumerable economic disadvantages? Is the occasional annoyance of a really objectionable intruder sufficient compensation for the evil reputation which this system attaches to the whole country? It is a sheer impossibility to watch daily and hourly a hundred million people. Why are such enormous sacrifices made at all for the sake of an undertaking injurious in itself and, moreover, impossible of execution?

Such are the thoughts that the traveller approaching the frontier cannot escape. I may here say, in advance, that the police could not prevent my holding conversations throughout Russia with men in various walks of life on subjects very objectionable to the police officials. Is it worth while, then, to bear the evil repute that Russia is a prison where no man's life or property is secure? Apart from actual fact, the stranger does not know, before crossing the boundary, whether the police tyranny is really as inexorable as it is pictured and is believed abroad, but of this he is certain, that such an evil reputation does the country incalculable economic injury, and that a country with such an evil repute can never be regarded as mature from the economic stand-point, to say nothing of political honor, to which, perhaps, there is a disposition to attach less value in the high places of autocratic rule.

II

WARSAW

The express-train is nearing the frontier at dawn. We are greeted by the sleeping-car conductor with the significant announcement, "We shall soon be in Russia"--an announcement which, it must be confessed, produces a slight palpitation of the heart. We are now at the gate of a mysterious country, with passport and baggage in the best of order. A Russian consulate had found us worthy to set foot upon the soil of holy Russia, and had explicitly stated that fact in our passport. Travellers may journey without this certificate through the five continents, but if unprovided with it may not set foot on Russian soil. We have no weapons save our five fingers, and, above all, not a single printed book or newspaper that might cause trouble at the frontier, excepting the invaluable _Baedeker_, for the importation of books, as we already knew at home, is put under severe ban in the domain of the Holy Synod. None the less, a slight palpitation of the heart, a slight anxiety, are felt at the sight of a narrow bridge leading between two sentry-boxes over a small stream separating two countries--nay, two civilizations. Shall we find favor in the eyes of the almighty gendarme who enters our coupé with a polite bow, as we approach the station, and asks for our passport? May it not be that a secret police prohibition has preceded us, notwithstanding the regularity of our passport, and that it now precludes our entrance? Has not your pen sinned many a time against the knout and autocracy, and are you not, after all, if carefully examined, with all your scribbling, a thoroughly objectionable person in the eyes of the police--at least, when seen with Russian eyes?

But, thank Heaven, the world is great and I am insignificant; Russian censorship has not yet taken notice of all the sins of my pen; hence the same officer returns to me with the same bow my passport after the customs inspection. The holy Russian empire, from Warsaw to Vladivostok, is now exposed to my curious eyes.

The customs inspection was in itself a peculiar experience. The porter, a Pole with a good-natured, handsome face, takes our baggage and baggage-certificate, and invites us with a friendly gesture to follow him to the great inspection hall. The hall is scrupulously clean and no loud talking is heard there. The passengers take their places on one side of the inspection-table, the porters on the other, the latter in orderly file with their caps in their hands. They communicate with one another only with their eyes. _Silence_ has begun. I do not know whether it is purposely so, or whether it is merely incidental to the particularly strict local régime, that the implicit obedience, the silent subjection, and the irresistible power of despotism are here brought home so effectively to the stranger. But this impression remains with the traveller throughout the entire journey:

"Be silent, restrain yourselves, We are watched in word and look."

An empire of one hundred and thirty millions of prisoners and of one million jailers--such is Russia; and these jailers understand no joke. It is a terrible machinery, this despotism, with all its wheels working one within the other. It is relentless and keen in all its mechanism, henceforth no loud word shall be spoken. The official organs alone have a voice; private persons may speak only in low tones.

But how orderly, politely, and neatly do the officials and porters execute the examination and forwarding of our baggage when despotism wishes to reconcile people to its threatening silence. Only ten kopeks, turned into the common treasury, are asked for the handling of our large amount of baggage, and we are then led, together with the other travellers, to the Russian exit of the customs inspection hall. After a short wait there the gate is opened, and at a given signal we are marched out of the hall in single file to refresh ourselves, before the departure of the train, with a little breakfast.

Scrupulous cleanliness reigns in the large, airy restaurant also. We are in the land of caviar. Caviar sandwiches, appetizingly prepared, lie on the buffet-table. "Caviar" may also be found in one or another of the foreign papers offered for sale by the newsboys. When the censorship finds it inconvenient to eliminate entire pages whose contents are objectionable, it generously spreads printer's ink on the condemned passages, scatters sand over them, and puts the whole in the press. The result is a lattice-like pattern, not unlike in appearance to pressed caviar, to which the Russian, with good-natured self-derision, applies the term "press-caviar," an expression which has a two-fold meaning. Caviar is admittedly regarded as an easily digestible food. The Russian censor considers his caviar more useful and less harmful than that which ill-advised men in foreign countries allow themselves to print.

A few glasses of tea drawn from a samovar drive away the last traces of the morning frost, and, wrapped in fur coats, and with a feeling like that succeeding an adventure crowned with victory, we for the first time stroll along a Russian railway platform.

We again enter the coupé, now in charge of Russian attendants.

A long, monotonous ride through level, swampy country, over which there slowly floats the gray vapor of the locomotive, finally brings us at dusk to Warsaw.

Nothing oppresses the spirit more deeply than such a ten-hour monotony of leaden-gray skies, dirty-gray snow, and a thick, gray, smoky mist. The gendarmes in gray coats at the infrequent stations; the greasy Jews with their long coats of uncertain color; the secret police with their questionable gentility, never absent--all these are not calculated to relieve the painful feeling of sadness and dreariness. We were out of humor when we reached Warsaw. We believed that we had the right to expect crisp winter weather in Russia and were disappointed to find only mud and humidity. But perhaps Warsaw is not really Russia? Or are we still in central Europe? The evening at the hotel and the following days conclusively proved to us that Warsaw, indeed all Poland, with its climate, its civilization, its religion, and--its ideas, does not belong, in the real sense of the term, to Russia; that the isotherm which connects Russia proper with other regions of the same mean temperature runs considerably north of Poland. A Buckle would be puzzled by this fact alone. The dwellers could not be of the same race here nor the same system be possible. When, nevertheless, only one power rules here, it does so by violence and in spite of natural laws; it must give rise to resentment and can give no promise of permanence.

On my return journey from the heart of Russia I purposely suppressed the first impression gained by me in Warsaw, but when I was there again this impression reasserted itself even more strongly. Warsaw is no more Russia than Lemberg or Dresden, in spite of the overpowering Russian churches, in spite of the innumerable Russian officers and soldiers, in spite of the obligatory Russian signs on the stores, which, with some experience, may be deciphered as "Chajim Berlinerblau," or something similar.

Aside from its jargon-speaking Jews, Warsaw is pre-eminently a Catholic city, and its entire civilization is Roman Catholic. Its very situation is striking. Approaching it from the Vistula, one may see where the city had built its defences--towards the east! Thence came the enemy, the Mongol, the Russian. From the east there came barbarism and oppression, therefore the fortifications and walls were built on the river-bank commanding the valley of the Vistula, through which alone an enemy could come. From the west came only the blessings of civilization and religion, with its messengers that once were harbingers of civilization, and which, perhaps, still remain such in this region.

Warsaw is a beautiful and fashionable city when considered apart from the sections where the Jews are crowded together. The members of its elegant society know how to live in spite of national misery and oppression. Hotel Bristol, the finest hotel in the city, is their rendezvous. Here they meet one another at breakfast, at dinner, in the splendid English dining-room; men and women, guests from Prussian-Poland and Galicia, noble families of the partitioned kingdom. They are of one race, one class, one caste; they know one another, like members of the same club, and all approximately the same type--somewhat overslender forms, long, nervous hands, finely sculptured noses, sharply chiselled temples, angular foreheads, the women supple and lissome, each motion accompanied by a touch of polished affectation. When compared with this Polish aristocracy, the Russian officers, who eat at separate tables, leave the impression, with their German scholar-faces or Cossack physiognomies, of provincial backwardness. They are merely bourgeois in uniform even though they be real princes, while the Pole who has graduated from that high-school of refinement, the Jesuit boarding-school, is an aristocrat, a cavalier, from head to foot. They remain separate like oil and water. The Russian, even though he is the master, is of no consequence here. It is only necessary to observe for the space of an hour from some corner of the elegant dining-room of Hotel Bristol the behavior of the Polish society and the complete isolation of the Russian officers or officials; it is only necessary to be able to distinguish the groups from one another--the Baltic nobility with their almost bourgeois families, merchants from all the principal countries, Russian functionaries, and Polish society--and it will at once become clear who is at home here, firmly rooted to the soil, so that all others become strangers and intruders; it is the Poles and the Poles alone.