Nikolsk is a forlorn little townlet three hundred and forty two miles from
Kostroma, and four hundred and sixty-two miles from Vologda, the' capital of the province.
Its population is three thousand, of whom five hundred are banished revolutionaries and strike
leaders. A few old houses with carved and painted thresholds and window frames, some green-roofed;
a sprinkling of little shops, and a wee market place — that is Nikolsk. You can walk round it in
half an hour.
It is, however, an important town, and the Council of Nikolsk, the Zemstvo,
has sway over an immense territory. The Councillors, they say, are mostly illiterate, and sign
their names with crosses. Fortunately the pines need no policing.
But if man made the town, and the Devil made the country-town, Nikolsk is a
fair specimen of the latter's handiwork. It is a little hell — a place where the only interesting
profession is that of the policeman. It reminded me of that town in Gogol's comedy, where the
postmaster, finding life tedious, spends all his time reading the letters, where the police attend
the places where crimes are committed, simply to receive their fees from the criminals, where
the patients in the hospital are three in a bed and all drunk, and the Governor is a robber.
"Government," as Motley said, "exists solely for the benefit of the Governors."
From my first coming into Nikolsk I was a watched man. I have since learned that
pilgrims as a rule, make a detour to escape the place, for they know it is quite inhospitable and
that all the food there is twice as dear as it ought to be. So when I came in there was considerable
curiosity. People came to their windows and peeped, and police dodged about street corners watching
my movements.
The more they looked at me the less they liked me; top half gentleman, lower half
peasant. I was very strange. No doubt they thought I was a dangerous character.
I must say I was perfectly unsuspicious. I had no idea that the police were
watching and stalking me, and that orders and counter-orders were being given about me, and that
it was decided to capture me at dusk. But when afterwards I found myself tracked down, and asked
to accompany a gendarme to the office of the Chief of police, I understood how I had been watched.
For I spent a long time in Nikolsk before I found a shelter, and I ate a meal at a
baker's shop, and spent half an hour at the post-office. I even wrote letters which I afterwards
discovered that the police had opened. I tried to find shelter at at least six private houses —
there were no inns in the town — and I wandered in and out, up and down every street and lane, and
out of the town at both ends and back again. Only. suddenly when I had almost despaired of finding
shelter, someone beckoned to me from a window and invited me inside. And when later I was taken
to the office of the isfravmk, I saw they had it all noted down.
For my part, I had been exceedingly glad to find a lodging at last. The
townspeople had all been abominably suspicious or fainthearted, and would not even open their
doors to talk to me. All was locked against the outsider. It was a friendly-looking woman who at
length had signalled to me and told me to come in.
I climbed up a rickety back stairway, and groped my way to the room from
which the woman had called me. My gladness was mollified when I saw the accommodation — in one room
a chair, a balalaika and a pistol, and in another a table, a form and a chair. At the table two
men were sitting, eating a meal; the woman still stood at the window as if watching for someone.
The men surveyed me up and down. One was a young fellow about twenty, a Little
Russian, and the other a Great Russian of about thirty-five. The latter was apparently the guest
of the other. The young man stared at me, and asked me the usual questions. He evidently found my
answers very extraordinary, and I heard him whisper several times to his comrade the words —
"A case, isn't it. There really is something in this." "You'd better take off those baskets,"
said he to me, pointing to my lapti. "Make yourself at home. Have a glass of vodka."
My refusal to have vodka somewhat disconcerted him. "Then take something to eat,"
he said.
There was cod on the table, not on any plate, not even in paper, but flat on
the wood, and beside it a litter of cold potatoes boiled in their skins. There was a basin of
ugly-looking mushrooms, and a half-finished bottle of vodka. I was not tempted, and the sight
of the men pulling the fish apart with their fingers, and eating the potatoes dirt and all,
and skin and all, was revolting.
I said I would have some tea.
"Ah yes," said the Little Russian, rubbing his temple contemplatively with
a forefinger "that must be brought. Marfa, inquire about the samovar. It may be late, but you
won't mind waiting." Marfa made a grimace and went out. Then the Little Russian introduced his
comrade in the following words —
"This is Fedor Matveitch Potemkin, leader of the choir, and I am a singer.
That is our profession. Speak to him as to a bosom friend. He is a noble man, and learned beyond us.
Show him some of your learning, Fedka."
Fedka grunted. He was a dark, well-dressed drunkard, with a concentrated
expression in his eyes. He looked as if he were secretly enraged. The Little Russian continued.
"Have a potato; you must be hungry. You won't have one? Don't like them, eh?
Well, what is it you want? The Samovar — oh yes, I had forgotten. What is that box you've got?
A camera; show it me."
He showed it to the choirmaster. They examined it. "It's no use," said the
latter, "worth nothing; no good here anyway."
"Oh but it is," said his companion. "You're wrong, Fedka. What's it for?
How does it work?" I explained to him the working. "How much does such a thing cost?" the Little
Russian asked.
"I bought it in London," I replied. "You couldn't buy it here. But in Moscow
you might get it for thirty or forty roubles."
He raised his eyebrows and looked at his friend. They stared at one another in
silence and I knew they were wondering how they could best steal it. I was in a den of thieves.
Marfa came in and whispered something. "Go and borrow one somewhere," I heard
the Little Russian tell her.
"What is it?" asked the choirmaster. "Haven't you got a samovar now?"
"No Fedka, I've sold it ; sold it for one and sixpence, and it cost twelve
shillings. The fact is, we were moving into new lodgings. I thought we should move, and to save
trouble in moving, I just sold the samovar. Money is easier to carry than a samovar. But now it
turns out that we're not moving. So that makes ten shillings dead loss. And I couldn't well afford
it. Byeda! A calamity! Just think of it."
"That's not good," said the choirmaster.
The Little Russian waved his hand despairingly.
"You ought to buy it back," his comrade added.
"I shall; yes I shall buy it back. It must be done at the first opportunity.
I'll sell something else and buy it back."
He looked at me with a new interest. "You want a pair of boots," he said.
"I'll sell you a pair. These, for instance." He tapped his own high jack-boots, "better, no man
ever looked upon. I'll sell them to you for forty shillings." I demurred, pointing out the fact
that they were too small for me. This was an indisputable fact, and he didn't even offer to
measure; he agreed.
"Well then," he said, "as a traveller you must be in need of maps.
Look here what I've got."
He went into another room and brought a tattered geography book, and offered
to sell me loose maps. He explained three or four maps incorrectly. It was evident he could not
read, for he described a chart of the night sky in June as a map of Greece.
"I won't say a price," he urged mysteriously. "But what do you offer?"
He spoke friendlily, as if indeed I were an old friend of his, but I saw by his
face that he was capable of making a quick change of front. He chose to get angry, because I would
not buy his tattered maps and several times appealed to his companion for moral support. He called
Marfa again, and told her to fetch a bed for me to sleep in. "You're tired, of course?"
I said I didn't want to sleep before having tea. In myself I determined that
I wasn't going to sleep there on any account. The mattress, for one thing, was filthier than that
of a moujik, even of a dirty moujik. For another thing I reckoned on losing some of my things if
once my eyelids fell upon my vigilance.
"Oh, Devil take me," said the singer. "Go Marfa, and borrow a samovar somewhere
or fetch in some hot water, that's the same thing."
"Now look here," he added, addressing me. "I'm out of money at present.
You want some boots. You won't buy these that I'm wearing. I'm a bootmaker. Give me an order."
"You said you were a singer."
He waved his hand. "Joking apart, I'll make you a pair for eight roubles,
for eight roubles down, taking the money in advance, and that is a fair bargain." I did not answer.
"You agree," he suggested. I shook my head.
Some minutes later a cat came into the room; a mangy creature with one eye — the
other had been wickedly poked out sometime, probably by the Little Russian, I surmised. When
presently I tried to call it to me, kss-kss-kss, the bootmaker offered to sell it me for a
shilling.
No samovar came. The woman who had brought the mattress had gone to watch at
the window again. I had determined not to spend the night in this den and was asking myself how
I should manage to get away, when suddenly someone called up the stairs in a strident voice, "Vashka
is coming."
The two drunkards looked at one another with consternation, and the woman who
had been watching, ran out of the room.
"What does it mean?" asked the choirmaster. "I don't know," said the other,
"there's no reason for his coming."
"He knows we've got this man in here; that's it, cunning dog, he's smelt him out.
I say, friend, the gendarme is coming. Your little tale won't do now. You'd better just slip out
of the window and run for it." I did not, of course, feel alarmed. "Hide the photographic machine,"
said the Little Russian. "Let me hide it for you. If he sees that, he'll take it." But I refused
to bide my camera. There was more likelihood that they would themselves steal it or lose it or
break it. I really welcomed the interruption. I hoped to goodness the gendarme would arrest me,
and order me to follow him. In that way I should get clear of the drunkards. I did not fear the
police, for I had in my pocket the recommendation of the Governor of Archangel.
The drunkards looked at the gendarme solicitously and anxiously. "What is it,
Vasya?" said the Little Russian. "Why have you come to-day? Drink a glass of vodka with us!"
Vasya shook his head seriously. He really couldn't be on friendly terms with them
at present. He wouldn't even accept a cigarette. He came straight up to me, and putting one open
hand on my shoulder, ejaculated — "Please, your passport."
I gave him my Archangel letter, and he looked at it upside down. "What is this?"
he asked. I explained.
"You'll have to come at once to the office of the Ispravnik. He won't keep you
long."
"Surely it's not necessary," said the two men; "he's done no crime. Let him stay.
We will be surety." "It's only a form," said the policeman. "You'll wait till I dress," I said.
"I may be some time, as I have some difficulty in putting these on." I pointed to the portanki and
lapti. He agreed. Then from my knapsack I took a clean collar and tie, and an English jacket, and
made myself as important looking as possible, combed my hair and put on my linen putties and
birch-bark boots.
"You'll be free in an hour," said the Little Russian. "You'll come back, of
course. The samovar will be ready. We'll have a game of cards. You play Preference? No, oh then
we'll play vindt. Don't take your things; leave your cloak and your camera and your heavy sack."
"No. I think I'll take everything," I said. "For who knows, perhaps I may be
in prison all night, perhaps I may be sent out of the town — God only knows what may not happen."
The policeman took up an indifferent attitude. If I left my things, that was
my affair. I did not, however, leave anything, for I was perfectly sure I should not return.
I told the gendarme that I was travelling to see the country and the people;
that I was a member of the "Society for the Exploration of Northern Russia"; that I had special
permits, and was not Russian but English. He was evidently impressed. "Were not these people
thieves?" I asked. "Thieves and murderers," he replied, "the worst people in the town. If I'd
left you there, they'd have stripped you. Lord knows what they wouldn't have done. You
can be very thankful to me. Observe that I refused to be won over to their side. I refused a
glass of vodka."
"You shan't be a drink the worse because of me," I said. This reassured him.
"But what an inhospitable town, where all doors are shut but those of the
houses of thieves! I tried at least six places before I entered there."
"I know," said the policeman. "I saw you. I have been at several houses myself.
The fact is, you slipped in here at the bootmaker's unexpectedly." "He is a bootmaker then?"
"Yes; that used to be his profession, but he doesn't make boots now. He only
steals them. You'd have had a bad time if I hadn't come up. I arrested you for your own good."
"That's a bit unusual, isn't it?" said I.
. . .
The upshot was that the Ispravnik found me a safe lodging, and invited me to
dinner next day. At eleven o'clock at night the same policeman who had arrested me was ordered
to escort me to my lodging and save me from any molestation.
"The choristers will be waiting for us," said the gendarme.
"If they ask you any questions, don't answer. They'll owe me a big grudge for taking you away from
them. They won't like it. I shall go in danger of my life. But I couldn't bear to think of their
robbing you in the night. I had to save you; it was as God ordered."
"But if they're such dangerous characters why don't you put them under
lock and key?" I replied.
The gendarme sniffed. "If we put all the rabble in prison there would be
nobody left." "Your occupation would be gone?" "Yes, we should have to become moujiks and plough
the fields, just to get the bread in." I laughed.
As we walked through the dark town, the policeman kept looking nervously around
him as if in expectation.
Presently I saw the two choirmen lurking ahead. The Little Russian came up.
"What's the business?" he asked. "What has he done?"
"He will be sent out by etappes," replied the gendarme.
"How?"
"Under convoy to Ust-Yug."
We marched on hurriedly, and they walked at the side.
"But where is he going to-night?" asked the Great Russian.
"He is going to the guardhouse, and is leaving the town at once."
"That I don't believe. But what crime has he committed?"
"Go away," said the gendarme; or you'll get me into trouble. There's an officer
at the corner."
They obeyed, and as they slunk off the Little Russian smiled and whispered —
"Don't fear. We'll see you as you go out. Is there anything you'd like us to
look after for you. The police are all thieves."
I said not, and the policeman grinned and shook his head. Three minutes later
we had arrived at the posthouse.
"Now we're fairly safe," said the gendarme. "If you'd stayed there they'd have
stripped you and turned you out naked into the street. As it is you'll have to be careful.
They'll find out where you are and ask to see you. They'll try to climb through the window.
But you are safe if you refuse to see anyone, and bar your windows."
I was put into a decent bedroom, and the gendarme departed. I obtained a
samovar and had tea. Afterwards, when I was preparing to go to bed, the gendarme returned again.
"The Ispravnik sends his compliments," said he, "and asks you to dinner
to-morrow. Please understand he does not command you to come. You are fully at liberty not to
go, and no harm will follow if you do not come." I said I would go.
The Ispravnik was a well-fed, well-groomed rotund little fellow,
who eyed me with an immense amount of amusement, when he saw me come into his apartments in lapti.
I must say his merriment was rather trying to my nerves, for it is not possible to walk briskly
up to one's host and shake hands when one is shod in such boots. I came forward slowly, like
a doubtful peasant. The worthy official had the advantage of me in a pair of soft Vienna shoes.
"It's the truth, I swear to God, the very truth," said the Ispravnik, turning
to his wife, "top half dzhentdman, lower half moujik." Dzhentelman is a word borrowed from the
English: it takes its stand with such amazing borrowings as "Komfortabelny," "ekstraordinaree,"
"fife-oklok."
"The top half has to walk at the rate the bottom half wants,"
said the official. "But now to dinner; that's the chief thing, and then tell us all your doings."
We made a meal of bright red beetroot soup, roast salmon and sweet peerog.
It was the fast of the Assumption, but the official didn't live like a poor peasant.
For my part, I wasn't sorry to taste a good meal after a month of milk,
rye bread, potatoes and mushrooms. My host purveyed wine and found himself a cigar; the women
left the table, and we were left to converse of Russia.
It is a subject no Russian ever gets tired of. Russians in their hearts
all love Russia; even her defects and her sorrows, and they despise the West. Hence this
criminal-tamer or menagerie-keeper or bribe-taker, or organiser of corruption, or whatever may
have been his role in this benighted little town, warmed and glowed with pleasure as I sang the
praises of his native land.
"You are right, you. are right," said he. "Russia will hold itself together
when everything else has fallen to bits. It will be a great nation when Germany and the West
are forgotten."
"But not till then?" I urged with gentle mockery. "But not till then,"
he applauded. "Akh Fedka, bring us in another bottle of port."
 |
The church of Holy Cross over the river Sukhon
|
My host grew merry, and told me many anecdotes of life in the town, told me
the various stories of myself that were already abroad in the town. For my coming had really
caused a great deal of emotion. Most people said I was a robber escaped from banishment, but
now that I was the guest of the governor, they would say I was an emissary from St.-Petersburg.
"But emissary from St Petersburg, or robber, or English correspondent,
it's the same thing," said he, "the same thing. I've known men who were all three."
We laughed over the passport system. "God made man in four parts," said
the Ispravnik, "body, soul, spirit, and passport; and when Adam jumped up from the soil, God
tapped him on the shoulder and said sharply, 'Passport,' and Adam picked up his passport
lying beside him, and saw his name 'Adam' written there, and the year of his birth One, and
the name of his village Eden, and God read it and saw that it was good, and He charged him to
take care of it."
"Strange things happen through passports," said my host. "Here is a story.
Two men going to penal servitude met in the convict train and exchanged passports; one was an
old man going for three years, and the other a young one going for twenty years. By exchanging
passports they exchanged punishments. The young man gave the older one thirty roubles in
consideration of the extra years, but of course the latter did not mind, and indeed he died
shortly afterwards, with nearly twenty years unserved. God won't make him serve those twenty
years after death. Hell is the same heat for all; for Ivan the Terrible, or Borgia, or Oliver
Cromwell. That's why I say 'Have a good time!' Though, of course, who believes in hell
nowadays? — Only the moujiks."
I asked him how the moujiks lived in the province; he was of opinion that
half of them went on pilgrimages, and the other half lived poorly, because there was not
enough labour on the fields. If the rye harvest was good, the peasants were happy and full,
but if it failed, they were unhappy and empty.
"Why don't they grow gardens full of kitchen vegetables, and so safeguard
themselves against failure of the crops?"
"Just because they have no sense of property. No one will grow a garden because
everyone else would poach on it. Potatoes and cabbages are always regarded as common property,
like water and air. The people prefer to breed pigs."
"What sort of country lies south of Nikolsk?" I asked, for I had little idea
of what was to be seen in Viatka or Kostroma: "What sort of moujiks?"
"Don't ask," said he, " don't ask. I've never visited them. It's the land of
the squires. I don't visit the moujiks, I visit the squires. They say there's unrest in Kostroma,
and cholera, and what not, but it's out of our ken. We should know more if we were on the railway."
It is unnecessary to record more of our small talk. We parted on the best of terms,
and on the morrow I set out upon my tramp once more.
