At Dukova, one of many villages in a populous district, I fell in with two
waggon loads of revolutionaries who had regained their liberty after having been confined some
years in the town of Nikolsk. They had hired waggons to take them to the Vologda railway. They
alighted at a large farmhouse, and ordered the samovar - at the same time that I was going from
house to house trying to find lodging for the night. They were an uproarious party of young men
and women, in tremendous spirits because of their regained liberty. I was feeling rather anxious
because of the cholera scare that caused people to be afraid of strangers, and I suppose one of
the girl-students noticed my plight, for she beckoned from the window and asked me to come in.
The farmer would take me for one of their party. Nothing loth, I walked straight in and sat down
amongst the company. The girl-student had taken me for a pilgrim, and in the dusk it was impossible
to see my face. I was asked the usual questions, but I did not reveal the fact that I was an
Englishman. My lapti proclaimed me a Russian peasant, and it amused me immensely to hear cultured
Russians addressing me as if I were a peasant, a person totally devoid of intellect. The men made
room for a moujik: the girl said, " Sit down, little father, thou must be weary; drink some tea.
Whence comest thou? But no need to answer, I see before thou speakest thou'rt a Vologda calf."
She imitated Vologda dialect and giggled.
I felt defrauded of my rights. One doesn't mind being taken for a peasant by
a peasant, but to be mistaken by one of one's own class, and a girl too; and to be thee-d and
thou-d in that way was intolerable. I could not deny myself.
"I'm not a Russian," I replied. "I'm English."
This she regarded as some enigmatical utterance such as peasants are for ever
making when other people laugh at them. There was, however, a momentary silence in the room.
Presently when a lamp was lit they all stared at me, and a strange constraint fell upon their
speech. They saw I was no peasant, but they were afraid I might be a police agent sent to spy
upon them and try to overhear their plans for the future. I increased their suspicions when
I mentioned the name of one of their fellow exiles to whom I had talked at Nikolsk. But I managed,
after all, to convince them that I was honest, and we all talked open heartedly and gaily
before half an hour was over.
"I'll tell you," said I, "what you thought I was; you thought I was a police
spy. But you can be quite. sure that the Russian Government will not employ men to go about in
a garb like mine, whilst it is quite easy to bribe some of you yourselves."
"What do you mean?" asked a young fellow, indignantly.
"In every thirteen there is a Judas, an Azof, or a Father Gapon. Your worst
enemies will come disguised as students and revolutionaries, but not as peasants or pilgrims."
They looked very sorrowful at that and nodded their heads. They knew it was only
too true.
One very amusing thing happened just before the exiles departed. It showed the
students' ignorance of the country and the road. They asked how much the farmer wanted for the use
of his samovar — the students themselves had provided tea, sugar, bread and so forth. "Fourpence,"
said the farmer, meaning fourpence for the whole party. But the exiles took it to mean fourpence
each, and actually paid it all round, fourpence for two glasses of hot water. The old farmer
perceived their mistake.
The expression of his face whilst he received the money, fifteen copecks from
each, was a study of repressed emotions. He saw I didn't pay. I smiled.
"All right, grandfather," I said. "I don't belong to the party. I'm on the road.
You've got enough money."
The old man grinned. Some of the others, especially one who was a Jew,
wondered if they needed to have paid. The exiles went away in their waggon. I stayed the night,
and slept on a wretched bench. Next morning I said to the old farmer —
"Well grandfather, am I to pay you anything?"
"No, no," he said, putting one arm on my shoulder. "You're poor, I expect. I
take no money from you as I ask for mercy."
...
The road was dry and straight, the day thrice beautiful, the lapti lay
comfortably on my feet, and I accomplished many miles, sleeping next evening at Osinovka. Thence
I passed through desolate country to a village on a hill where I saw a strange sight. This was at
Paolovo. The whole village had been burned away during the hay-making season, and now over the
charred ruins the population was engaged building new houses. Man, woman and child seemed to be
at work, and they swarmed over the ruins like ants over an ant-heap that has been kicked over.
The fire broke out one morning in July when everyone was in the fields cutting
hay. Only the aged and the infants remained in the houses and there was no one to come and give the
villagers notice. A high wind raged, and in two hours forty-one houses were burned out. The heat
was so fierce that no one dare come near. Several rabies perished, and one woman who tried to get
indoors and save her child died also. Very little was saved; only a few infants, Ikons and samovars,
and the fire burned every house north of the one in which it started. South of that house all the
village was saved. But not only were houses burned, but the post-station, the trees, the telegraph
poles, the vodka shop, the church — all went down in the great blaze.
It was a great calamity, but it was borne cheerfully and the families were all
housed either in the remainder of Paolovo or in the neighbouring hamlets. Two families living in
one room ! It is a close pack.
I slept in one of the houses of Paolovo, and there were two families housed
in one room there, and yet they did not refuse me hospitality. They even gave me one of the best
corners to sleep in. But in that room there were two old men, one old woman, one married woman of
about thirty, another of about eighteen, the latter had a baby at her breast, the two husbands, a
girl of about fourteen, and four other children. I am sure they didn't consider their position a
hardship, though of course they regarded it as inconvenient. They all undressed and lay down on
mattresses on the floor or on the oven — without a shadow of shame or self-consciousness. But then
true peasants are like that all the world over; they are "healthy animals."
Again my night's lodging and samovar and rye bread was offered me for nothing,
but as ever, I paid for my bare food. Peasants are not in a position to give me food for nothing:
poor peasants who may easily starve before the winter is over. Next day I arrived in Vetluga.
I had hastened on, taking advantage of a harvest cart, but when I got to the
town it was difficult to find lodging. Dressed properly, I should have got into a hotel; dressed
unmistakably as a peasant or a pilgrim I should have found shelter at a low inn. No one in a
private house would listen to me; the people were too feared of cholera. At length, however,
I did find shelter, but in about the worst establishment in the place.
I obtained a little square room with a table and a truckle bed. The bed had a
dirty red mattress covered with a muddy blanket. The table was a two-legged one, originally
four-legged, and had to be fixed against the window ledge. Then on the uncovered floor and on the
tattered walls were aged insects. I did not think of sleeping, but wrote letters by a little oil
lamp on the two-legged table. Downstairs was a restaurant and beer-house open till four in the
morning, and I went down about midnight to see what was going. A man was playing on a guitar to
three or four drunkards. I sat and listened. Presently the musician was singing in a maudlin
voice —
"Ah if you only knew how my heart aches.
The grief deep down, the torturing sorrow,
The pain of love, the grief of my soul" — when we were disturbed by shouts and screams in the
private apartments. The musician paused a moment and then continued his song, but I went quickly
out, for the noise seemed to come from my room.
On the stairs a tall man was struggling with one of the serving-men. He had
occupied the room next to mine and had fallen foul of the waiter for looking through the keyhole.
Apparently the tenant had been infringing the regulations of the hotel by having company after
the proper hours. The waiter's curiosity had been stronger than his sense of duty.
When I came on the scene the occupant of the room seemed to be getting the
worst of it, for the waiter had his head down and was pommelling it. Then a woman who was
apparently a friend of the former, ran to his assistance and began clawing at the waiter's eyes.
The customer got up, and seeing me, appealed to me and shouted —
"It's the police we want, bear witness how this villain set upon me, a spy,
look at his face, look at his gallows face — not a Russian, a Georgian spy I swear to God, a type,
I swear to God. I'll have the police on you if I have to spend a thousand roubles." The waiter
seemed cowed.
The customer stared at him in anger for a moment, then lifted his hand and
rushed at him inflicting a thundering box on the ear. The struggle was resumed and the woman
screamed for help. This time it was the customer who had the upper hand, but a few minutes later
another waiter rushed up the stairs and set upon him. I thought it might end in murder and tried
to intervene. But the woman above, who had apparently lost her head with terror had rushed to the
bedroom and come back with a pail full of soap-suds and slops. I was fortunate enough to understand
her intention and skipped back Just in time to save myself a soaking.
There was a spluttering and a howling, but at that moment three gendarmes came
in and settled the dispute by seizing the whole party and marching them to the police station.
"Wait," said the customer. "If I'm to be arrested, at least let me dress myself
properly. How can I go before your superior in this state?" He pointed to his bedraggled garments,
and tipped one of the policemen.
He was allowed to dress, but the waiters were to be taken as they were.
In ten minutes the customer emerged, dressed in a beautiful black morning suit, high collar,
soft black hat and gilt-handled walking stick. The gendarmes now paid him marked attention.
"Is there anyone else you'd like me to arrest?" asked one of them. "Yes, the inkeeper and his wife,"
he replied.
The innkeeper and his wife were arrested.
"Anyone else?" The customer looked at me.
"I'm not coming," said I, "so it's no use naming me."
"He's got no soap-suds on him, so he wasn't fighting," said the gendarme.
"Ah, that's true. Well, we don't want him. Arrest him if you like. Who is he
anyway?"
But the police would have nothing to do with me, and there being no question
of arresting any one else, the party went off to settle their differences at the police
station.
I went into the beer-room. The musician and drunkards had gone. All was silence.
The other waiters had gone to bed. The girl who served out the beer had disappeared. A robber
might have made a big haul with ease if he had stepped in at the door the gendarme left open.
