Life Across the Ocean: Sketches of the Religious, Social-Economic, and Domestic Life in North America
Date: 2026-08-15T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Church History

Life Across the Ocean

Sketches of the Religious, Social-Economic, and Domestic Life in North America

Professor Alexander Lopukhin

Royal Archives

2026

Copyright

The modern English translation and the cover design are © 2026 Royal Archives. All rights reserved.

The underlying source text is in the public domain.

Published by Royal Archives

First published 2026

Translated by Royal Archives

Source: Жизнь за океаном

Cover: The Ships “Winged Arrow” and “Southern Cross” in Boston Harbor by Fitz Henry Lane (American, 1804–1865), Wikimedia Commons, which is in the public domain.

Edition identifier: urn:royalarchives:life_across_the_ocean:en:1

Introduction

The Author

Alexander Pavlovich Lopukhin was born on the tenth of October 1852 in the village of Mityakino, in the Saratov province, the son of a parish priest. He was schooled first at the Saratov theological seminary and then, from 1874, at the St. Petersburg Theological Academy, from which he graduated in 1878. Even as a student he had drawn near to the world of learned journals, doing correctional and literary work in their editorial offices and publishing, while still at the Academy, a substantial study of the Old Testament prophets. Languages came easily to him, and by the time he left the Academy he had already marked himself out as a gifted and disciplined young biblicist with an unusual command of English. That command shaped the course of his life.

In July of 1879 he was appointed psalmist—a reader and chanter—at the Russian embassy church in New York, and there he served for the next several years, into the early 1880s. It is on this American sojourn that the present volume rests. A man of learning set down in a young and restless country, Lopukhin watched its religious life with the double attention of a churchman and a scholar, and what he saw impressed him so deeply that it colored the whole of his later work. He came home neither a partisan of America nor its detractor, but its first serious Russian interpreter, convinced that a nation so unlike his own had a great deal to teach and a great deal to warn against.

On his return he made America the subject of his early scholarship. In 1881 he defended and published his master’s dissertation, Roman Catholicism in America, and over the decade that followed he issued a series of studies, sketches, and lectures on the religious and social life of the United States. Meanwhile his academic career advanced steadily: he was named professor of comparative theology at the St. Petersburg Theological Academy in 1883, and from 1885 held the chair of ancient civil history until his death. As an editor he became one of the most industrious figures in Russian church publishing, guiding the journal Strannik (The Wanderer) and launching, as a free supplement to it, the great enterprise for which he is best remembered—the Explanatory Bible (Tolkovaya Bibliya), a running commentary on every book of Scripture. He lived to complete only its first volume, his own commentary on the Pentateuch; he died on the twenty-second of August 1904, at the height of his powers, and the work was carried to completion by others across a dozen volumes between 1904 and 1913. He was buried at the Nikolskoye cemetery of the Alexander Nevsky Lavra. The five American writings gathered here belong to the earliest and freshest season of that career—the reports of an observant young reader before he became the editor of the Russian Orthodox Bible.

The Work: Occasion & Purpose

The five pieces in this volume were written across roughly a decade and a half, but they form a single sustained inquiry: what does the religious life of the United States actually look like, and what can an Orthodox Russia learn from it? Lopukhin approached America at a moment when almost no serious Russian account of the country existed. “We often call Americans our friends,” he wrote in one of these prefaces, “but only rarely do we admit that we scarcely know them at all.” His purpose, first and last, was to close that gap—to replace rumor and caricature with patient, first-hand observation.

Religion in America (composed at the turn of the 1880s) is his broad survey of the American religious landscape: the extraordinary energy of a people who, cut off from the old centers of belief by an ocean, had not lost their religious instinct but intensified it, together with the ceaseless “ferment” of denominations that instinct produced.

Roman Catholicism in America, subtitled A Study of the Present Condition and the Causes of the Rapid Growth of the Roman Catholic Church in the United States of North America, was his master’s dissertation of 1881. It sets itself a precise historical question—how a body that began in “insignificance” had risen within a single century toward the first rank among American churches, and that in the very country that had first written the separation of church and state into its law.

Life Across the Ocean, subtitled Sketches of the Religious, Social-Economic, and Domestic Life in North America, is the largest and most personal of the five—a book-length travelogue that carries the reader from St. Petersburg through Vienna, Zurich, Geneva, Paris, and London, across ten days of ocean, and into the streets, churches, holidays, and households of New York. Its later chapters turn homeward to the small Russian community and its embassy church in the American city.

The Transoceanic West in Its Religious and Moral Aspect began as a set of public lectures delivered in St. Petersburg during Great Lent, later gathered into a book. Here the occasion is explicitly Russian: Lopukhin frames America as a case study offered to an educated Russian society that he saw drifting toward “religious individualization”—the ordering of belief by private reason rather than by the Church.

The Centenary of the Orthodox Mission in North America (1894) marks the hundredth anniversary of the arrival of the first Russian monastic missionaries at Kodiak Island in 1794. It is the most narrowly historical of the five, recounting the mission’s origins in the fur-trading voyages of the North Pacific and the labors of its first monks.

Taken together, the occasion of these works is one man’s determination to render America intelligible to his countrymen—its Protestant multiplicity, its Roman Catholic ascendancy, its constitutional experiment in religious liberty, and, closest to his heart, the young Orthodox mission planted on the same continent.

Argument & Structure

For all their variety of form, the five writings can be read as movements of a single argument, and it helps to see how each is built.

Religion in America opens from a single observation: the American people are intensely, restlessly religious, and their many confessions are less settled institutions than currents in a continuous search for religious truth. From this Lopukhin traces what he calls the process of “ferment”—the collision and reconciliation of diverse religious elements—through the Episcopal Church’s turn toward “catholicity” and its overtures to the Orthodox East, and on to the specifically American problems of religious liberty of conscience and religion in the public school. Its structure moves from a general diagnosis of the national temperament to particular test cases in law and education.

Roman Catholicism in America is the most rigorously organized of the five, built in three large parts: the first steps of Roman Catholicism on the continent (including the early Jesuit missions among the native peoples); its struggle for the freedom to exist amid Puritan and colonial hostility; and its external and internal growth into a major American body. Lopukhin’s governing question is causal—why growth so rapid, in soil so seemingly unfavorable—and he answers it historically, tracing the interplay of immigration, organization, and the discipline of a centralized church against the fragmentation around it.

Life Across the Ocean is structured as a journey and then a residence. Its first movement, “On the Way to America,” is pure travel writing—the European capitals, the Atlantic crossing. The second, “Beyond the Ocean,” settles into American life through its holidays and habits: Christmas and carnival, Easter in America, the Bible in America, the “kingdom of the dollar,” revival meetings, and the fraternal lodges he calls “the knights of mystery.” A third movement, “Native Echoes,” turns to the Russians abroad—their festivals and sorrows, the Russian church in New York, and the Americans who found their way into it—before closing with social and economic notes on emigration and the promise of the new land. The reader who wants Lopukhin the man, rather than Lopukhin the analyst, will find him here.

The Transoceanic West follows the shape of the lectures that produced it. A first reading argues for the importance of studying American religious-moral life at all, and surveys the American public conscience—its Sunday schools, temperance and civic societies, and the moral seriousness Lopukhin admired in American democracy. A second reading turns to what he saw as the doctrinal and practical difficulties of a purely Protestant order—the multiplication of sects and the “unlimited arbitrary will” of independent preachers—and then to the countervailing American striving toward church unity, the revivals, and the Episcopal reach toward firmer catholic ground. The movement is from what America does well to the deeper question its divisions raise, and back to the yearning for unity those divisions provoke.

The Centenary of the Orthodox Mission proceeds chronologically from the North Pacific voyages of Russian traders and the expeditions that fixed the relation of the Asian and American coasts, through the merchant Shelikhov’s decision to consolidate the scattered “sowing of Christian seeds” into a properly organized mission, to the arrival and first labors of the monks at Kodiak. It is narrative history, told with evident reverence for the “simple monks” who, expecting no such destiny, carried the Gospel to the ends of the earth.

Theological & Spiritual Significance

What gives these American reports their lasting interest is that Lopukhin never wrote as a mere correspondent. He read American religion theologically, and he read it as a mirror held up to his own society.

His deepest concern was the relation between religious truth and religious form. America struck him as living proof that “religious need lies in the very nature of the human spirit and is as eternal as the human spirit itself”—a standing rebuke to the “cold and soulless skepticism” he saw corroding an older Europe. He admired without reserve the vitality of American faith: a people among whom science and religion lived, as he put it, “in harmonious unity,” where educated men occupied themselves with religious questions and the skeptical literature of the old world “found almost no sale.” Against the materialism that had swept mid-century Europe, America seemed to him evidence that the human spirit turns back, inevitably, toward the mysterious and the holy.

Yet he saw the American situation as unfinished, even unstable—a vast “ferment” in search of a truth it could not quite reach. The multiplication of confessions and the authority he saw vested in the individual preacher and the individual conscience seemed to him to answer the hunger for religious truth with endless motion rather than rest. He was struck, accordingly, by every American movement toward unity and toward firmer, more ancient ground: the Episcopal turn to “catholicity,” the overtures toward the Orthodox East, the recurring protest of religious feeling against fragmentation. In these he read a genuine and hopeful longing.

His account of the rapid growth of Roman Catholicism belongs to the same analysis. He treated it not as a threat to be denounced but as a historical phenomenon to be explained—the success of a disciplined, centralized, and organized body in a landscape of division—and precisely as evidence of the same American hunger for authoritative, catholic form. His observations on Protestant and Roman Catholic America alike are reported as a historian reports, describing what each communion held and how each fared, without setting one against another as the arbiter of the whole.

For his Russian readers the moral was pointed but irenic. In The Transoceanic West he addressed an educated society he feared was drifting toward “religious individualization”—belief arranged by private reason—and he offered America as the classic instance of what follows when that tendency runs its course without settled ecclesial anchoring. America was, for him, at once an inspiration and a warning: inspiration in its undimmed religious energy and its civic moral seriousness, warning in the restlessness of a faith seeking form.

Running beneath all of this is a conviction that binds the five works into one: that the health of a people’s religious life depends not only on the sincerity of its belief but on the soundness of the form that carries it. Lopukhin credited America with an abundance of the first and worried about the second, and he was too honest an observer to pretend the two always went together. That tension—fervent faith seeking a stable and catholic shape—is the theological thread he followed across constitution, school, revival tent, and mission field alike.

The Centenary strikes a different and warmer note. There the significance is missionary and devotional: the wonder that the light of the Gospel reached Kodiak in the same years that the coasts of America were still being charted, carried not by a trained propaganda but by “simple monks” ready to endure every hardship for the truth. It is Lopukhin’s tribute to the zeal of the young Orthodox mission on American soil—the mission whose religious environment his other four studies had labored to describe.

Reception & Influence

These writings made Lopukhin, in effect, Russia’s first informed guide to American religious life, filling a gap he himself had named. Their afterlife is twofold. In their own moment they gave an educated Russian public a rare and detailed window onto a country it knew mostly by rumor, and Roman Catholicism in America, as an academic dissertation, earned him his master’s degree and the professorial career that followed. More broadly, they belong to the formation of the scholar who would go on to edit the Explanatory Bible and the Orthodox Theological Encyclopedia — great works of accessible, popularizing scholarship whose animating conviction, that serious religious learning should be put within reach of ordinary readers, is already fully present in these early American reports. For the modern reader they carry a further, unlooked-for value: they are a thoughtful outside observer’s snapshot of Gilded-Age American religion—its revivals and lodges, its schools and Sunday schools, its constitutional settlement of church and state—seen through Orthodox eyes at the very moment the Orthodox mission on the continent was taking root.

The Text & This Edition

This edition presents a fresh modern English translation of five of Lopukhin’s Russian works on American religious life, prepared from the public-domain Russian texts as preserved in the digital library of azbyka.ru. The originals — Религия в Америке, Римский католицизм в Америке, Жизнь за океаном, Заокеанский Запад в религиозно-нравственном отношении, and Столетие православной миссии в Северной Америке — were written in the 1880s and 1890s; several first appeared as periodical essays or public lectures before being gathered into books. They are rendered here into clear, contemporary English while preserving the author’s inline emphasis, his paragraph structure, his own notes, and his scriptural references. Chapter and section numbers and scripture citations follow the house convention of Arabic numerals and a modern reference style. The translation aims throughout at faithful, readable prose that keeps the register of Lopukhin’s own nineteenth-century essayistic Russian without archaizing it.

A word on names and attribution. The author is given here as Alexander Lopukhin, a lay scholar and theologian; where his contemporaries styled him “Professor,” that title reflects his chairs at the St. Petersburg Theological Academy. He is best known to posterity as the editor of the Explanatory Bible, and it is worth remembering, as one reads these youthful American studies, that they are the work of the same mind that would later undertake to comment on the whole of Scripture for a general Russian readership.

Because these are the observations of a nineteenth-century Russian Orthodox visitor, the reader will meet frank judgments about the Protestant and Roman Catholic America of the 1880s—its divisions, its enthusiasms, its rapid growth. They are presented here as historical testimony, in the author’s own voice, and are best read as one perceptive contemporary’s account rather than as a settled verdict on any communion. Where his information reflects the state of knowledge of his day, that too is part of the document’s interest.

Suggestions for Reading

A reader new to Lopukhin need not take the five works in order. Life Across the Ocean is the natural doorway: its travel narrative and its scenes of American holidays, streets, and worship introduce both the country and the observer, and its later chapters on the Russian church in New York place the author himself before us. From there, Religion in America and The Transoceanic West supply the analytic frame—the diagnosis of American religious “ferment” and the questions it raised for Russia—while Roman Catholicism in America rewards those who want Lopukhin at his most rigorous and historical. The Centenary of the Orthodox Mission is best kept for last, or read on its own as a self-contained history: it turns from the wide American panorama to the single thread that mattered most to the author—the Orthodox mission carried across the Pacific by a handful of monks, whose hundred-year story gives these studies of a distant land their quiet center of gravity.

Preface

Contents Foreword

Centuries have passed since the brilliant Columbus discovered and gave to mankind the continent of the New World, yet for us Russians it still remains terra incognita and we must yet await our Columbus who would rediscover America—specifically for us. Despite the fact that we call and sincerely regard Americans as our trans-Atlantic friends, we know them not at all. Our literature on this subject has produced not a single work bearing the mark of genuine study or at least careful, skillful, and thorough observation rather than superficial judgment. I had occasion to become personally convinced of this. Before embarking across the ocean, I carefully reread the existing books we have about the United States, and at every turn I had sorrowfully to confirm their inconsistency with reality. And remarkably, in these books I continually encountered outright fabrications, evidently designed for effect, while real life found in them only the palest, crude reflection. Meanwhile, the actual life of the young American people presents a multitude of the most interesting and instructive phenomena, which in their unvarnished form are immeasurably more interesting than any fiction of the poor imagination of our authors. Living across the ocean, I was struck at every turn by the intensity and peculiarity of American life and shared the results of my observations and studies with various periodicals. According to my friends’ opinion, my modest notes revealed several features of American life which until then had found no reflection in Russian literature. Seizing upon this compliment, I resolved to publish a separate book, into which went a significant portion of my letters and sketches, both those already printed and new ones. If this book were to receive even the slightest share of the sympathy with which my friends—admittedly not impartial—received my letters, this would be the best reward for the author and the best encouragement to further study the truly interesting and instructive life of the American people, among whom I am destined to live and work for some time yet.

St. Petersburg.

September 7, 1881.

On the Way to America

1. From St. Petersburg to Vienna

The Western Russian frontier and border. – The capital of the tripartite empire. – Sights of interest. – Slavic brothers. – Germans and speculation on nihilism.

It is a curious state of mind in a man setting forth abroad for the first time. Until then he was accustomed to seeing around him both nature and people to whom since childhood he has become habituated and who do not excite special feelings and impressions, obscured by the veil of the commonplace. Now a new world is about to unfold before him—new nature and new people, and he stops with eager attention on everything bearing the least mark of “foreignness.” With such eager attention I gazed from the carriage window, having departed St. Petersburg in early October 1879 on a journey abroad. The night interrupted my curiosity, but the following morning rekindled it with new force: the train, tirelessly borne on invisible wings of steam, had reached the Western Russian Lithuanian region, and new vistas presented themselves to the traveler’s eyes. Russian earth—wide and flat as the sea—as it approaches the western borders seems to shudder, and undulating mountains, like wrinkles on an uneasy, suffering face, crowd densely on both sides. Through one of the charming forested valleys opened an enchanting view of Vilna. I had never seen such views in Russia; they truly bore a peculiar imprint. At the station the non-Russian speech startles you: the Polish-Jewish-German element obscures the Russian element; non-Russian currency appears. The city of Vilna itself finally dispels any desire to think you are still on native soil: streets impossibly narrow, original buildings with tile roofs, Catholic churches, Polish-Jewish faces. Taking advantage of the brief interval between trains, I quickly examined the city. What a wealth of historical monuments it contains and what deep thoughts they awaken even in the casual observer! Here you can read the entire suffering history of the Western Russian region, can trace the entire bloody struggle between two principles—Orthodoxy and Catholicism. This history is glorious in its outcome—the victory of Orthodoxy. But in the city this is hardly apparent, at least to a cursory glance. Everywhere you see churches with Latin inscriptions and sculptured statues, around them throng kneeling worshippers with raised or crossed hands, priests frequently cross your path, receiving signs of respect from those around them. My Polish driver constantly removed his hat as we approached one church or another, thus indicating to me that it was a Catholic church and not an Orthodox one. Perhaps Catholicism prevails here through its external appearance, which it so loves, rather than through inner strength, not through that religious feeling that moves mountains: but in any case, the impression of this strength inclines toward Catholicism. On the great city square stands a massive cathedral church with colossal sculptures. Above it rises a picturesque hill where once burned the stake of Catholic preachers—a grandiose impression. Driving back to the railway station past the Lithuanian theological seminary, I mentally wished it further and ever unflagging struggles for the dominance of true Christian principles in the region and to ever produce defenders of this struggle, as it has done until now.

Beyond Vilna the native earth still does not settle, still stirs; about ten versts on the train even pierces through a mountain tunnel. But then again begin plains and fields—settlements of the ancient Poles, the present-day Poles. And here is the heart of Polishness—Warsaw. A rich, luxurious city; but after Vilna it presents nothing extraordinary or new: the type is the same. Only religious fanaticism seems to be less here than among the Catholic population of Vilna; at least here one does not see as many kneelings and uplifted hands as in the Lithuanian capital. Beyond Warsaw again stretch plains. At rather dirty stations you are everywhere struck by crowds of Polish Jews, and one must admit that the great writer, describing them in his “Taras Bulba,” did not employ all the colors for depicting their unbearable appearance and repulsive typicality. But here is the border. The heart involuntarily trembled at the sight of the inscription “Border” on the last Russian customs station. Here our land ends and the kingdom of the Germans begins.

After a quick inspection of passports, the Austrian train carried us across the border to the Austrian customs station. Here it is truly the kingdom of the Germans—German uniforms, German speech, though mixed with the appearance of pay-locks and Polish faces. After a quick but careful inspection of baggage by Austrian customs officials, the train sped on. And remarkably—not only people but nature itself rapidly changed. In the distance tall mountains began to outline themselves, and neat little villages flickered on both sides. Companions became almost exclusively Germans—with their cloudy philosophy, bad cigars, and prejudice against Russia; there are Jews and Poles, but necessarily speaking German. Seeing this, one involuntarily feels the great superiority of Germans over us in assimilating subject peoples: the same Poland, the same Poles and Jews are here too—but here everything has taken on a German character; whereas in our Russian Poland everything remains as before, as in the days of the Polish Commonwealth, and in Warsaw one rarely encounters a person who understands Russian well.

“And there is Vienna, our beauty Vindobona!” exclaimed my German neighbor, a terrible reasoner and philologist who had been troubling me the entire journey with his philological speculations and derivations, among which he particularly prided himself on finding a connection between the words Jehovah and Jupiter. He derives the name “Vienna” from vina-do-bona, as though the Romans themselves had named it thus. It was night, and therefore I could not immediately verify the accuracy of the German patriot’s account of the beauty of the capital of the tripartite empire. In the morning I set out to examine Vienna and its sights, and in fairness to the German, he was not exaggerating in the least in calling Vienna a beauty. It is indeed a beautiful capital, and it strikes the visitor with the grandeur of its buildings as much as with the elegance of their architecture, the cleanliness and neatness of the streets, the gardens and avenues. The main street, called the Ring, is as wide as Nevsky Prospect, but its grandiose and charming buildings, rich and luxurious shops, the continuous avenues on both sides—make a greater impression than the rather monotonous, though charming, avenue of our northern capital.

The Ring Street curves around the very ancient center of the capital. In this central section the streets are narrow and irregular, and there on St. Stephen’s Square rises the magnificent cathedral of St. Stephen. Its Gothic tower is visible from the Ring. Following its direction I went to this marvel of architectural art. It is difficult to convey the impression produced by the cathedral. You stand as if before a colossal finger of the earth itself, stretching it toward heaven to point out to the tiny humanity bustling about its eternal destiny, which it often forgets in the bustle of life. The exterior of the cathedral is severe and somber: it bears the weight of more than seven centuries. Its foundation dates to 1144. Its tower, representing, according to expert opinion, one of the finest examples of Gothic art, rises 62½ sazhens above the foundation, and after the Strasbourg tower is the highest in the world. I entered this temple of eternity with reverence. Inside it is as somber as without, and yet everything draws the spirit upward. Several worshippers stood silently and reverently before various altars and offered prayer. The cathedral walls are covered with numerous inscriptions, but time has so discolored them that they can only be read with great difficulty. The sculptured works, of course, are more visible, and they strike one with both the beauty of their style and the originality of their composition. How much nourishment for religious-aesthetic feeling and how much material for historical science! In the half-obliterated inscriptions of the cathedral lies a many-centuries chronicle of the historical fates both of the city and, perhaps, of the people. Blessed is the people that can point to such a grandiose monument of antiquity: this is sufficient evidence of their fruitful life on earth. With the same reverence with which I entered the temple I departed from it, putting the impressions in order in my mind. A notice was posted on the door. I approached it, thinking to find an announcement of some service or celebration, as is customary abroad, and suddenly—I read and cannot believe my eyes. The notice literally reads as follows: “It is forbidden to bring dogs into the church, likewise to pass through the church with them, and also it is not permitted to carry large heavy objects through the cathedral, so as in no way to disturb the performance of divine service” …

My elevated feelings could not at first be reconciled with such a strange notice, but it turned out that this notice arose from pressing necessity. The present descendants of their pious ancestors who built the cathedral have not preserved the respect for the holy that animated their builders, and, not wishing to take the trouble to go around the cathedral, preferred to pass straight across St. Stephen’s Square on the other side, leading dogs with them and carrying various loads—baskets, bales, and the like. With a heavy heart I left the portal of the famous cathedral. – Another completely new example of Gothic style in Vienna is the so-called Votivkirche—the commemorative church. It was erected in memory of the salvation of Emperor Francis Joseph from an assassin’s hand. The temple is also built in pure Gothic style, but makes less of an impression, despite all the richness of its window paintings, which I did not notice at all in the cathedral of St. Stephen. Upon entering the church I noted another notice, but fortunately not of the same kind: the notice announced the sale of a “guide to the church.” The guide is compiled quite thoroughly and intelligently. This awakened in me a thought: why should not our Moscow archaeologists compile a similar guide to Moscow’s sacred sites? Every pilgrim would certainly prefer to pay a few kopecks to calmly and properly examine precious relics without being subject to the attacks of importunate and ignorant cicerones, who are usually most occupied with casting eyes toward pilgrims’ pockets. The German custom is truly not a bad one.

Continuing along the Ring, I noticed a large building with enormous columns and bas-reliefs where many people were entering and leaving. Supposing this too was a temple of the Most High God and deciding in my mind the question of the religiosity of the Austrian capital’s inhabitants, I too entered the building; but the predominance of Jewish faces in the crowd immediately informed me that this was not a temple of the Most High God, but the temple of mammon, that god to whom our speculative age is so zealously devoted. This was the Vienna Stock Exchange, hence so many people, not like in the cathedral of St. Stephen or other churches. Among Vienna’s other sights attention is drawn to the imperial library, the imperial treasury, and numerous various museums. In the treasury one can see the regalia of Charlemagne, an emerald of Charles the Bold of 2,780 carats, the scimitar of Tamerlane, as well as various sacred objects and relics: nails from the life-giving cross, a tooth of St. John the Baptist, part of the garment of St. John, several rings from the chains of the apostles Peter and Paul, part of the life-giving cross, and part of the tablecloth that lay on the table during the Last Supper. In a church of St. Augustine standing nearby the treasury one can see an artistic group by the famous Canova, representing the mausoleum of the Duchess Maria-Christina. The group of white marble produces a captivating impression with its superior composition and artistry of work. In this same church rest the relics of several popes, and in the midst of the church itself stands a box with a modest inscription: “For His Papal Holiness Leo XIII.”

In examining the capital of the tripartite empire, the greater half of which consists of Slavs, I vainly searched for signs of the existence in the empire of our kinsmen. Everything is covered over by the German element, which even on signs yields place only somewhat to the French element and in the backwoods—to the Magyar element. There is no Slavic spirit at all. And among people I vainly searched for my kinsmen—German speech everywhere. I was already despairing of seeing Slavs in the capital of a half-Slavic state, when suddenly I unexpectedly encountered a Czech. This was my cab driver. Learning that I was Russian, the Czech showered me with questions and first of all whether I had been at Plevna (such an impression did that memorable Plevna make!). Seeing that I poorly understood his Viennese jargon, he attempted to speak with me in Czech; but of course my “understanding” proved even weaker and the Czech returned to German jargon. To my question whether there were many Slavs in Vienna, the Czech answered that there were many here, and with almost rapture began to tell how cab drivers, janitors, messengers, waiters—almost all are Slavs, Germans have no place here. “Poor Slavs, I thought; you are glad even that you are here successfully waging a struggle against the Germans.” We rode past a colossal building under construction—something like a palace. The Czech explained that this was the new parliament being constructed, and did not fail to mention that Czechs too would sit in it. Yes, it is of course good that they will sit, I answered the Czech,—but will they not occupy in this parliament the same position that they occupy in the parliament of public life…

It is difficult for a straightforward Slav to struggle with a cunning German. He always tries to exploit him from all sides, using every convenient opportunity. The recent painful internal disturbances in Russia, caused by the hundred-headed hydra of nihilism, gave Germans occasion for the broadest speculation on the account of this nihilism—and moreover on the book market. When examining bookshops your eyes are dazzled with books dealing with nihilism; there are quasi-scientific treatises on the origin of nihilism, its development and aims, and there are others with titles such as: “a novel of a nihilist woman.” It goes without saying what rubbish fills all these little books, what confusion of concepts and ideas they display in their authors,—but the general tone sounds sharply hostile toward Slavs in general and Russians in particular. Amid this German-Jewish literature on nihilism several Russian books stand out—genuinely by the most authentic nihilists themselves. One had only to open and read any one of them to come to the conviction that these little books can truly only be printed where the complete unintelligibility of content cannot even trouble the typesetter from laboring over this wretched product of human madness. But one thing involuntarily strikes the eye: both German and Russian nihilistic writers strike up in unison one and the same note—malicious and hostile toward all things Russian and toward that state system, over which the Russian people labored a whole millennium, built it with sweat and blood and defended it with their heads.

2. Zurich

Alpine views. – Nature and people. – Zurich and its sights. – Socialism and the struggle against it. – A literary curiosity. – The university and lectures of Johann Scherr.

The fast train from Vienna races at terrifying speed. Before you pretty little villages constantly flicker, nestling on gentle hills; yet there is nothing that catches the eye. But here is the border of the tripartite empire; beyond it begins Bavaria, forming the southern part of the German empire welded together by the iron chancellor. Here is Munich, but unfortunately I could not stop there.

Beyond Munich the views rapidly change. The already undulating terrain begins to wave more and more; hour by hour the waves rise higher and more threateningly. You admire this play of undulating earth; but then your gaze is cast across the waves, and over them like clouds rise—the Alps. It is difficult to convey the feelings that seize one at this sight. You direct a fixed gaze into these cloudy heights and cannot tear yourself away. In these heights, in these coarse productions of nature there is so much enchanting power, so much grandeur, that before them all the most grandiose creations of human hands seem pitiful. But the train races on ceaselessly. The Alpine heights gradually shed their cloudy raiment, and now they are already near you. A few more moments and—the train is already roaring amid the inaccessible cliffs of the Bavarian Alps. Landscapes change with unseeable speed: now you are racing at the foot of a mountain blending with the heavens, then suddenly over a gaping abyss in which a centuries-old forest seems a trifling shrub, then you pierce through a mountain by tunnel. The eyes are finally tired from this unaccustomed succession of extreme opposites. You rest a few moments, gazing at the velvety, purely spring-like verdure of the valleys. And these valleys present scarcely less interest. Here nestle almost magical little villages, with cottages of irreproachable whiteness and cleanliness all around. One could think these are toy houses and that real human beings with their usual and almost necessary (in our Russian understanding) uncleanliness do not live in them, and yet in these houses dwell real people with usual cares and labors. There among the velvety verdure a patch of black earth is visible, and on it with a pickaxe in hand some gentleman in a jacket and smartly-dressed trousers is busy: this is a peasant working his land. And there some lady sits with a book under a tree, and not far away beautiful and large cows with bells browse succulent grass: this is a shepherdess tending her herd. Mountain streams rushing down the valleys and, at the direction of man, watering the fields and flowing around the cottages—complete the picture. Many times I have had the pleasure of admiring Alpine views in works of painting, but more charming than what nature herself presented to my eyes I have never seen, even in those works which, however, often aroused the thought of exaggeration and inconsistency with reality. Looking at this earthly paradise, one cannot even imagine that here too man could be discontented with something. And yet he is discontented, and his discontent here is even more terrible than in less blessed lands. But this, however, relates more properly to Switzerland than to Bavaria, of which I am speaking.

Having crossed from Lindau by steamer across the charmingly picturesque Lake Constance, I set foot on Swiss soil. The train sped to Zurich. The properly Swiss views in this direction presented nothing special and were inferior to the described Bavarian ones. Even the villages are not as clean and the people not as neat as there. Taking advantage of this, I withdrew into myself and remained in this state until Zurich. Not without trepidation did I enter this city. Here socialism had long since made its nest, here the refuge of revolutionaries from all over the world, here finally enjoys full freedom our Russian nihilism. But upon entering the city I heard the sounds of music and songs; this gladdened my spirit, because according to the truthful saying of the German poet, “where they sing you can be at peace: evil people do not know songs”[1]. Zurich, as it turned out, is a very musical and singing city. Its general appearance, however, produces a rather heavy impression. The houses are tall but dark, with small windows, of ancient architecture. But the location is enchanting. A charming Zurich lake enters the city in a large inlet, and with its two streams flows through it and divides it in half. On the sides are picturesque forested mountains. The streets are narrow, irregular, and some are so steep that one can only climb them with great difficulty. There are few temples in Zurich—and those of ancient construction. Above the main stream on a hill rise two towers as if competing in height. This is the city’s main cathedral, called the Grossmünster. It is somber and apparently decrepit; its towers as if with effort support themselves in an upright position. This temple is indeed a remarkable antiquity; it is almost contemporary with the city. Some archaeologists suppose that the cathedral’s construction dates to the VIII–IX century, but of course not in its present form. It has been rebuilt, renewed, and added to several times. The interior of the temple is simple and severe. Three paintings on windows, depicting the Savior and the apostles Peter and Paul, constitute all its decoration. Instead of an organ stands a large harmonium. But poor in decoration, this cathedral is rich in memories. Within its walls were first heard the bold sermons of the famous Swiss reformer Zwingli; here he performed the first simplified communion he invented—on a simple table with wooden vessels; here too was his last sermon—before he perished in bloody battle for his religious principles. In the middle of the church courtyard flows a spring, adorned with a statue of Charlemagne. – Through a bridge on the other side of the stream stands another cathedral, the Fraumünster, in antiquity almost contemporary with the first. It owes its foundation to a certain abbess, which explains its name—the women’s cathedral. Not far from it stands the church of St. Peter; its exterior is as somber as the first two; in this church the famous Lavater, celebrated for his original physiognomic studies, served as a priest. Now to this church comes, it is said, many listeners drawn by the famous preacher Henry Lang, representative of the so-called free Christianity in Switzerland. Next to it stands again a somber and ancient Augustinian church, now belonging to the Old Catholics. The presented survey of churches with sufficient clarity shows that the ideas of the Swiss reformer concerning the superfluity of external appearance in divine service have fully taken root among the population and are vividly expressed in the neglect in which the church temples in Zurich are maintained.

In examining Zurich, however, what interested me most was the question: where, in what exactly, does there lurk the terrible, hundred-headed hydra called socialism, which supposedly made its quiet nest here and from here spreads its destructive offspring throughout all Europe? In the city itself there are no signs of its existence, if only one considers as such signs the expressions of anger of the poor toward the rich, of the proletariat toward the owners. The workers here are as good-natured as Russians, as polite as Frenchmen. True, you will hear here, walking drunk down the street, a worker desperately singing and whistling the Marseillaise; but you will note that he sings it with such innocence and with such good intentions as we sing the motifs of the famous patriotic opera. Alongside the extraordinarily widespread motifs from William Tell, here the Marseillaise is sung by street boys too, engaged at the same time in spinning a top. In this, clearly, there is no socialism. But then up steep streets, often replaced by stone stairways, you climb the slope of a charming suburban mountain. On both sides stretch endless vineyards, from whose golden field green caps of pear trees magnificently stand out. Look back down: before you is an incomparably beautiful panorama of the city with its lake, its streams, and opposite heights. But forget the surrounding nature, examine the city itself and—you will see the nest of socialism. Above the tall, narrow-windowed houses like towers rise factory chimneys, vomiting clouds of suffocating smoke, spreading stench throughout the city. These chimneys are almost as numerous as the houses. Here is the nest of socialism. On Zurich’s factories and mills are crowded almost all the landless population of the canton, and they live in these smoky dens, knowing no rest and seeing no sunlight, not breathing even the fresh mountain air which flows freely through the mountains here as if deliberately taunting the sufferers and delighting foreign Englishmen galloping on well-groomed horses along the picturesque slopes of the mountains. At the sight of this picture it seems strange that socialism has not taken on even sharper forms here than it currently exists. But this is explained by the common sense of the population, which understands the fatal necessity of its situation and considers it more advantageous to submit to it than to indulge in impossible and yet criminal dreams. The working class is aided here, moreover, by public and private charity, which also somewhat paralyzes socialist tendencies. In Zurich there exist quite many societies which aim at improving the position of the working classes in the religious-moral and material respect. In the first respect especially important services to the working people are rendered by the “evangelical society,” which for more than 40 years has successfully conducted its religious and moral-educational, and at the same time charitable activity. It has with this aim several special institutions. Of them especially known are: a library, from which workers are given books of religious-moral content for reading; a reading room where adult workers can spend their leisure hours reading newspapers, and a poorhouse with attendant deaconesses, where the sick and elderly find shelter. In the material respect important services are rendered by the “mutual aid society,” which gives workers relief and loans and has a dining hall where workers can obtain healthy food at the cheapest rate. Both societies, together with many other secondary ones, extremely much contribute to improving the position of the working people and successfully cut off many especially poisonous heads of the socialist hydra.

Thus socialism does not have sharply striking forms in Zurich. The same can be said of literary socialism. When examining bookshops I could barely count five or six books of socialist content—clearly the demand for them is insignificant. But on the other hand, in greater quantity than in Vienna, Russian nihilism has its manifestations in the local book world, although these manifestations are again not such that one could say here is where this Beelzebub of our time and fatherland truly sits and nests. The little books displayed behind glass windows are the same ones I had seen in Vienna, and only two or three new ones, of which I will name two: “Skoptsy Spiritual Songs” and “Life of Jesus” by Renan, a new popular edition. I stopped in perplexity at this last edition, which our people’s well-wishers called “popular.” How they managed to make something even more popular out of such an already most popular book by the French writer—remained a mystery to me, and I did not look inside the book. Incidentally, I happened to encounter a curious literary oddity here. Among other Russian books I noticed a thin little book of apparently Moscow market publishing under the title: “A Rebel in the Village, Berlin 1879.” Supposing this to be the creation of some semi-literate nihilist popularizing his ideas to the village people, I wanted by acquaintance with this little book to once more assure myself of the propagandists’ inability to explain themselves to the Russian people. How great was my surprise when, reading it, I found in dramatic form a consistent exposition of a refutation of nihilistic ravings by the side of shrewd Russian peasants. A pleasant enough qui pro quo, although one must admit that the book, with all its theoretical value, was obviously composed by a person who does not fully understand the spirit of Russian peasant thought and speech, as he often puts into the mouths of his characters knowledge, ideas, and speech completely beyond the comprehension of the simple Russian people. But of course one must be grateful to the author even for his good intentions. But why he published his book abroad in Berlin—under the Linden—is incomprehensible.

One of the sights of Zurich, giving it special fame in Russia and Europe, is its famous polytechnic school, part of which is the university. The building of the polytechnic is enormous and occupies an excellent location on a high hill opening a distant view of the entire panorama of the city and its surroundings. I considered it my duty to visit this temple of sciences. Among the multitude of students of all nationalities bustling back and forth, I encountered several Russians. One of them especially zealously displayed himself as Russian, but his type and speech clearly revealed a Russian Jew in him. He bitterly complained that the polytechnic does not accept those with Russian documents without an exam. Among the announcements posted on the university walls I noticed a handwritten notice from the famous writer, professor of universal history Johann Scherr, that on October 24 (12) he would open lectures on the history of the second half of the XIX century. I did not fail to take the opportunity to listen to the famous professor and writer. The lecture was scheduled for 5 p.m. A mass of listeners gathered in the large auditorium. Lamps were lit. Professor Johann Scherr entered, greeted by a respectful bow from the listeners. Ascending the high podium, behind which one can only stand, he began his opening lecture. His speech is loud, distinct, and bold, like the style of his writings. For the subject of his lecture he chose an assessment of the comparative significance of materialistic and idealistic worldview for the development of mankind. Having expressed some bitter but truthful reproaches to contemporary practical materialism, which suppresses and stifles the highest aspirations of the spirit, he said that materialism as a scientific theory has some developing significance, but is very limited. It promotes detailed scientific investigation of the phenomena of nature, but the inevitable question for the human mind: why, from where, for what purpose?—materialism cannot answer.

Therefore the greatest minds, constituting the flower and beauty of mankind, have always been more inclined toward idealistic worldview, one of whose forms is religion. “Trace carefully the history of mankind,” said the inspired professor, “and you will find that all that is great and glorious in the deeds of man has its source in this worldview, just as light and heat on our planet have their source in the central luminary of your solar system.” With a feeling of profound satisfaction I left the auditorium at the conclusion of the lecture. The impression produced by the lecture was enormous, and the students vied with each other in sharing it. I myself shall never forget this impression, and it will forever remain for me as one of my cherished memories. The famous publicist-professor is of advanced years, with dense graying hair, but is vigorous and youthful in spirit like a youth.

Having entered the university reading room and looked through the newspapers, I left the polytechnic and descending the stairway-like street returned to the city.

[1] Where singing dwells, there let yourself sit easy; Evil people have no songs (German).

3. Geneva

The heart of Switzerland. – Geneva and a national celebration in it. – Sights of interest. – Two philosophers. – The Ferney patriarch and his palace. – A Russian church and Russian library. – The taming of the unruly. – What is freedom?

The next day I left Zurich and the train sped to Geneva, through the very heart of Switzerland. And it must be said that this little republic has a great and utterly stony heart. Colossal mountains pile one upon another and like gray-haired thousand-year-old giants with gleaming bald patches, silently and grimly gaze from behind the clouds at the train, which like a serpent winds among them, seeking gorges for passage. The clouds dare not rise to their peaks and secretly creep along the loins of the stone giants, and only Alpine eagles soar freely above the clouds and on the snow-white peaks make their kingly rest. Man ordinarily crawls humbly at the foot of mountains, but sometimes he too rises to a dizzying height, and there on narrow slopes of mountains his dwellings nestle like eagle’s nests. And the train keeps roaring and winding, and now rises into blue heights beneath which yawns an abyss, now rushes into the dark womb of mountains where momentary night dwells. But look—as if a new sky suddenly opened below the train; passengers in amazement rushed to the windows and—beheld before them the famous Lake Geneva. It is impossible to find colors to depict the truly wondrous beauty of this lake. For two hours the train races along its shore bordered with golden vineyards, and you cannot tear yourself away from the enchanting sight, which however is constantly interrupted by dark tunnels, seemingly deliberately calculated to heighten by the most extreme contrast the impression of beauty. Beyond the charming little town of Lausanne, nestling on a slope descending to the lake, Geneva appeared in the distance, and within a few minutes I was already in the very capital of the Geneva Republic.

Walking along the clean and straight streets of the city, I was struck by their emptiness and deadness. In the streets one saw not a soul, the shops were closed and curtained. I was already ready to pronounce an unfavorable judgment on the city concerning its lifelessness, but remembered that it was Sunday, and everything was immediately explained. It is evident that historical lessons are not lost and the stern preaching of the Swiss reformers was reflected in this respect for Sunday. Imperceptibly, however, I came out onto a square adjoining the lake embankment, and it was teeming with people. In the midst of the crowd rose a monument toward which the eyes of thousands of people were directed. Not understanding what was happening, I asked for an explanation, and one had to see the zeal with which the Genevan French began to introduce a foreigner to the subject of their celebration. It turned out that on this day the dedication of a monument to the Genevan patriot Duke Charles of Brunswick was taking place. “Yes, monsieur,” a Genevan said to me, “the Genevan people know how to honor their great men! Look what a beauty—this mausoleum! What grace and richness of forms,” and the Genevan, with gleaming eyes and voice trembling with patriotic flame, began to explain both the significance of the monument itself and especially the greatness of the “Genevan people.” I was interested not so much in the monument as in the speaking Genevan, who apparently embodied in himself all the patriotic fire of a tiny people. I had never encountered such burning patriotism among great peoples, and I saw an interesting confirmation of the historical truth that the strength of patriotism in a people is in inverse proportion to its numerical or spatial greatness. As for the merits of the hero of the celebration, it turned out that they consisted in the fact that the Duke, dying, bequeathed to the city his entire enormous fortune, worth up to twenty million francs. Obviously, with such merits it was not only fitting to erect him a good monument, but also—possible to do so.

Meanwhile evening came on, stars began to gleam in the sky and in the lake, and from beyond the gray banks of the shore the golden moon swam out. Masses of people moved smoothly and quietly along the magnificent embankment, on the dark background of the lake flickered enchanting lights of boats, and somewhere in the distance faintly heard was the sound of the strange bellowing of a pack beast. On the very shore a lover of nature’s beauties had set up a telescope and offered those wishing to admire both the surrounding mountains and the golden moon and Saturn’s ring. This was a wondrous sight and filled the soul with some indefinably sweet feeling rarely experienced.

Geneva is in appearance an elegant and pretty city. It is said to be—a little Paris. It is rich in sights of every kind, but what interested me most were its two main sights—the philosophers Rousseau and Voltaire. The shadow of these giants of the past century still lives even now in Geneva, where they principally created their transformative and destructive theories. There one can see monuments to them both. The monument to Rousseau stands over the lake, at the place where its blue waters rush noisily toward its outlet into the Rhone. The remarkable philosopher, who saw all evil in mankind in its deviation from the natural primitive order of nature, and in all his writings proclaimed his invariable motto—Return to nature!—sits thoughtfully over a manuscript, and around him swans swim and splash in an enclosure. The setting is apt and fully corresponds to the spirit of the philosopher, who loved nature and strove for it from the deadening chains of artificial life. I have always been and am struck by the profound inner truth of the ideal of the Genevan philosopher. One can disagree with his particulars and external elaborations and interpretations, but his general spirit is the spirit of all mankind. In it is heard the longing of the human spirit for the lost primitive state of Paradise, where man lived with nature and was blissful in harmonious unity with her. For truly all the miseries afflicting mankind trace their lineage from that moment when man by his disobedience violated the law given to him and broke his bond with nature, and when sounded the divine voice of justice: cursed is the earth because of your deeds!

Of a different nature is the other philosophical sight—the Ferney patriarch Voltaire. He is called a friend of Rousseau. This is an error: there were no psychological grounds for friendship between them. They were simply acquaintances in the ordinary sense of the word. Voltaire’s monument stands not in Geneva itself but in its suburb Ferney, about three versts from the city, on the French border. Mankind loves great men, even if they only wittily mocked its stupidity, as Voltaire did, and therefore the road to Ferney is trodden by thousands of travelers considering it their bounden duty to visit the intellectual giant. I mechanically followed the example of others and drove by cab to the residence of the destructive genius. Ferney is a small settlement founded by Voltaire and located beyond the line of the Swiss border.

The Genevans, as is known, exiled Voltaire from their city for his blasphemy and restless nature. To spite his persecutors, the philosopher established his residence beyond the Swiss border, three versts from the city, and from there began to torment the Genevans with his poisonous witticisms. Mocking among other things the tiny size of the city, Voltaire said that it was enough for him to shake his wig in order to cover all Geneva with a cloud of dust. This witticism, in my opinion, is very significant. The venerable philosopher indeed had much dust not only in his shaggy wig but in his very head, and it was with this dust, which he so skillfully knew how to throw in people’s eyes, that he principally became famous. Take his seventy-eight volumes of writings—how much dust there is, and woe to him who reads them without the protective spectacles of criticism and reason. Meanwhile the Genevan cab driver, clicking his whip and urging the horse with strange interjections—du! du!—had already driven up to Ferney itself, and there at the first inn shone a sign of the great philosopher. “Voltaire’s Inn”—read the sign. Following the inn were other establishments, and the name of the great philosopher could be seen above the doors of a small tavern. But this was not the principal temple of the priest of unbelief. Voltaire had his own palace, where he received the homage of his numerous servants and from where he sent his destructive thunderbolts to the world. A solemn silence reigned around when I drove up to this palace; only the light whisper of the ancient chestnuts surrounding it was heard, and a fountain in the courtyard cast forth babbling jets. Majestic nature poured peace and bliss into the soul; but amid this enchanting and caressing nature like a demonic phantom looked the sarcastically-Mephistophelian features of the master of the palace himself. I have many times seen statues and portraits of the philosopher, but nowhere does he so markedly express the entire essence of his spirit. “I shall destroy the world and only mock the deeds of my destruction,”—clearly and loudly speaks this physiognomy. Meanwhile several more travelers had arrived, and an old servant led us through the palace and its sights. “Here is the study where Voltaire wrote … here is the bedroom where he slept… here is the cane with which he walked, and here are the shoes he put on in the mornings,”—the servant droned in mechanical recitative, and all the travelers with trembling emotion examined both the cane and the shoes, while the sarcastic physiognomy of the master of these things gazed from the various walls of the palace with a piercing look and invariably repeated: “O, men, men! how pitiful and stupid you are!” Beyond the palace fence rises a small church with a rooster instead of a cross, and the inscription on the pediment reads: Deo erexit Voltaire—“To God Voltaire erected it.” In moments of good humor Voltaire liked to blaspheme, and in one such moment he decided to build a church—in order to create a lasting monument to perpetuate his blasphemy. And what can be more blasphemous than the inscription with which he decorated this church? This is the satanic pride of those who wish to be like gods… In its day, however, this shrine served as the parish church for the villagers and Catholic divine service was performed in it, but now it serves only as an object of wonder for idle tourists.

There are few proper temples in Geneva and they are all of simple type, presenting nothing special. As in Zurich, the preaching of the Swiss reformers apparently fell on good soil here too and bore fruit in the form of a neglectful attitude toward external church appearance. But all the more distinctly stands out among them the Russian church. Located on a spacious platform, forming one of the steps of a great terrace, with its five golden domes on a Byzantine body, it constitutes a true ornament of the city. The Genevans are fully conscious of this and therefore eagerly place it among the city’s sights in their photographic albums and even on letter paper as a decorating vignette. It is small in size, but this only adds more lightness and beauty to it. The dense curly acacias surrounding it complete the charm of the picture, from which wafts a sweet greeting of home.

I did not have the opportunity to be inside the church, nor to learn about the size and composition of the Russian colony here. But that it is quite numerous could be judged by the signs that struck the eye when examining the city. In Geneva more than in the two previous cities I had seen there were objects indicating the presence of Russian elements. Thus Russian inscriptions frequently appeared on signs, and one sign proclaimed in golden letters “Russian Paskhas and Kulichs.” But most of all Russian inscriptions were seen above various book shops announcing the sale of Russian books. Finally in one place I joyfully read a large sign announcing a whole “Russian Library”; but having only approached the mirrored shop window and looked at the rows of books displayed there, I understood that the sign proclaimed a warring lie. This was not at all a Russian library and was immeasurably less Russian than any French or German library. True, Russian letters and words are visible on the books—but their spirit, the spirit—alas—is nihilistic, and therefore of course not Russian. And what is not there, O God of justice! A good half of the books, as treasures offered for sale, represent old and filthy rags. But apparently there are clever buyers even for them.

Incidentally, I encountered the spirit of nihilism not only in dead books but in a living body. On the very day of arrival in Geneva, walking in the evening along the lake embankment and admiring both the quiet splash of blue waves and the surrounding quietness of Sunday, I was suddenly struck by a dull roar bursting from some closed place. Scarcely had I turned my attention to this noise when from around a corner emerged a young worker, and with a raucous voice roared in Russian: “Forward then, forward…” As joyful as it is to meet a countryman abroad, but in view of the fact that the countryman was too zealously writing down Russian thought, I only observed him from a distance and was an unwilling witness to the impossible tyranny of the republican police. The fellow countryman had scarcely sung the first verse of his hymn when a police sergeant, having unexpectedly emerged from nowhere, angrily yanked him by the shoulder and sternly said: “Monsieur, I beg you to be silent, otherwise I shall arrest you for disturbing public order.” The free son of freedom shuddered and stopped his hymn in the middle of a word. Having recovered somewhat and looking at the sergeant with bleary eyes, the worker in a French-Nizhny Novgorod idiom was either apologizing to the sergeant or reproaching him for restricting freedom; but in any case he tamed his nature. Swaying, he shambled along, and only with a thin and pitiful voice did he hum to himself: forward then, forward… With that he disappeared into some slums. And I remained to enjoy the newly restored silence of the Genevan Sunday, and involuntarily thought: what is freedom?..

The police sergeant, obviously thought he was defending freedom by taming my countryman, while my countryman, on the contrary, thought the sergeant was restricting his freedom. Yes, “the accursed question,” Heine would say.

4. Paris

French soil. – Paris and first impressions. – Sights of interest. – The Cathedral of Notre-Dame. – The Panthéon. – The tomb of Napoleon I. – Divine service in the church of St. Roch. – Russian church and divine service in it. – Parisian morals. – Counterfeit money under the name: liberty, equality, and fraternity.

A few minutes after leaving Geneva the train crosses the Swiss border. Switzerland ends, but the mountains do not yet end. For two or three hours the train races along the bank of the Rhone, as if using the path it has cut; and indeed, according to its flow nature has heaped up terrible rocky heights, which only the wild elements and not man could breach. But these are the last efforts of Swiss nature, its strength noticeably weakens. When meeting with the Lyon branch of the railway the train turns sharply northward and—the mountains are gone: before you opens a distant green plain, on which the eye sees only continuous rows of slender poplars. This is the land of the French. Halfway to Paris again begins earth to heave, and the train passes many tunnels, but toward Paris itself the mountains fade and give place to plains, on one of which is located this modern Babylon.

It was night when I stepped on the pavement of Paris. By hiding from the eyes of the newcomer this famous capital of the world, darkness thus promoted the development in the imagination of monstrous pictures of the sights and life of this city, whose name is inseparably linked with a multitude of great—both in the tragic and in the comic sense—world-historical events. But the natural fatigue of the road took its toll and for a time forced the forgetting of both Paris and the entire world. On the next day the first thought was to go to the Triumphal Arch, from which according to descriptions opens a wondrous panorama of all Paris. Here before me is the entire city. From the arch, rising on the Place of Stars, straight streets—avenues lined with trees—fan out in all directions; beyond them already seen are chaotic masses of houses, above which occasionally rise brown towers and—only… The panorama completely fails to meet expectations, and infinitely yields to the panorama that opens from the bell tower of Ivan the Great onto Moscow. Inside, however, Paris overwhelms with its diversity and in two or three days it is quite impossible to orient oneself in it to gain a definite impression. One can examine only separate points.

The broadest of the fan-like streets radiating from the Place de l’Étoile, the so-called “Champs-Élysées,” leads to the famous Place de la Concorde. It was hard to set foot on this square while maintaining composure of spirit. Historical memories burst forth like a turbulent torrent into the soul and deprive one of the possibility of calm contemplation. How much human blood has been spilled here, how many savage and insane crimes have been committed! On the right and left, magnificent fountains murmur, ejecting water in many and varied streams—yet the murmur of these transparent jets only intensifies the remembrance of the streams of blood shed here. On this square the revolutionaries of the past century raged furiously; here the king and queen were beheaded and the demonic machine—the guillotine—performed its bloody work on thousands of human heads. Here the final Commune also held sway; beyond the garden rise the mournful ruins of the once magnificent Tuileries Palace. On these ruins, as if in mockery of sound human reason and in affront to the noblest human aspirations, shines—defiled by wicked, criminal hands—the grand maxim: liberty, equality, and fraternity. No, this is not the Place of Concord, but the place of madness, crime, and blood! Yet one recollection brings solace to the Russian heart: here, on this square, in 1814, in the presence of three sovereigns with Emperor Alexander the Blessed at their head, a solemn thanksgiving service was performed celebrating the victory completed by the entry of the allied armies into Paris over one who had forgotten the bounds of moderation—the military genius Napoleon I. Russian troops were then quartered in the Champs-Élysées. In the very center of the square stands a magnificent Egyptian, the so-called Luxor, obelisk, inscribed with hieroglyphics glorifying Pharaoh Ramses II. This forty-century antiquity brings some peace to one’s understanding of the square. The obelisk, by some miracle, escaped the senseless fury of the Communards.

After viewing a whole series of palaces and the richest Louvre Museum, I set out for the famous cathedral of Notre-Dame de Chartres. This cathedral is more interesting, it seems, for the historical memories connected with it than for its outward appearance. It is gloomy and somber, and its two headless towers inspire mournful thoughts. Indeed, how many times in the course of even a single century the city patronized by Notre-Dame lost its head! On its walls one constantly sees again that same revolutionary maxim: liberty, equality, and fraternity. Letters of this maxim, carved on stone tablets, here gleam red in color—the color of blood shed here many times. As is well known, this cathedral was more than once the object of insane sacrilege by the leaders of the Revolution. In 1793, a wild crowd, intoxicated with destruction, wanted to destroy Notre-Dame itself, but contented itself only with destroying the sculptural statues that adorned its walls in great numbers. The same crowd fully satisfied itself with inflicting internal outrage upon the temple. In that same year it was transformed into a temple of the mad religion of Reason; the statue of Liberty was placed instead of the Virgin, and in place of church hymns, the walls resounded with free-patriotic songs of the National Guard. On the choir a torch of Truth blazed, and above it rose the temple of Philosophy with busts of Voltaire, Rousseau, and others. In the midst of the temple on a throne sat a figure of Reason in the guise of a ballet dancer Meylar, receiving divine worship from the crazed admirers of Reason. Maidens in evening gowns with torches in their hands ceremonially circumambulated the temple, but then, turning into the side chapels, indulged in wild orgies. Such desecration befell this great Parisian shrine. The Commune also wished to try its destructive instincts on the people’s sanctuary—the riotous crowd set fires beneath it, which, fortunately, did little harm. All these recollections are involuntarily experienced by the visitor to the cathedral, especially since the guides to the cathedral constantly and with particular interest pause to point out signs connected with these memories. The interior and exterior of the cathedral are adorned with a multitude of statues—both religious and simply historical. For example, one gallery is entirely occupied by statues of French kings. Looking at this wealth and variety of statues, one thinks one is in one of the departments of the Louvre Museum. The center of the temple is separated from the other parts by a high railing, on which are posted notices about prices for places there. The cathedral treasure room (trésor) is of particular interest to visitors, containing a great wealth of church vessels and luxurious archiepiscopal vestments, donated by various kings. It is difficult to compare this Parisian treasure room with our Moscow patriarchal treasury, because in style and contents they differ greatly; but the French treasure room, at first glance, strikes one with no less brilliance and luxury than the Moscow one—though perhaps the effect is greatly enhanced here by the extraordinarily skillfully made repositories: before your eyes they reveal their treasures with truly theatrical dexterity and elegance. Among the treasures shown here are the crown of thorns of the Savior, acquired by Louis the Saint, the golden cross of Emperor Manuel Komnenos, a part of the Life-giving Cross, as well as one rich Russian banner lost by us at Sevastopol, and the blood-stained vestments of several Parisian archbishops who fell from the hands of revolutionaries, and much more. Steep spiral staircases lead to the towers. On entering the platform of the temple, from which properly the towers begin, one is struck by a multitude of stone statues representing the wildest forms of the devil and his angels. Here, it seems, all the forms of the devil that dark Catholic medieval imagination could devise are depicted; you see, for example, a most hideous fiend that in fury gnaws at a cat, etc. It is difficult to look at these statues indifferently. In one of the towers hangs the famous French bell—Bourdon[1], constituting for Parisians an object of the same pride as for Muscovites the famous Tsar Bell. The Frenchman explained with enthusiasm the mechanisms by which the clapper of the bell is set in motion; but I sinned against modesty and interrupted the Frenchman with a remark that in Russia we have whole dozens of such bells and even some several times larger—and we ring them all without any mechanism whatsoever. In truth, the French Bourdon is a complete dwarf compared to our Tsar Bell and weighs less than a thousand poods. Next to Bourdon hangs our Russian bell, taken by the French at Sevastopol. Our Sevastopolet is much smaller than Bourdon, and I, striking it with a hammer to compare its sound with the proud sound of the vessel, wished to hear the mournful tale of its captivity and longing for home; but to my surprise—its sound turned out to be deeper and more bass than Bourdon itself, though perhaps this depends on its Russian “coarseness” in comparison with its refined French neighbor. The view from the towers presents nothing special. One can only admire the blue windings of the Seine, disappearing in the masses of huge buildings.

Another of the most interesting Parisian temples is the temple of St. Genevieve or the Pantheon. Its foundation dates to the time preceding the Great Revolution, but the revolutionaries endeavored to make it their temple and transformed it into a simple monument to the great men of the French people. In 1851, it was again converted into a church and services are held in it. But to this day the church presents a strange mixture of religious and political elements. Its interior is very decorous, adorned with magnificent statues and pictures of religious Catholic worship, and for a pious Catholic soul there is certainly much that is instructive and edifying; but its exterior bears a wholly political and, one might say, pagan character. First of all, the inscription on the front says that this is not a church but a simple monument. It reads: “Grateful fatherland to great men.” This in itself would be nothing, of course: the church is not alien to great men. But look at the bas-reliefs, and you will see the pagan element. The front bas-reliefs represent in the form of women: the fatherland, freedom, and history. The fatherland, naturally, at the urging of its companions, distributes palms to the great men to whom it owes its grandeur and glory. On the sides stand the great men in crowds. On the right are military geniuses, and among them in the foreground Napoleon I, and on the left are crowded scholars and philosophers, and among them, alongside Fénelon, Laplace, Cuvier, and Lafayette, men such as Voltaire, Mirabeau, and others receive reward palms from the indiscriminate fatherland. The church is particularly inclined toward Voltaire, and in its basement preserves his coffin as a holy relic, as well as his statue—with his well-known sarcastic physiognomy, which here appears even more sarcastic—perhaps because it stands out of place. On the interior walls, a series of paintings depicting the life of St. Genevieve—from childhood to death—draws particular attention. Many very interesting and characteristic episodes from contemporary female historical figures (from the time of Attila) are introduced into the paintings. On two columns are posted notices inviting people to special services for the benefit of Alsatians and Lorrainians. What meaning these services have—political or simply charitable—I could not discover. The architectural exterior of the temple fully answers to its name—Pantheon. Somewhat similar to the described temple is the Invalides cathedral, which contains the tomb of Napoleon I: the same mixture of religious and political elements. Outside, between excellent columns of the Greek style, stand statues: of Charlemagne and Louis the Saint, and below them statues of four virtues: Justice, Temperance, Prudence, and Strength. A golden dome, it seems, unique in Paris, proudly rises above the colonnade. The interior of the temple strikes one with its aristocratic quality. White marble walls and floor shine with extraordinary elegance and cleanliness, which even confuses the unaccustomed visitor. Upon entering within—in the midst of the temple you see, as it were, a round fountain basin. But when you approach closer—before you in the depths opens the tomb of the great Napoleon. The impression is powerful but difficult to define. The sarcophagus of red Finnish marble, presented by our Emperor Nicholas Pavlovich, stands in the very depths, and on both sides of it stand, as if on guard, sculptural figures of the twelve main companions-in-arms of Napoleon. Beside them are fixed a multitude of flags and victorious trophies of military genius; the flags incline toward the tomb. Among them, there are undoubtedly Russian ones, but with insufficient light it was difficult to examine them. Above the tomb rises a magnificent altar with an inscription expressing Napoleon’s cherished desire—to find a place of rest in his beloved fatherland. On the temple walls are many painted images. A painting on the dome is especially interesting, depicting Louis the Saint handing to Jesus Christ the sword with which he defeated the enemies of Christianity.

Many interesting and distinctive features are presented by the other Parisian temples I visited, but their description would take up too much space. I will mention only the church of St. Sulpice, where on the walls are posted numerous notices announcing the distribution of indulgences with a list of deeds giving the right to them; the church of St. Magdalene, presenting the type of a Greek temple; and the church of St. Roch, celebrated for its artistic music. I happened to be at a service in this church. It was on Saturday the 20th of October, the 1st of November by the new style, a great holiday for the French—“All Saints’ Day.” There were many worshipers, so many that there were not enough chairs, and many pressed and crowded along the walls. Deathly silence reigned in the temple, broken only by the barely audible exclamation of the clergyman. But then the exclamation ended and “amen” from the stentorian tenors resounded through the walls. On the distant choir, the organ began a melody and it was taken up by an enormous chorus below, accompanied by several contrabasses. The impression was grandiose and the singing pleasant to the ear; but it was difficult to persuade oneself that one was in a temple: these rows of chairs, these contrabasses with bows, these suisse (suisse) in theatrical costumes, with clubs in their hands and triangular hats on their heads, and the choir itself with its artistic singing—all of this had the character of a concert, not a service. When the singing ended, the organ in the distance continued the melody, which then seemed to die away on the choir. One would have to be a Catholic to draw even a drop of religious feeling from this sea of aesthetics.

On the following day, Sunday, the measured strokes of a bell were calling Orthodox pilgrims to the Russian church. Abroad, love for one’s native land is always felt more strongly, and the Orthodox “bell-toll” of the Russian bell responded with joyful tidings in my heart and with irresistible force drew me to the Orthodox temple. The service was conducted by the venerable rector of the church, Protopriest V. A. Prilethaev: the French choristers sang harmoniously and tunefully the Orthodox songs incomprehensible to them, and, to my surprise, pronounced the words so distinctly and well, even such a long song as the Creed, that one forgot about their nationality and it produced the impression of genuinely Russian church singing. The performance of the Cherubim Song (No. 3 of Bortniansky) was especially harmonious and beautiful and recalled in miniature the singing of our excellent Alexander Nevsky Metropolitan choir. The church was full of worshipers, perhaps the entire Russian colony in Paris, headed by His Imperial Highness Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolaevich the Elder, who occupied a place at the right kliros. Thus there was here a purely Russian atmosphere: Russian worship, Russian people. The deep, solid bass of the deacon fully completed the Russian picture. However, no, it was not the bass of the deacon that completed this picture, but Russian beggars standing in the vestibule. One must wonder where Russian beggars came from in Paris, but it is a fact and its explanation can only be found in the inviolable word of the Savior: “the poor you always have with you.” The church itself, in purely Moscow style with five golden domes, makes a very good impression and serves for Paris as one of the zealously displayed sights of its inhabitants. It is a pity only that it stands on a completely unfavorable spot, in a courtyard surrounded by not particularly artistic buildings, with an exit to an insignificant, blind, narrow, and neglected street, on which empty lots with trash stand unused for whole decades. This unassuming setting greatly diminishes its grandeur and beauty. The interior is very decorous, and the side recesses with paintings by Bogolyubov produce a strong aesthetic impression. The base of the dome is occupied by the writing of a song—“Let all flesh be silent.” Glancing through it with my eyes, I noted several fairly crude grammatical errors: and one could not help but regret the insufficient attention to the Russian shrine of those who could have ensured greater accuracy of the text. But in any case, the overall impression remains magnificent, and I left the temple with a sense of complete satisfaction.

[1] “Bourdon” in Russian can be rendered: bass-bell, Basilo.

4. Paris (Cont.)

In viewing the sights of Paris, I naturally wished to penetrate into the inner life of its inhabitants. But I must confess that there was no possibility of achieving this in the short time I had at my disposal. The life of such a populous city is too complex to orient oneself in it and make more or less interesting observations in two or three days. I saw Parisian life only on the streets, not in those secret depths where it manifests itself without adornment; and I must say that street life among Parisians makes a fairly good impression and does not at all justify the common notions about its licentiousness that exist in Russia. Perhaps the former light-mannered Paris, chastened by the heavy trial of the past war, has become more sedate and wishes through strict abstinence to atone for its former lawlessness, but in any case the “displays of vice” with which, by accounts, the capital of France formerly shone, are now completely invisible. On weekdays, Paris is even somewhat dull and seems deserted: on a holiday it is extremely populous, yet again quiet and modest. On the great French holiday of “All Saints’ Day,” Paris presented a touching spectacle: it is a holiday of commemoration of the dead, and one had to see the touching zeal with which all, with bouquets, flowers, and immortelles, hurried to the cemeteries to honor their fathers and brothers. A people that honors its ancestors has great moral strength, and the Parisians thus declared themselves. In the evening of the same day, popular celebrations were arranged, and among them, in the Tuileries Garden—ball tossing. This beloved, completely innocent, and perhaps childish game gathered immense masses of people around it, and it was interesting to watch how elderly people competed with children in strength and dexterity of ball throwing. The game made an impression of innocence, but all the more important is the fact that this innocent game gathered multitudes of spectators and participants. There is no need to say that in these immense masses there was not a single one of those rowdies who, as with us, are so glad at a holiday that they become drunk before dawn. Silence and calm were astonishing, and there was no business for the “policemen,” who with us, as is known, are swamped with “duties” on holidays.

Morality is the offspring of religion, and I sought to find this causal connection between them in Paris. But remarkably, this connection, if my observation is correct, is not noticeable here. Religion with its manifestations, as it were, hides in Paris in certain secret corners. With great effort, for example, I searched for church journals and newspapers—and despite all my effort could not find any. I was in rich reading rooms where numerous newspapers and journals of all kinds are subscribed to, but of church ones—I saw not one. Even clerical newspapers are difficult to encounter, and I must have doubted the strength of local clericalism. True, priests and members of various monastic orders, such as Capuchins, are often met here; but they walk like shadows through the streets, drawing no one’s attention except perhaps mischievous boys, who are not averse to gazing at the bare half-shaved heads of Capuchins in their broad brown cassocks. Those genuflections and raising of hands, which I constantly had occasion to see in our Catholicized Vilna, leave not a trace here.

The workers here, this main contingent of revolution and the Commune, are modest and polite, and walk the streets like turkeys in their starched but ungirdled blue smocks. Many of them I had occasion to meet in the Louvre Museum, occupied with viewing its artistic treasures. How then can one explain the horrors of destruction and crime that were perpetrated not long ago by these very workers? The greatest blame must undoubtedly be attributed to outside agitation, and it is known that with long and frequent incitement, even the dampest material will catch fire. Therefore, right-thinking people here regard the future with shuddering, given the announced amnesty to Communists. Many of the latter have already returned from exile to Paris and from the start showed their refractory, rebellious nature, and, taking advantage of the workers’ congress held in Marseille in mid-October, endeavored to agitate the population in favor of the revolutionary designs of that congress. But so far they are not succeeding. For now they remain only fruitlessly filling the air with their maxim: liberty, equality, and brotherhood. This maxim, I note incidentally, has recently been thoroughly compromised: under its banner false currency has appeared—five-franc coins. In France, there are silver five-franc coins predominantly with the coat of arms of the former Emperor Napoleon III; but the malevolent counterfeiter preferred to issue coins with the republican seal and the maxim proclaiming liberty, equality, and brotherhood. Everyone who now receives such a coin fully feels the bitterness and disadvantage of such “liberty, equality, and brotherhood.” By carelessness, or rather by inexperience, I also obtained one such coin, and now, with my strict monarchical convictions, have the vexing pleasure of constantly carrying a republican maxim. In not a single shop will they take…

5. London

The stormy strait—guardian of Albion.—London and first impressions.—Unbearable atmosphere and feverish movement.—Sights.—St. Paul’s Cathedral and Westminster Abbey.—The Bible in London.—Biblical theater.—The holiday of “showing the Lord Mayor” and popular revelry.

A swift train in a few hours travels the distance from the capital of the French to the far end of the European continent—to the small town of Calais. Two hours before arriving in this city, you feel that the continent, as it were, melts before you, and the increasingly dense blue expanse announces the approach of another element. But there is the famous strait—the Pas-de-Calais. The train stops at the very shore as if in annoyance that a new capricious element does not let it go further. Passengers transfer to a steamship. The heartbeat involuntarily quickens at the change of elements, and this element, as it were, deliberately through its unrest makes one regret the departing continent. The steamship rushed with confidence over foaming waves, but strong squalls prevent it from an even course, and it, shuddering and swaying, transmits its restlessness to the passengers, many of whom cried out for fateful cups and depressed sat over them, paying tribute to the fierce strait. Grasping the railing with both hands (it was impossible to stand on the deck without support), I looked at the raging element more with curiosity than with fear, and thought: there it is, the native element of the famous island navigators, in it alone lies sufficient guarantee for both their universal dominion and their impregnability; truly, the stormy strait is the natural guardian of Albion, and against its unyieldingness once shattered, as is known, the almost invincible force of the great military genius of the French. But the commotion began to subside, the steamship more boldly cut through the waves, and ladies revived from fear began to attempt to walk on a single plank of the deck. In the distance, from the dense blue appeared the steep white—one could say sugary, if they were not chalk—shores of proud Albion. The English train, having taken the passengers, sped through Dover into the famous abode of lords, to London. In two hours the train was already thundering over London itself, on rails laid over the houses.

The very entrance to London—this wonderful ride over massive buildings and across bridges thrown over streets—certainly had all the conditions to make the famous “metropolis” of the English produce a crushing impression on a newcomer. And I indeed looked with superstitious fear from the carriage down, where on the streets masses of people and carriages moved about fussily, paying no attention whatsoever to the roar and whistle of the train rushing over their heads. But London made an even greater impression on me when, having arrived, I was able, walking through the streets, to observe street life up close and in detail, rather than from a bird’s eye view. One must say that in London the streets are fairly narrow and irregular, but this all the more contributes to street congestion. It is difficult to describe what appeared before my observation. A multitude of all sorts of carriages and omnibuses move back and forth; coachmen shout at the top of their voices not so much at the horses as at the masses of people constantly crossing in front of them; the masses of people literally run along the sidewalks, constantly colliding and jostling one another; paperboys with strident voices trumpet the news; deep voices respond to them—sturdy fellows hung before and behind with enormous pictures containing advertisements; begging street musicians with their squeaky melodies beg for alms; not far from them is heard the mournful trio of a woman with two little ones, straining their weak lungs with a sorrowful song; street boys in jester’s caps with songs pull a cart with some kind of effigy and rudely push aside those they meet on the road; clever cyclists like demons fearlessly dart between rows of carriages; groans and rumbling painfully tear at the eardrum, while whistles and roars of trains constantly crossing the streets complete this truly Babylonian picture. I had previously read and heard accounts of the extraordinary movement in London, but what appeared before my own eyes surpasses any description. Struck by this human tumult, at first I did not even notice the peculiarity of London’s atmosphere, but going out the second and third times—I understood all its charm. One would have to be a true Briton to endure it. I recall that in a letter from Zurich I expressed the opinion that the main cause of the socialism there lay in the factory atmosphere of the workers. Now I must eat my words. Such a heavy, stifling, smoky atmosphere, constantly breathed by the greatest capitalists in the world, there is, one can boldly say, in no factory, however filthy. The very sun here does not cope with the fog and only rarely shows its gloomy red, lacking all luster, face over the city. By meteorological data, the sun in London during the week I spent there shone only eight hours, even though the weather was dry and comparatively clear. But remarkably, in this unbearably stifling atmosphere live such tall, healthy, fresh people as one seldom encounters anywhere else.

If I was forced to say of Paris that three days for its viewing are completely insufficient, then of London, the greatest city in the world, I must say that even a month is insufficient for it, not to mention just a week, which I happened to spend in it. It so overwhelms one with its sombre and bustling diversity that, having lived an entire week, a person only begins more or less to distinguish individual points from the general mass. I will describe only the most famous sights of it, to fail to mention which in a letter from London would be equivalent to describing Rome and forgetting about the Pope. I mean the cathedral of St. Apostle Paul and Westminster Abbey.

The majestic cathedral of St. Paul is located in the center of the city in the so-called City. It is an extraordinarily impressive and colossal building, to which even more grandeur is perhaps imparted by its black appearance from atmospheric soot. In London generally all houses are black and sooty and produce a gloomy impression. In an architectural respect, this temple resembles the well-known Roman temple of Saints Apostles Peter and Paul, and in size is the third among other temples of the Christian world. Its exterior is richly adorned with statues and various images not only of religious but also of a political character. With particular interest, above the south portico, they point out the phoenix with the inscription—Resurgam (I shall rise again). They say that when the plan of the temple was drawn up and the plot of land measured out, a worker was ordered to bring from the ruins of the old cathedral a stone for the laying of the new building; he brought one, and on this stone there turned out to be such an inscription that, of course, it was considered a favorable omen. The interior of the temple strikes one with the grandeur of its dimensions and the beauty of its vaults. I was in this temple during the evening service. Gas illumination, forming fiery arcs over the arches of the vaults, gave the temple a solemn appearance: two harmonious choirs of singers with antiphonal singing resounded through the vaults and awakened in the soul a sweet feeling, reminding of the distant homeland. The general setting of the worship with such antiphonal singing is astonishingly similar to our church service, even though the interior of the temple departs greatly from the type of Russian temples. While examining St. Paul’s Temple after the service, I, to my surprise, noted that it contains a great many political elements, and the walls are covered and decorated all through with statues and pictures representing the apotheosis of various military and political heroes of the English people. Thus I saw the depiction of the death of a heroic English naval captain, who after many victories over the enemy was heavily wounded in one battle: an angel with a crown in hand supports him and receives his last breath. On the left side of the temple is depicted an entire battle of English with Russians during the Crimean campaign, in which, of course, the English are victorious. In view of all this, St. Paul’s Temple is not only a temple to the glory of God Most High, but also a temple of glory, properly speaking, British. Its pulpit, high as a tower, is famous in London, and its fame is now successfully sustained by the well-known dean of the cathedral, Stanley. Opposite the cathedral across the street shine signs reading: “Cathedral Hotel,” “St. Paul’s Restaurant,” etc.

If already the cathedral contains certain political elements, then Westminster Abbey with its main church is a true Pantheon of the great men of Albion, the true “temple of British glory.” The Abbey, first of all, strikes one with its exterior. It is a row of tall, extraordinarily distinctive buildings, crowned with towers, more resembling old fortress types than a monastery. Inside, it is a veritable museum. There on the right and left you see statues, plaques, tombs of the most famous people, with inscriptions announcing their services to a grateful fatherland. There rest both admirals and dukes, statesmen and writers, archbishops and orators—for all of them the fatherland created monuments, one way or another bearing witness to their great deeds. Some, and indeed many monuments bear traces of highly artistic creation and for the visitor constitute an object of high aesthetic enjoyment. It is no wonder that English poets glorify the Abbey in their poetical works, and many declare that examination of its monuments served as one of the strongest motifs of their poetic creation. The Abbey even now gives shelter to the most remarkable people of England, and I noted in it the tomb of the recently deceased well-known geologist Lyell. The inscription on his tomb reads: “All his life he devoted to deciphering the fragmentary chronicle of the history of the earth, tirelessly investigating the present order of nature, and thereby expanded the boundaries of knowledge, exerting enormous influence on scientific thought.” How great are Your works, O Lord! marvelously deep are Your thoughts! In general, from viewing the Abbey, the visitor carries away much that is instructive: it visually introduces one into the cultural history of the English people.

Opposite the Abbey rises the most grandiose temple of the living pillars of Albion—parliament with its houses of Lords and Commons. I only looked at this sort of architectural wonder from without and, waving my hand at it, entered the “court of justice” standing nearby. Here there appeared before my eyes an almost fairy-tale picture. A row of benches arranged in amphitheater fashion was occupied by advocates and court officials gray as ash; opposite them at a separate table sat two judges even more gray; but my astonishment knew no bounds when I noted that the gray hair of all of them was artificial. It turns out that in England, among servants of justice, the medieval form has been retained, which required the judge to have gray hair as real proof of his wisdom. With the gray curled wig is combined a strange medieval broad cloak. Some kind of judicial proceeding was taking place, but I did not get to learn how well English judges in their gray wigs justify the well-known saying: “the gray hair of a man is his wisdom.”

From the world of artificial gray hairs, I set out into the world of genuine, centuries- and thousand-year-old antiquities, gathered in the famous British Museum. The institution is so remarkable that to fail to visit it during one’s stay in London would be to commit the greatest crime against science. But at the same time it is so vast and contains so many treasures that I considered it necessary during my visit to limit myself to only one of its departments—the archaeological one, viewing predominantly Egyptian and Assyrian antiquities. And how much that is great and important in these fragments of gray antiquity! Here is the source of this new historical science, which in recent times has begun to shed brilliant light on many predominantly archaeological data of the Bible. One need only look closely at these apparently insignificant fragments with knowledgeable eyes and you will see scientific, factual confirmation of many biblical narratives. Unfortunately, our native theological literature has not yet presented a single more or less satisfactory work in this regard. But the English have made the greatest contributions to biblical-historical science in this respect and deserve to be held up as an example to us—Russians.

The English, moreover, love the Bible as perhaps hardly any other Christian people does. In Paris, for example, you will not only not quickly find a Bible, but even some church newspaper. Here, on the contrary, you see the Bible everywhere first of all. Not to mention that it constitutes the possession of every householder, you see it also in public buildings and institutions. I was astonished when, entering in London a magnificent, luxuriously appointed reading room at the hotel, I first of all saw on the table the Bible in a rich English binding. In bookstores, which by their wealth and luxury undoubtedly constitute one of the most interesting sights of London, behind mirrored windows you will certainly find the Bible in the foreground—in the most luxurious editions and in the most exquisite bindings. Together with the Bible as a book, the English love biblical texts. Stores having any relation to religion or church goods are covered with texts like: “God is love,” “Love your enemies,” etc. Even newspaper advertisements are often confirmed by biblical texts. Thus, examining advertisements in one newspaper, I with surprise encountered a quotation from the book of Deuteronomy, and with a text reading: “the blood of a man is his life,” but just below the text I read a speculative advertisement, informing that there one could obtain the best in the world blood-purifying remedy, freeing from all diseases and providing sure chances of living to a deep old age, etc. If one judges, however, by appearance, one must acknowledge the English in general to be a most religious people. It is known the rigorous respect with which they regard Sunday. I happened to spend one Sunday in London, and I must say that what I witnessed exceeded all expectations: as if some almighty force had suddenly stopped this apparently ceaseless sea of human bustle. Where on weekdays are hung the most enormous advertisements of theatrical performances and various speculative enterprises, on Sunday one could see only such equally enormous advertisements, in which various churches announced the Sunday sermons they were proposing to deliver. And the people stopped at these advertisements with no less curiosity than at theatrical ones, and it seems they went to church with no less zeal. At least, the immense cathedral of St. Paul on the Sunday I spent in London was filled to overflowing with worshipers. I do not know to what extent the English temple satisfies religious feeling—but that it is quite strong, this, it seems, is difficult to doubt. Perhaps to this strong religious feeling of the English, which makes great demands for its satisfaction, should be attributed the incredible number of various religious and biblical societies that exist in London. But I am at a loss to explain the formation of a new “biblical-theatrical society” that now exists here. This original society has set itself the goal of forming a biblical theater, where dramatically elaborated biblical subjects would find appropriate theatrical production; it is supposed that in costumes and sets they will strictly adhere to scientific data of biblical archeology. According to newspaper reports, the first such biblical drama to be produced on stage will be a play entitled “Moses in Egypt”; the role of Pharaoh’s daughter, it is said, has already been taken by one of the most well-known London actresses. It is curious—what will come of it.

On Monday, November 10th (by the new style), London had a popular and most interesting holiday—“showing the new Lord Mayor to the people.” I do not have the time and space to describe this holiday, but I note only that it served for Londoners as an occasion to express their feelings of gratitude to Premier Disraeli and his aide the old mayor. Both of them, along the streets in the obligatory ceremonial procession, the people greeted with shouts: “Zulus, Zulus!”—and in one place a huge stone was even hurled at the old mayor’s carriage, which, fortunately, did not harm him. Thus the people took revenge on the deceased premier for his boundless ambition, in sacrifice to which he had spent tens of millions of people’s money on his Zulu war.

5. London (Cont.)

In the evening of the same day, I happened to witness London’s popular revelry, and I confess I had never seen anything like it. Illumination blazed forth, and immense masses of people poured into the streets, moving as one continuous element. The English are generally a serious and solid people, but on this evening everything turned into endless merriment and childish pranks. The male element was armed with some sort of infernal devices, which at contact with the fair sex produced piercing cracks, causing cries among timid maidens; while the fair sex was armed with hand-held fountains, which sprayed people’s faces with cold streams—anyone whom the beauties chose as a victim of their pranks. All this made noise, shouted, laughed and guffawed, seized with irresistible bursts of mischief and merriment. Never had I seen such carefree childishness in the popular masses, and still less could I have supposed that the inhabitants of gloomy and foggy London could indulge in such endless pranking merriment. But remarkably, in this countless mass of people, seized with merriment, there was absolutely no trace of the “merry” in our Russian sense. All was merry but decorous, playful but not disrespectful, exuberant but not drunk, and, naturally, there was not a word of arrests or police reports.

6. Ten Days at Sea

The night before boarding the ocean ship.—Morning and transfer to the “Scythia.”—Path from Liverpool to Queenstown.—Open ocean.—Storm.—Condition and hopes of passengers.—Columbus and his faith.—Sunday service in the midst of the ocean.—The shore of “the other side.”

From the gloomy nest of lords, a swift train in five hours transports you to the embrace of the younger brother of London—the rich and industrially second city in England, Liverpool. The countryside weather in England is far from what London’s is, and I admired the charming landscapes and vistas, shining in bright sunlight with almost spring beauty. But the November sun is not generous with rays and soon disappeared; meanwhile, the coastal city was approaching, and with it its charms. Looking out the window some half-hour after sunset, I no longer recognized the former cheerful vistas: blinding fog covered everything with impenetrable darkness, through which one could scarcely make out dense frost, spreading in a white-blue shroud over the earth. My heart involuntarily trembled at the sight of such a striking change; in bewilderment, I turned to my German neighbor with a naive question—what is this?—and he answered that this was “England—the sister of Siberia.” I have never happened to be in Siberia, but I do not think there could be such a depressing picture there as appeared in the environs of Liverpool. Just before the city, the train for some reason stopped for a few minutes and, apparently over some kind of abyss, in which nothing could be seen, but from the depths of which came the puffing of some machines, quickened whistles, and dull roars—a truly hellish picture. In Liverpool I was supposed to “calmly spend the night,” as the agent of the ocean steamship company, on whose ship I had a ticket, recommended to me—so that in the morning I would wake up early and head for the ship. “Calmly”… how much sarcasm sounded in my ear this kind word of the kind agent! Have you ever happened to spend the night before such an event in your life, which is fraught with the greatest dangers, in your estimation, and to resolve upon which cost you terrible inner struggle?—Such was that night in Liverpool for me: quiet sleep was out of the question. Nevertheless, strength bends even straw, and exhaustion subdued the agitated spirit, seeking now its only support in quiet, but extraordinarily loud and significant prayer for the heart.

In the morning the agent promised to wake me at 7 o’clock, but my agitated spirit anticipated his service: I myself rose much earlier. And wonderfully—there was no yesterday’s anxiety in my soul! Bright sunshine dispersed the fog and at 9 o’clock I set out for the steamer, which was transporting passengers to the ocean steamship “Scythia” (Scythia) standing at a distance from the shore. The ocean giant stood calmly and majestically on the water, raising steam, and around it bustling steamers ran about, delivering passengers and cargo. Having taken my cabin, I set out to view the “little tree” to which I entrusted my life and on which I placed my hope—to reach “the other side.” This “tree” was more than 60 sazhens in length with an enormous red funnel and several masts. On the deck in several places steam hoists were working eagerly, raising cargo from barges and steamers, and everywhere motley groups of passengers crowded. A panorama opened on all sides that was charming. From three sides, populated shores were visible, the fourth merged with the heavens: countless ships and steamers in all directions cut through the light waves of the gulf glittering in the sun, and in the air sea gulls wheeled with cheerful cries. Observing the passengers, I noted that it was not only youths seeking the open spaces of life who were striving for the “new world,” but also profound old men, whose every wish should seem by rights to be limited to a warm, quiet place on the mainland; not only solitary people, but also family men—with wives and children. For me, in whose imagination the “new world” was almost equivalent to calling it “the other side,” this was a phenomenon both as unexpected as it was encouraging. But I was even more astonished and encouraged by the cheerful mood of these passengers: one could have thought they were departing on some sort of journey along the Volga, say from Nizhny to Astrakhan, and not at all along the boundless, frightening ocean. From all this I understood that the journey from Europe to America is far from an unusual phenomenon for these people and these places—and the fears began to disperse. Entering the magnificent common hall or “salon,” I noticed here also reassuring signs: everything here was easy and elegant; over the tables on wooden shelves stood crystal and porcelain dishes in recessed places; their integrity obviously presupposed the absence of such desperate pitching that describe accounts of ocean voyages. Though later I had to become somewhat disabused of the truth of my conclusions, nevertheless they served me a good service, reassuring me at first.

At 12 o’clock on Saturday, November 3rd (the 15th by the new style), the “Scythia” weighed anchor and, with an even motion, as if with proud consciousness of its strength, set forth on its distant journey. On both sides, the ships and steamers that it was overtaking flashed by, and behind, the shores sank into the waters. With a farewell-sad gaze, I followed the receding shores; they sank more and more, and finally disappeared entirely. On the open sea, a fresh breeze blew, which, in alliance with the descending night, forced the passengers to shelter in their cabins. A magnificent dinner was served in the salon, after which the passengers, divided into groups, occupied themselves with games, conversations, reading, letter-writing, all of which presented a picture of ordinary “earthly” life: nothing gave sign that this entire dwelling with its cheerful people was not built on sand, but directly over an abyss, where terrible monsters—sharks and whales[1]—roam. The next morning shores appeared and soon the anchor was cast on the magnificent roadstead of the Irish city of Queenstown. This is the first and last station on the great Atlantic path. Passengers hurried to send letters to the post, and some set out for shore to hear Sunday worship and thus provision themselves with new strength for the great and difficult journey. At 4 o’clock in the evening, the ship weighed anchor and said Europe its final “farewell!”—From Queenstown, the open ocean begins.

Whoever has seen the ordinary sea, where the shores do not see each other, will find nothing special in the Atlantic Ocean in its calm state: the same enormous circle of water, mathematically correctly drawn by the compass of illusion, with its periphery merging into the heavens. Such was how I saw the Atlantic Ocean, having come out on deck in the morning on Monday. The sun shone as brightly as before and played with the wave, and the gulls calmly went about their usual fishing. Thus the whole day passed, and I began to reason with myself that the ocean was not a terrible thing at all, that travel upon it was not only not dangerous and difficult, but even pleasant, only somewhat monotonous; and with this a thought flashed through my head: if only a breeze could add some variety to the journey. O, a thousand times I repent of that unfortunate desire! As if wishing to punish me for thoughtless longing, the ocean resolved to come out of its calm state: the giant woke up and powerfully moved its terrifying body. By Tuesday at midday there was no longer clear sunshine on the horizon, clouds covered it; instead, a gusty wind whistled and howled in the ship’s rigging. The ocean darkened and scowled. Foamy waves angrily ran across its face. The “Scythia” trembled but still as before dashed forward majestically, cleaving and beating back the angry waves. And the wind kept strengthening and the waves grew higher. The passengers grew quiet and, settling on the sheltered side of the deck, looked gloomily at the fierce waves. And these servants of the ocean, driven by the whips of wind, threw themselves at the “Scythia” with ever greater fury and desperately stormed it from the sides. It could not endure and began to rock. The pitching soon became so severe that it was impossible to stand on deck without holding to the railing. The rows of passengers on deck thinned out; many were called by the ocean to make its vile sacrifice. But then another desperate blow of a wave—and the ship heeled so that foamy water rushed onto the deck, and the chairs on which passengers sat rolled noisily toward the side, causing indescribable tumult. One respectable mother of a family, carefully wrapped up by her husband, sat peacefully with her three children: this blow instantly knocked them all from their places and they literally rolled toward the side, where they were drenched with foamy water. The father rushed in terror to pick them up, but only the frightened mother took advantage of his services, while the children—oh, they with merry laughter jumped up themselves and turned the object of fear for adults into a plaything. At the sight of this, the adults too became more cheerful. After this, the passengers took shelter in their cabins. On the deck remained only the wild sea wind and his friends—the English sailors of the ship. Dressed in leather suits, they moved like ghosts across the deck and, tightening or fixing the rigging, sang under the whistle of the wind their English working song, the motif of which was perhaps no less disheartening than our well-known Russian working “darina.” The bell called to dinner (at 6 p.m.), but only about a quarter of the passengers appeared, and not a single woman: all were suffering from seasickness. The salon now presented a heartbreaking picture: plates, despite the grids laid on the tables with places for them, threw out their contents, spoons, knives, forks—ran and clattered across the tables, while hanging above, the dishes with their ringing and rattling, as if sang a last farewell song. Sleep during the ensuing night obviously could not be peaceful, if indeed anyone slept at all. In the morning the wind seemed to subside somewhat, and the passengers revived a bit; but alas—a new storm and almost from the opposite side again whistled across the rigging and instantly shattered hopes. The ocean was covered with a white foamy shroud and presented the appearance of snowdrifts, across which foamy spray was carried and whirled by the wind, like a snowstorm. On the deck signal bells and whistles grew more frequent, calling the sailors, and waves more often broke onto it. The pitching grew so severe that my neighbor advised me not to sleep on my hanging high bunk. I expressed hope for better weather, but he confidently remarked that tomorrow would be even worse. And his words proved true. On the 8th, Thursday, the “Scythia” with its passengers had to withstand a truly fierce storm; the wind with terrible force raged on the deck and with its whistling and roaring howl tore at the heart. A foamy snowstorm towered high above the surface and swept across the ship. Waves grew to terrifying sizes and like snowy mountains moved threateningly across the face of the ocean, as if seeking whom to crush. The enormous ship before them shrank to an ordinary insignificant steamer and, barely audibly knocking with its screw, as if pleaded for mercy. On Tuesday and Wednesday it, one could say, still struggled with the waves with some confidence and, with terrible force beating back their assault, made the ocean feel the superiority of human genius. Now—alas, the ocean was already gaining the upper hand and avenging yesterday’s superiority. Wave after wave picked up the “Scythia” and tossed it about like a ball. The pitching that resulted from this surpasses any description, and the water had fully taken possession of the deck and constantly ran across it, noisily sloshing from side to side. All the cabins were hermetically sealed, and the passengers, sitting in them, heard only how the fierce moisture ran above them with furious roar…

What must the passengers have felt at this time? First and foremost, almost all of them, with few happy exceptions (to which benevolent fate unexpectedly numbered me), suffered terribly from seasickness. But no less did they all suffer morally: this pitching, offering not a moment’s respite from physical discomfort; this continuous creaking of the cabins, causing constant shuddering; this rattling of dishes, which tore at the soul; this murmuring of water overhead; this, finally, the fierce roar and groan of the storm – all of this weighed on the soul so heavily that only those of fairly strong spirit could stand upright. The first hope of everyone in such circumstances was, of course, in Him in whose hand is the life and death of all creation, and it was evident that not only hearts but also the lips of many piously made prayer. Besides this honorable hope, a significant consolation for many, at least personally for me, was faith in human genius. In truth, I thought, this storm was not the first on the ocean, and if in all its contingencies human genius has found it possible to establish regular communication across the ocean, then evidently he foresaw all possible contingencies and has in his inexhaustible treasury of ingenuity the appropriate means of protection. The present company, for example, (Cunard Line) has existed for 37 years and annually transports across the ocean up to 100,000 people, and to this day, as its authenticated record states, not one of its steamships has suffered a single such disaster in which even one person perished.It is clear that human genius has generally managed to ensure itself against the fury of the ocean. Therefore, one can with probability suppose that this present storm represents nothing exceptional… These reflections contained much that was reassuring for me, and I began to bear the unpleasantness of the pitching more cheerfully. My thoughts, occupied as they were with such reasoning about the greatness of human genius, carried me back several centuries, to when the ocean first saw upon itself a bold man who resolved at all costs to cross over it. What guided this man, who first resolved to forge an unprecedented path? On what did he rely when venturing into an unknown and threatening path full of fantastic and real horrors? This was truly a great, a genius man; but all his greatness drew its actual force from his unconquerable faith – such faith as is hard to compare with anything except that great evangelical faith which moves mountains. Indeed, the data of the science of that time humbly remained silent to his inquiries; the counsel of the most learned men affirmed that beyond the surface of water lay a terrible abyss, and popular fantasy filled this abyss with terrible monsters ready to devour anyone daring to approach them. And despite all this, the bold seafarer, obeying exclusively his genius faith, ventures into the unknown path, and humanity owes him the greatest world-historical event – the discovery of the unknown hemisphere, the western half of the earth. By his faith he moved the mountains of ignorance from the ocean and forged through it a broad and well-trodden road. Yes, Christopher Columbus was a deeply believing man, and his anticipated canonization in the Roman Church would be one of the most fitting if only the curia were guided in this exclusively by moral rather than political motives.

[1] The Scythia on one of its crossings had a terrible collision with an enormous whale. The collision was so violent that it significantly damaged the ship’s bow and forced her to return to Liverpool for repairs. But the whale did not long survive the collision: a few days later the enormous carcass was found floating not far from the site of the collision. Its bones are now preserved in the company’s office as a trophy of the Scythia’s victory.

6. Ten Days at Sea (Cont.)

Meanwhile a sailor came with joyful news that the storm was noticeably weakening. Instantly everyone came to life, and a short time later some brave souls tried to open the door to the deck. Water still ran across it and did not rush in through the door only thanks to a high threshold. The wind weakened, but the waves like mountains continued to move across the ocean and again and again tossed the Scythia from side to side. But after what we had endured, this was frightening only in appearance, and gradually some dared to make their way onto the very deck, clinging to the railings. Soon the sun looked out friendly and fears were gone. Passengers poured onto the deck and marveled at the object of the fear just experienced. And there was much to marvel at. Enormous waves, blue as though from excessive tension, with foaming crests, in the bright rays of the sun, presented exactly Swiss scenery – only with the added feature of life and movement. Sea gulls flew along the deep valleys between the water-mountains and completed the illusion – which, however, these very waves at once destroyed, mercilessly tossing the poor Scythia. The pitching continued the entire night, and only toward morning did the water-mountains, unable to bear their own weight, disperse across the ocean. In the morning the surface of the ocean presented a strange sight – a vast plain with flat elevations and rather deep depressions, so that the ship had to climb onto an elevation then descend into a basin. The elevations and depressions had an almost unnatural stability for water, and only a slow, gentle undulation changed their relationship. Over the surface again flew the unchanging companions of the ship – sea gulls, which, I might remark, accompanied the ship almost across the entire ocean and only some three days before reaching America for some reason left it, probably thinking it would reach land even without their obligatory and, it must be said, spirit-raising convoy. They appeared again already at the shores. Four days before America, entire flocks of water birds appeared on the water, of the type of diving ducks, and gave notice of the approach of the New World[1].

On Sunday, the 11th of November, above the entrance door of the salon there was posted a notice stating that “a divine service was to be held in the salon at 10 hours 30 minutes in the morning,” to which both sailors and passengers were invited. Indeed, after breakfast the salon quickly transformed into a temple of service to God Almighty: in its midst stood a velvet lectern, and on the tables appeared English prayer books and notebooks with musical arrangements of hymns. At the appointed time the salon was filled with sailors in holiday dress and passengers – and it must be said, in such numbers as they had not gathered at the table during the entire voyage. The captain of the ship, a venerable elderly man with a kind and intelligent face, arrived and took a seat before the lectern. A solemn silence reigned. The captain, fulfilling the duty of priest, gave the opening, and the passengers answered “amen,” and then came the general singing of the morning hymn from the musical notebooks. This singing was as it were the singing of the very bright sun that had risen on the horizon, and with its solemn sounds spread such joy in the heart, so transported the spirit, that the English verses of the morning hymn in my Russian soul involuntarily took on Russian rhymes. And I dare to propose not for judgment, but for the benevolent attention of readers, a poetic rendering of this hymn. The ocean heard the following hymn:

Awake, O soul, and with the sun’s bright light

Walk duty’s wonted way;

Cast off the chain of sloth with prayer’s sweet sight

To the Creator bring your praise.

Restore the time in vain now squandered hence

And holy life anew begin;

Cast off the burden heavy, the weight immense

Of sins, and hold the dreadful day within.

Let all your paths be righteous ever;

Your conscience clear as noon’s bright ray;

All-seeing King perceives endeavor –

Your secret thoughts are plain as day!

Arise, O soul, and with the heavenly choir,

Forever praising the Creator’s name,

Lift up your voice in words of song aspire

To praise the Father who bestowed your flame!

And indeed, this singing rather merged with the singing of the heavenly choir than with the singing of earth. The earth did not hear this singing; only the boundless ocean heard it, and the still more boundless sky stretched above it, toward which all the thoughts of those singing were wholly directed. The ship’s captain, acting as priest, read several more psalms and prayers, and the reading was antiphonal, that is, the captain read one verse and the remaining worshippers intoned the next in chorus. The service was concluded with the triumphant singing of the 100th psalm (according to the English Bible) in its poetic rendering. At the conclusion of the singing, the captain rose from his place and congratulated the passengers on the holiday, as well as on the safe crossing of more than half the ocean path, to which, of course, the passengers responded with appropriate congratulations and expressions of gratitude to the venerable commander for his skilled management of the ship.

A festive Sunday mood spread throughout our little world: everyone seemed to look more cheerful and were more communicative; children played more merrily and ran on the deck; the sun shone more brightly on the horizon, and the blue waves murmured more gently beyond the rail. Such is the moral and vitalizing power of religion – even in such a simple and unpretentious service of worship as our Sunday service was. Nevertheless, as the company’s historical album attests, there have been cases when objections were raised against the holding of this Sunday service on the ship by people who do not acknowledge religion, and some of the captains, in view of the rule prescribing them complete respect for the persons of passengers, indeed wavered in this regard and were ready to cancel the service. But now this possibility has been entirely eliminated. The respectable company, sparing nothing to satisfy even the most finicky desires of its passengers, established in regard to divine service a strict rule admitting no exceptions: without fail to hold divine service every Sunday during the voyage, and captains, in case of new objections, are instructed simply to refer to this rule, which is binding upon them. One cannot but give credit to the respectable company for showing in this decisive step not only profound religiosity but also high justice. In truth, it would be strange to cancel a beautiful Christian custom and deprive hundreds of passengers of religious comfort at sea – precisely there, where the soul yearns most for prayer – merely on account of idle, boastful objections of solitary unbelievers, as this is beautifully and powerfully expressed in the well-known Russian proverb.

The remaining days of the voyage, with magnificent weather, presented nothing exceptional. Only it was noticeable how, as we approached the mainland, cheerfulness and animation grew in the society of passengers: all were evidently longing for mother earth and rejoiced at the prospect of soon seeing her. The last dinner on ship was a true banquet: congratulatory speeches were made and toasting songs were sung; shouts rang out – hurrah, hurrah! The captain received public thanks from all the passengers in numerous speeches, and in response he also gave a splendid and witty address that drew endless exclamations of approval and rapture. One of the passengers among other things proposed to take advantage of the favorable occasion “to remember our homeless children (meaning English, of course) of our brave sailors and make what contribution we can to the Liverpool society for their care,” and in response to this appeal rang out a hearty ringing of sovereigns and dollars being thrown onto circulating plates. To me, the sole Russian in this almost exclusively English gathering, it was difficult to shield myself from the general enthusiasm for the noble impulse, and I too added my humble contribution for the benefit of the children of the “brave sailors,” whom by political considerations I ought to regard as enemies. But the word says: “Love your enemies!” And one cannot, moreover, but love such enemies, especially one who has been with them at sea. It was pleasant to watch these brave fellows when, in the fearsome gusts of wind that made it impossible to stand on deck, they darted about the masts and rigging like squirrels and at the signal whistles simply merrily cried out: all right – “all is well!”

On Wednesday, the 14th–26th of November, from early morning the outlines of land – some coastal islands – began to stand out in the distance. Passengers with binoculars in hand and joyful excitement in their hearts greeted the land. At 3 o’clock in the afternoon we were already on the soil of the “New World,” in its capital – New York.

Thus was completed one of many crossings of the Atlantic Ocean. The general impression from the ocean path traversed is that human genius has finally conquered the terrible natural barrier in the way from the “Old World” to the “New.” Grandfather Ocean has submitted to this genius and now serves not as a divider but as a connector of two worlds. And the path, which in merely ten days carries you from Europe into an entirely new world – America – stands as one of the irrefutable proofs of the superhuman might of the human spirit. In it is seen the fulfillment of the Creator’s commandment, which gave man dominion over nature, and there lie yet such conquests within it, of which even bold dreamers have not dreamed.

* * *

[1] These birds, however, were not to be seen again the next day, and their strange appearance in the midst of the ocean was later explained by the fact that the ship that day was passing not far from the great Newfoundland shoal.

Beyond the Ocean

1. New York

The Gate to the New World – The Wharf and First Impressions. – Thanksgiving Day. – General View of the City and Its Attractions. – Marks of Religiosity. – Yankees – a New Israel. – Terrible News from Home and Worship in the Russian Church.

On November 14 at around 2 o’clock in the afternoon the ocean steamer Scythia drew near to the shores of the New World. A magnificent bay in clear, almost summer weather presented an enchanting picture. Along its quiet waters in all directions glided sailing ships and steamers; along the hilly shores in picturesque disorder nestled country estates and suburban dwellings in shady groves. As the bay narrowed toward the mainland, before the ship opened only narrow gates leading inward – the constrained mouth of the Hudson River. Steel gun muzzles peered from behind the coastal ramparts and, like Cerberuses, guarded the entrance to the New World. Beyond the mouth opened a charming panorama of a whole host of cities with New York at the center. With intent attention the passengers gazed at the magnificent panorama, and it grew more and more vast as the steamer drew near. For some reason, this whole picture reminded me wonderfully of the panorama that opens when entering Petersburg from the Gulf of Finland. Only the shores here were somewhat higher, and the reddish-brown color of the buildings gave something quite un-Russian and destroyed the illusion. The Hudson, constrained at its mouth by mountains, widens toward New York and presents a magnificent expanse of water, teeming with extraordinary life and movement. Steamers of all possible types and sizes – from tiny pygmies to ocean giants and the three-story hulks of steamers of the so-called “American type” on our Volga – crisscrossed this expanse in all directions, and their varied whistles – from the highest piercing soprano to the deep roaring octave that shook the air – presented for an unaccustomed ear a terribly jarring concert. Even several versts before the wharf small, extraordinarily swift steamers began one after another to dart up to the Scythia, cleverly grappling with her, throwing down gangways, and correspondents from local newspapers literally on the fly snatched interesting news for them and newspapers brought from Europe, and again swiftly raced into the city, outpacing one another. Steamers of various trading and industrial firms also circled like a swarm around the Scythia, grappled with her, and after making necessary inquiries also raced into the city. On the wharf, meanwhile, a thick mass of people awaited us, with countless hands waving handkerchiefs, greeting the passengers. In front of the crowd stood out sharply the tall hats with plaques and long-skirted coats with gold buttons of police officers. Thus the shore of the New World presented quite a different aspect from what it appeared to the first European who set foot on it. A large gangway made it possible literally to step onto American soil.

So I was in the land given to humanity by the great Columbus – in the land where the goddess of freedom, in the general conception, has established her powerful kingdom! Walking about the enormous dock, under the influence of such a notion, I first and foremost tried to seek out and capture the traits of the so-called freedom, but – they were not visible. The masses, as everywhere, were divided into rich and poor, and consequently free and unfree; and the black sons of African deserts, performing heavy day labor, not only reminded one of the recent complete brutal slavery that flourished here under the banner of the goddess of freedom, but eloquently testified that this slavery in economic form exists even now. Policemen, blocking the way to the exit and inviting baggage inspection, and customs officials, mercilessly rummaging through baggage, suspiciously excavating every corner, finally drove away any desire to think about the goddess of freedom. No, O goddess! To establish a kingdom of freedom, it is not enough to move it beyond seas and oceans; it must be established in the hearts of people. One must know the truth: only it will set you free!

It was already dark when I could freely emerge into the open air. Here a decently dressed gentleman offered his services to take me in his carriage for a modest fare to the nearest hotel. I rejoiced, of course, but – my joy was not long-lived: the free Yankee deceived the inexperienced foreigner at every point. His carriage turned out to be a poor, rattling conveyance; the road to the hotel stretched for three versts, and the modest fare turned into two dollars (at the rate more than four rubles). The combination of “freedom and deception” struck a discordant note in my soul, but dollars nonetheless had to be paid. At the hotel I was greeted by a fashionably dressed colored gentleman[1] and with good-naturedly grinning black visage he carried me up by machine to one of the floors and showed me to my room. Here I could rest from the long journey. The modest room was furnished quite well; on the table lay a well-bound book. I opened it: it was the “Holy Bible.” Wondering how it came to be there, I asked the attending colored gentleman, and he explained that the “Holy Bible” in their hotel is in every room and that the American Bible Society takes care of this, distributing the holy books in such establishments free of charge. This single piece of information made me forget and forgive the first not entirely pleasant impressions of America. This people must possess great moral and religious power if it permits among itself the existence of such a free society, supported solely by voluntary donations, which can distribute tens and hundreds of thousands of Bibles free of charge.

In the morning one could look around the city. The hotel, it turned out, was located in one of the best parts of the city and overlooked a magnificent square surrounded by stately buildings. To the right rose a solid city hall building, crowned with a tower and an American single-headed eagle; to the left stood the palaces of American newspapers – the tallest buildings with towers and flags; opposite them was situated a colossal post office – like a palace; on the opposite side of the square ran the main street of the city – Broadway; further, sharp spires pointed toward heaven the Gothic towers of several churches. Masses of people moved along the streets, sharp-eyed boys darted between them with piles of newspapers; horse-drawn streetcars moved in continuous caravans along several parallel lines. In one corner people climbed ladders onto some strange latticed platform, secured by high posts above the street. The puffing of an engine and the rumble of a train explained what it was. This is the so-called elevated railway. Its construction represents perhaps the most original sample of the demonic ingenuity of the American mind. It is an elevated railway almost in the literal sense, as it goes along latticed beams, apparently of very light construction, supported by occasionally standing iron columns. Usually it runs in two lines along the right and left sides of the streets, and at main stations in four or more, so that their network covers the entire street, leaving only a weak opening to the sky. For five cents or American kopecks you can travel across the entire city from end to end. However, one must get used to the American bewildering bustle to calmly enjoy such a pleasure. I, living in New York, for a long time could not calmly endure the rumble of the train racing over my head and constantly fearfully looked back at it.

This elevated railway by its monstrous grandiosity far surpasses the London railway that struck me at first, which runs across the streets. In London only the underground railway, running beneath the city – in the dark bowels of that dark modern Babylon – can rival it in this regard.

Walking down one street, I noticed an enormous crowd of street boys. The young generation was making noise and running wild. I became interested in this gathering and drew closer; but how great was my surprise when I saw that most of these ragged urchins were armed with rifles, which they aimed at passersby and each other, frantically snapping the triggers. A policeman, indifferently watching this sport, explained to me that today (November 15–27) was a great American holiday – “Thanksgiving Day,” and that rifles had been distributed to the boys for their participation in the processions. By noon I indeed had occasion to witness these processions. Dressed-up boys with ribbons, flowers, banners, and rifles marched along the streets, led by a drummer and several buglers desperately playing national anthems. Crowds of onlookers accompanied them with enthusiastic cheers. “Thanksgiving Day,” as I later learned, is indeed a great holiday for Americans. It is a day of solemn expression by the people of gratitude to God for all the blessings poured out on them during the year. It wonderfully recalls one biblical holiday, when the people likewise expressed gratitude to Jehovah for the gathered fruits of the earth. From enormous posters scattered at every step, one could see that local preachers were preparing their best sermons for this day and inviting people to attend “magnificent” services. Stores and some amusement establishments were closed. Various charitable institutions were giving annual festive dinners, to which they invited the public. Boys carried piles of invitation tickets through the streets and distributed them to passersby. Having received such a ticket, I read in it a whole sketch of the history and activities of one charitable institution and a fairly well-written poem celebrating the proposed dinner, with a concluding appeal to benefactors for charitable contributions. This form of publication is very common in New York and is used by various speculators for their purposes. When I was examining and reading the curious invitation ticket, a sharp boy thrust another similar ticket into my hands. I began to examine that one too, but – to my surprise – I read in it a sketch of the history and activities of a shoe firm, which supposedly produces the best boots in the world. The merits and beauties of this footwear are there celebrated in enthusiastic verses by some boot poet, luring people into his shop.

In all the cities I have seen, to examine them from a bird’s eye view, it was necessary to climb high towers. In New York for this purpose the elevated railway serves, and I, to become acquainted with the general appearance of the city, climbed up the stairs to one of the numerous stations. The train, puffing and clanging, quickly rushed up to it and, in half a minute accepting new passengers, rushed on, stopping momentarily at each station – every five or six blocks. At first it is eerie to look down, where beneath the latticed track on the streets throng masses of people – but then, of course, habit takes its course. The general appearance of the city, as it presents itself in such a hasty survey, strikes not by beauty but by its businesslike character, its industrial, marketplace nature. Worldly bustle here, it seems, has established its throne and, together with the greedy god mammon, despotically rules over devoted slaves. Among the masses of red-brick tall houses, here and there rise graceful spires of Gothic towers of churches, also predominantly of reddish-brown color. Such tower-crowned churches in New York are not especially numerous; instead you constantly read on signs on ordinary houses inscriptions stating that this is a temple of such-and-such community, and that one of such-and-such. Religious thought, fragmented here into countless small sects, manifests itself outwardly in small temples. There are an extraordinarily large number of such temples in New York, and a mere list of them in the city “guidebook” occupies fourteen columns of dense print. Among the large temples here, noteworthy are the church of Holy Trinity and the Roman Catholic cathedral. The former is noteworthy for its antiquity, and its founding dates to 1696, when New York was no more than 50 years old. This temple is of magnificent Gothic architecture with a high tower on which a complex clock mechanism performs at set moments patriotic and religious hymns. Inside as well as outside, it is distinguished by refined simplicity. Around it in the enclosure stand in orderly rows tombstones. The high tower of this church, reaching toward heaven, with its surrounding place of eternal rest, presents an instructive contrast to the bustle seething around it of the most businesslike and industrial part of the city. The Roman Catholic cathedral is a completely new temple and so noteworthy that it deserves a separate brief account.

Walking along Fifth Avenue, one of the best streets of the city, toward the magnificent Central Park, you can fully enjoy, away from the noise, the contemplation of the luxurious chocolate-colored buildings of the aristocratic part of the city. Quite frequently here, reaching toward heaven, are Gothic towers of churches, also of chocolate color, which complete the beauty of the picture. Among these orderly rows of chocolate buildings and towers, like a magical snow palace gleaming in white on the bright southern sun[2] stands the magnificent white marble cathedral of St. Patrick. The contrast of color gives the cathedral an extraordinarily striking appearance. Looking at these luxurious forms of shimmering white marble in the sun, you cannot but think that you stand before a temple of the purest and most elevated human feelings. The cathedral was begun on August 15, 1858 and consecrated on May 25, 1879; but at present it is still not finished. It does not yet have the two high Gothic towers planned by the design. When the white marble towers rise above the cathedral, it will undoubtedly represent a marvel of architectural art. According to the explanation of the cathedral’s guide, this temple represents a specimen of the ornate geometric style of Gothic architecture that flourished in Europe in the 13th and 14th centuries and expressed itself in the construction of the famous cathedrals of Reims, Amiens, and Cologne and the Westminster Abbey building in London. But the new New York cathedral – in the purity of style, originality of design, harmony of parts, beauty of material, and speed of construction – has no rival in Europe among temples of the same style. Inside, the cathedral is extraordinarily spacious, and a mass of light spreads throughout all its parts, giving it a very joyful, solemn appearance. Orderly rows of high white marble columns and rich window painting constitute its incomparable interior decoration. Some painted windows are so expensive that in transporting them from abroad (they were prepared in France) the duties alone cost 4,000 dollars for each. During evening services the cathedral is lit by gas, and for this purpose the capitals of the columns and cupola are adorned with whole bouquets of gas jets (1,800 in all), which provide magnificent illumination. Heating is provided by steam, which is prepared in one of the neighboring streets and from there is conveyed into the temple walls by means of iron underground pipes. On two side columns I noticed posted tables. The tables showed a plan of the temple with a numbered indication of the pews and the designation of the annual payment for them. Having glanced at these tables, I found that prayer in the cathedral does not come cheap. Six-seat pews, representing something like boxes, in price range, depending on convenient location and closeness to the altar, between thirty and one hundred and fifty dollars (30–150). The custom of selling places in the House of the Heavenly Father, of course, strikes Russian Orthodox feeling as mere commercialism and a glaring violation of the rights of each – especially the poor man, not having a kopeck to his name – to come freely into the house of our common Father with a heartfelt prayer, and from this perspective the price list for places in the cathedral made a heavy impression on me. This impression, however, found some counterweight in another thought. The price list is, of course, in accordance with demand. If places in the cathedral are occupied despite the extraordinarily high – from our Russian perspective – payment for them, then what great religious need does the local Roman Catholic community have, and how powerful a zeal for the temple animates it! Wavering between these two opposite thoughts, I left the temple.

[1] The quite numerous Negroes here cannot bear their original name “Negro,” and are offended when called that; on the contrary, their black physiognomy brightens and with naive self-satisfaction they grin when called “colored gentleman” or “colored lady.”

[2] New York is thoroughly a southern city and is located at one degree north latitude with Madrid, Naples, Constantinople, and others.

1. New York (Cont.)

Americans, as could be observed even in a cursory observation, are fairly religious. To satisfy their religious feeling they on Sundays at once halt the wheel of their apparently endless worldly bustle and go to temples with such zeal as cannot be envied. To be present on Sunday at worship and hear the morning and evening sermon is considered one of the highest pleasures. What an important interest the day the Sunday sermons constitute here can be judged even from the fact that secular newspapers on Monday editions open a special section “from the church pulpit,” where the sermons delivered the previous day are reviewed with large extracts from the best. The Bible is their handbook, and in bookstores, which in New York by their beauty and abundance scarcely if at all fall short of even London shops, in the first place and in the most elegant, luxurious, and infinitely varied forms and bindings you invariably see the “Holy Bible,” as it is commonly called here. Perhaps a keen sense of religiosity explains also the striking fact that the name “God” is surrounded by some inaccessible holiness, and improper use of this word is considered a great impropriety, so that ordinary conversational language has struck it from its vocabulary. At the same time, in the religious life of Americans one can observe to the highest degree strange – from our perspective – traits. Thus, one adult eighteen-year-old girl – a Christian (!) – invited my good friend to her baptism; another very well-educated girl of the same age, in a conversation on religious matters that arose by chance, informed me to my great astonishment that her father is Episcopalian, her mother is Methodist, but she herself does not yet belong to any denomination and will choose one upon reaching 18, and now considers herself simply a Christian Universalist. The temple, as an outward expression of religious feeling in the service of God, is also not surrounded by the respect required by our understanding, and in newspaper advertisements one can often read announcements that such-and-such church of such-and-such community is to be sold at auction for debts, or such-and-such magnificent temple is rented by such-and-such theatrical entrepreneur, who is supposed to begin a series of dramatic or operatic performances in it. And in regard to the Sunday day strict Puritanism is not always observed. Theaters are usually closed on this day, but in some of them so-called “Sacred concerts” are given according to the posters. Seduced by this name, I went to one of the nearest theaters (converted from a former church), but – in its actual content the concert had not a single feature corresponding to its name, and it consisted entirely of loose and scandalous songs and musical pieces. For all that, Yankees pride themselves on their Christianity and in this respect consider themselves a new chosen people, a new Israel. To my no little surprise I encountered such a thought even in a newspaper account of one Sunday sermon. The venerable preacher, reviewing the historical destinies of mankind, stops at the striking resemblance of the history of Israel to the history of the American people. Europe was for him a land of Egyptian slavery; the ocean – the Red Sea, which had to be crossed to be freed from that slavery; England’s claims on him – this is the pursuit of Pharaoh with his army; the struggle with the Indians – this is the struggle with the wicked Canaanites, etc., and so forth. If one looks at the public life of Americans, then it seems even apart from this sermon one can come to the conviction that Yankees – a new Israel, only not in the biblical sense, but in the sense which is connected with the name of the present representatives of the ancient chosen people in Europe. Such Jewish commercialism, such speculator frenzy, such a gulf of deceit and knavery as a European can meet here at every step, is hard to find anywhere in Europe; and the plundering of state and public funds is conducted here on such colossal scales that for our domestic lovers of state and zemstvo fund contents this can only be – alas – an unattainable ideal – even if only because these funds in our country are for the most part empty. In New York, for example, quite recently one man who oversaw the construction of large public buildings managed to deceive the public for an enormous sum of 20 million dollars! As for petty knavery and swindling, this is – a common phenomenon, and so usual that it does not even constitute disgrace. “If you,” one of my acquaintances here, a Russian who had spent three years in New York, told me, “catch someone red-handed in the plundering directed at your pocket or deceiving you, do not think the accused will be embarrassed! Not at all: the bold Yankee will simply grin and, patronizingly slapping you on the shoulder, will slyly remark – that means you too are a gentleman – a sharp one!” – True Israel!..

The city, which was otherwise constantly animated, day by day grew more and more animated, preparing for the “Merry Christmas,” as the Christmas holiday is called here. Amid these merry preparations of a happy or rather complacent people, like a thunderbolt it struck us Russians – a terrible piece of news brought to us of a new horrible attempt (outside Moscow) on the life of the Crown-bearing Head of the Russian people… It was shameful to look at the light and at people when Americans, outraged by this horrible trampling of not only divine laws but the laws and requirements of simple humanity, turning to us Russians, asked in indignation: “What is this that is happening with you?” Our only consolation and justification was that Providence once again miraculously averted the evil deed and once again saved the Monarch. On the following Sunday in the local Russian church a thanksgiving service was appointed for the miraculous deliverance of our Sovereign Emperor from terrible danger, and for this reason all Russians living here gathered at the service, with official representatives at their head. Such a gathering of people in the church happens, according to the testimony of those serving in it, once or twice a year, no more. The Slavic liturgy with decent singing of two cantors poured comfort into the suffering soul of the praying sons of the distant homeland tormented by evil deeds. The theme of the Simonov Cherubic hymn, improvised, as is known, under the heavy impression of the great patriotic disaster – the taking of Moscow by the French – with its appeal to “the laying aside of all earthly care,” painfully moved the heart, pointing to the terrible state of our homeland, its capture by the dark band of evildoers… After the thanksgiving service and the concluding many-year prayer, hardly anyone among the people, upon leaving the church, did not think a heavy thought: when at last will the sound judgment of the people awake from its criminal lethargy and uproot from the foundation not just that which “disgraces,” but that which destroys Russian land?..

2. “Merry Christmas”

Preparations for the Holidays. – Celebration of the Birth of Christ in Churches, Families, and on the Streets. – Russian and American Holiday Festivity. – Russian Christmas Across the Ocean.

To better examine the moral character of a people, one must see it not in ordinary time, when heavy concern for satisfying life’s needs distorts its features, but on a holiday, when the unburdened soul can calmly reflect itself in its “mirror,” openly displaying both its merits and defects. By the people’s attitude toward their holidays one can also determine the degree of their religious or moral development. The festival of the Birth of Christ, as the cornerstone festival of the Christian world, for the observer of religious life presents one of the most interesting moments in which to observe the characteristic features of religiosity or Christianity of this or that people. The capital of the American continent presented in this regard data that was also not without interest.

The festival of Christmas in America has enormous significance; with it the new year factually begins. Therefore, preparations for it could be observed in the city weeks in advance. In ordinary time New York presents an enormous machine in which free citizens as soulless screws rotate and work from day to day from morning to evening. With the approach of the holiday the little screws noticeably began to come apart and, having dressed themselves as gentlemen and ladies, began to promenade festively along the pavements, looking in the stores for things to purchase for the holiday. Stores were decorated with magnificent ornaments which in multicolored electric letters proclaimed “Merry Christmas”; fir trees appeared at houses and churches; in newspaper advertisements about sermons were scattered themes having closest relation to the holiday. In the masses of people thickening day by day on the streets, a huge majority consisted of children: Christmas here is mostly a children’s holiday, and custom obligates parents before the holiday to buy their children toys for the whole year. A special children’s Christmas literature, intended also as holiday gifts for children, at this time has enormous sales. In this children’s literature, at least two-thirds of the books have as their content stories of the birth of the Savior and the circumstances surrounding it and are all, without exception, pervaded by deeply religious, Christian spirit. Schools arrange solemn processions. Thus from the Sunday school of the church of Holy Trinity on the eve of Christmas around 700 children made a magnificent procession, directed toward evening worship. The boys went with their class banners and sang Christmas hymns in chorus. In the church after evening prayer they were given holiday gifts. In the gifts are interested not only children: custom has obligated adults – to give each other gifts. Husband and wife, brother and sister, etc., necessarily give each other gifts. “The Evening Before Christmas,[1] which here constitutes the factual beginning of the holiday, presents in families touching pictures of quiet joys. Under the shadow of the obligatory evergreen fir tree in every home, symbol of resurrection and eternal life, sweet hours of mutual satisfaction are experienced.

The arrival of the holiday in all churches is greeted literally with a “midnight” service, beginning at 12 o’clock at night, as with us on Pascha. The churches were decorated with fir trees and flowers and were brilliantly illuminated with gas ornaments. Preachers delivered their best sermons. To provide a sample both of the church setting and the holiday sermon, I will briefly describe the midnight service in the nearest church of Divine Grace. This church is located on Broadway, the main street of the city, one might say right in the center of New York, and represents the usual Gothic temple type here, gray in color. In ordinary time masses of bustling people continuously hurry along the pavements going past the enclosure, and this spot represents a true bazaar of worldly bustle. On the evening before Christmas, as though some invisible force had swept away human bustle from here – here reigned solemn silence. In the enclosure were green fir trees and bright lights glowed. Around 12 o’clock the sound of music rang from the bell tower, that ring which is so memorable to anyone who has been in England and which was celebrated by the poet in the marvelous poem beginning with the words: “Evening bell, evening bell! how many thoughts it brings!” To its sounds almost instantaneously appeared many a people who had remained awake that night and filled the church. The temple was magnificently decorated with greenery, the altar was submerged in flowers, and above the altar brightly burned the fiery words of the angelic song: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace!” Exactly at 12 o’clock the sound of the organ rang out and a large choir sang behind it a magnificent hymn: “O sacred night!”, which was followed by a complete evening service. At the conclusion of the service the pastor ascended the high pulpit, decorated with firs and flowers, and read the text of his sermon from the Gospel Luke 2:8: “In that country there were shepherds in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks at night.” The resonant, distinct voice of the orator-preacher captured the attention of the listeners. After a few moments of solemn silence, the preacher began his address, inviting the listeners to transport themselves in thought back 2,000 years to that night which preceded the first day of the festival of the Birth of Christ. Nothing could be less like each other than these two nights. On this present night thousands of people remain awake to meet only the day of memory of the birth of the Savior; on that very night when His birth was accomplished, the whole world slept, and He was met only by the humble shepherds who were awake out of necessity. Some, however, think that Christians are mistaken in celebrating the birth of Christ at this time of year, since in Syria flocks are kept in enclosures from November to March. But winter in Palestine is not constant. In the land of Bethlehem around December 15 something like “Indian summer” always arrives, grass grows, flowers bloom, and flocks are driven out to pasture. Therefore, there is nothing incongruous in the fact that the shepherds guarded their flocks at night when the angels appeared to them to announce the birth of Christ. Describing the circumstances of the birth of the Heavenly King, the orator carried his thought to the circumstances surrounding the birth of one of the earthly kings – Louis XIV – and in bright colors depicted the whole abyss of contrast separating these two events. On one side the wretched poverty that enclosed human beings in the dwellings of animals; on the other – the dazzling splendor that deified man. And at the same time in the garment of poverty was born the eternal King of Glory, while in the garment of splendor – the insignificant worm, mortal man!.. Masterfully drawn, this picture produced a deep impression. After the address a collection was made of voluntary donations for Christmas gifts for the poor living in the parish. During the collection one of the best opera artists sang the hymn: “How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the gospel of peace,” and all worship was concluded with the choral singing of the Christmas song: “Hosanna, hosanna! sing the highest praise!”

The same occurred in all other churches with variations in particulars, as could be seen from newspaper advertisements. Newspaper advertisements of services and sermons are a common occurrence here; in Saturday and pre-holiday editions of newspapers they usually occupy several enormous columns under the general heading: “Religious notices.” For Christmas they only increased and expanded. To provide a sample of these advertisements, I quote one taken at random: “Methodist Episcopal Church. Address: 18th Street, near 8th Avenue. Morning service at 11 o’clock. Sermon by the venerable Dr. Goodman. Theme: The Highest Problem. Singing by university colored singers. Magnificent decorations. Evening at 7:30 the venerable Pastor Strobrich preaches. Theme: Who were the wise men from the east. Striking illumination. Foreigners are cordially invited to worship.” To this is added a special program of musical pieces designated for performance, with a list of invited artists. According to the guidance of these advertisements each person selects for attendance the Sunday or holiday service in that church in which the church decoration or the theme of the sermon is, in his opinion, more interesting.

On the very morning of Christmas the weather was one of the most cheerless, as according to the normally clear sky, lead clouds moved and drizzle fell. Nevertheless, at the musical ring of the churches, endless masses of people flowed. Morning services are usually held at 11 o’clock, and at this time throughout the city rang out bell music, which was all the clearer because there was almost no horse traffic on the streets. The bells of the church of Holy Trinity divinely performed the Christmas hymn: “Angels from the kingdom of glory.” This song is extraordinarily popular in the city and a numerous crowd gathered to listen to its bell performance. The service was solemn with good sermons, about the character of which, however, one can judge from the description given above. Only some German Catholic churches were distinguished by particular peculiarity, introducing into the service, according to the custom remaining from the Middle Ages, a dramatic scene called: “Nativity.” It presents the history of the birth of Christ in dramatic form, more or less worked out in details according to the means at the disposal of the clergy. Before the altar are usually placed more or less artistically prepared manger scenes and in them is placed either a real baby or simply a figure representing one. Around the manger straw is scattered, and at the head and feet of the child take position his parents or someone else, to represent Joseph and Mary. A large backdrop depicts Bethlehem in the distance, and from behind it in a mimed procession come the magi with long gray beards, and above shines a gas or electric star showing them the way. In poorer churches instead of a star a simple staff with a lantern is carried before the magi. After the magi’s adoration, all present approach the manger, bow to the child, and make some offerings to his mother. Such participation of a child in the ceremony is considered by local German mothers to be the greatest happiness for him and the whole family, and therefore each strives to give her child for this ceremony.

Going out on the evening of the very holiday (Christmas in America is celebrated only one day) onto the street, I wanted to verify the truthfulness of the appellation ordinarily attached to Christmas of “merry.” To my great surprise, there was nothing here corresponding, from Russian perspectives, to such a name. The streets were completely deserted; stores and amusement establishments were closed; the electric suns which on weekdays shine with magical light above the streets, supported by invisible wires, presented only dark dots; an incredible silence reigned for such an ordinarily noisy city, and the rarely standing policemen were visibly bored by their inactive state. At the sight of this holiday deadness, my thought by association of contrast transported itself to our Russian northern capital. Countless masses of people, like a stormy sea agitated by that “spirit” of which one can say with certainty, “where it comes from and where it goes,” spread out along the streets; amusement establishments carry on their hard season; a cry of rapture stands as a moan over the city, and the desperate shout of the “policeman,” like a cry on the battlefield, rings out from all sides.. In what then does American holiday “festivity” consist? – It simply consists in the enjoyment of quiet family joys. Gathered around the holiday fir tree, members of the family have a conversation about the holiday, read some Christmas book or sing Christmas hymns. In satisfaction of this need, newspapers ordinarily in their holiday editions give several deeply religious articles and stories; musical magazines are overflowing with Christmas hymns, intended for family performance. I happened to get a holiday edition of one of these magazines. Scanning its contents, I found that it consisted entirely of Christmas pieces, about the character of which one can judge from the following list of them. There were: “Christmas Song,” “Bethlehem Hymn,” “Once a Year Comes Christmas,” “God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen,” “When Christ Was Born,” “Christmas Bell at Sea,” “Christmas Waltz.” All these pieces are performed and sung in family circles, by the burning fireplace and the green fir tree. Such holiday festivity, evidently, is completely unlike our Russian holiday “festivity,” which, it must be admitted, still firmly retains its grand-parental character and consists predominantly in the matter of “drinking”…

The overall impression gained from observing the celebration of the great Christian holiday in New York is extremely good. One can see that the people here are Christianized to the extent that they consider it their deep need to celebrate Christian holidays in a Christian manner, with an understanding of their sacred importance. Such an attitude toward holidays shows at the same time that this people internally possesses sufficient moral content to find in it alone the source of holiday joys, without resorting to any external, spurring means. The widespread reports among us in Russia of excessive drunkenness in America – need great limitation and special explanation. If our Russian proverb: “Drink if you wish, but mind the business,” – found even one-tenth of the practical application here that it finds here, then the process of the sobriety of our people would be ensured.

Twelve days after the American “merry Christmas” came the Russian Christmas. Due to the difference between the Russian calendar and the Western one, Russians abroad found themselves in a difficult situation. Annual Christian holidays in foreign lands occur before the Russian ones, and Russian people, consequently, must of necessity celebrate together with everyone else when all work ceases. These holidays pass, and work resumes, and only during this work period do the beloved native holidays finally arrive. Americans had celebrated their Christmas season, welcomed the new year, and already forgotten all about it, immersed in the sea of ordinary life’s humdrum affairs, while for us Russians, on January 6th, the great holiday of Christmas only now arrives. This day is an ordinary workday for Americans; they do not honor the Western European “three kings.” On account of this it was expected that there would not be many people in church, since most were occupied with work and duty. But the Orthodox Christian spirit made itself known even across the ocean: they shook off the burden of ordinary bustle and came to the temple to hear the beloved Christmas hymn of their homeland. The faithful gathered in very large numbers, with official representatives at the head. Many Americans were there too, attracted by curiosity, which they showed plainly, craning their necks to penetrate into the inaccessible and mysterious realm—the altar. The most curious, of course, were newspaper reporters. One of them brought to the king of American newspapers, the “Herald,” the following rather interesting description of this service.

“The cosmopolitan character of New York’s population found an interesting illustration yesterday in a service held in the Greek-Russian chapel. The faithful began gathering from early morning, and when the service began at 11 o’clock, the chapel was full of people of all nationalities—Muscovites, Slavs, Greeks, Americans, and others, attracted partly by curiosity, partly by a sense of duty in honoring Christmas according to the old calendar in reverence. The service was in almost all respects similar to Roman Catholic worship, although of course it could not have the splendid ceremonialism that strikes one in the great cathedrals of the Western world. The decorations of the small chapel were simple but in good taste. (There follows a detailed description of pictures, that is, icons, and candlesticks with the exact number of candles). The service was conducted by Mr. Bierring in an interesting Eastern vestment and a tall cylindrical felt cap (this is what the reporter called an ordinary klobuк). The psalmist performed the original Eastern hymns well. But the most striking feature of the service was that it was conducted in the Slavonic language or the local dialect of the Russian people (?). A short address in English, spoken by the venerable Bierring, concluded the service. (Extract from the sermon). The assembly exchanged heartfelt greetings and wished each other “merry Christmas” in truly Russian fashion.”

The entire festive service had great moral and life-giving significance for the Orthodox. How powerfully the native Orthodox Church sounds resonate in the Orthodox Russian soul, cast across the seas and oceans, was evident during this liturgy. The faithful, mostly simple Russian people from sailors, listened attentively to the church singing and silently made their bows. But then the psalmist began singing the well-known Christmas troparion, dear to all through memory: “Your Nativity, O Christ our God,” and suddenly, as if at the wave of a magic wand, a whole choir of simple Russian voices in the middle of the church took up the beloved song… The memories of the homeland, which these simple Russian people shared with each other right after the liturgy, were accompanied by tears in many eyes. O homeland, homeland. What is dearer to you?..

[1] The Eve of Christmas.

3. Carnival and Fasting

The prince of flesh and the prince of spirit. – Features of religiosity. – A noble impulse of charity. – A royal newspaper gift. – The force of persistence.

If some magical power had instantly removed the roofs from the houses of the capital of the American continent during the first ten days of February of the new style, the eyes of an observer from a bird’s-eye view would have presented an interesting picture of a city that dances as one. These are the days of what is called Carnival, days of the highest merriment and continuous pleasures. Balls are announced one after another by advertisements and by comic carriages traveling through the streets with flags, bells, and fantastically dressed riders. And the masses of people, faithful to ancestral traditions, flow irresistibly to these balls to pay traditional tribute to the prince of carnival. Some balls are simply monstrous in the number of people gathered at them, consisting of the enormous figure of 15,000 visitors. Looking at this service to the prince of carnival or simply to the prince of flesh and its passions, an outside observer would only have shaken his shoulders and exclaimed: people labor in vain! But the inventive American mind managed to extract benefit from this apparently aimless and fruitless revelry; the monetary collection from these balls for the most part goes to benefit the poor population of the city and various charitable institutions. If one takes into account that this collection at some balls reaches as much as thirty thousand dollars, then the carnival revelry could hardly be found fruitless even by an outside observer.

As the carnival drew to a close, the revelry spread ever wider and the whirlwind of pleasures powerfully seized and spun all the city’s population. The prince of flesh celebrated its highest triumph, but at the same time its last: from behind the shoulder of his sated figure peeked the stern face of the prince of spirit—Great Lent. On Sunday, February 8th, sermons were heard in the churches about “the attractions of this world,” “whose spirit is vain and whose tongue is false, who whispers sweet promises in people’s ears and fills their hearts with deceptive dreams, never to be realized,” as one preacher characterized it. And remarkably, there is respect for the Sunday: the strongest carnival revelries did not divert the masses from the service; all the most remarkable churches were overflowing with the faithful. Walking along Fifth Avenue, the richest and finest street in the city, after 12 o’clock noon, when the service usually ends, I witnessed a sight I had never seen in my homeland: immense masses of the faithful moved smoothly along magnificent sidewalks, over which Gothic church towers stood out here and there, the closing hymns from the resonant organs poured powerfully into the street from open doors, and the playful gleam of thousands of gold-edged prayer books sparkled in the bright sunlight in multicolored flames, spreading over the masses and giving this living picture an extraordinarily solemn appearance. The next two days were the last days of carnival: its noisy merriment concluded with Tuesday, February 10th. Wednesday was already the day of Great Lent, “Ash Wednesday,” as it is called here, and devout Catholics with ashen crosses on their foreheads moved into temples—for prayer and repentance. In the newspapers rules for observing the fast appeared; to give an example of them, I will cite the rules published by the New York Cardinal M’Closkey for the guidance of local Catholics. Here are these rules: “1) on all weekdays of the fast from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday only one dish is allowed for dinner and light refreshment in the evening; 2) the rule of fasting requires abstaining from eating meat, but in consideration of human weakness we allow in our diocese eating meat in the permitted dish on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays of the fast, excluding Maundy Thursday; 3) on Sundays neither fasting nor abstinence is required; 4) fish is not allowed to be eaten with meat in one and the same dish; 5) the use of eggs, butter, and cheese is not forbidden, of course in quantities prescribed by the general rules of fasting; 6) lard can be used constantly for preparing fish or vegetable dishes, etc.; 7) the Church relieves from the obligation of fasting (but not from abstaining from meat, except in special cases of illness) the following persons: the weak, those engaged in exhausting labor, the growing young, pregnant women or those nursing children, and those weakened by old age.” Secular newspapers greeted the “fasting season” with leading articles. The New York “Herald” wrote, among other things, the following: “By the unchanging course of time the fast comes to you each year, and it must be said that each year it leaves the world better than it finds it. Quite apart from religious considerations, the effect of the fast is extremely beneficial even for those who observe it only as far as it is customary in society. Millions of hearts are occupied involuntarily with an analysis of their inner content, and the most obstinate skeptic, if he has a heart at all, will not deny the moral greatness of that period, when so many people attempt to rise above the level of simple material and animal existence.”

The fast indeed by its very arrival introduces a particular atmosphere that involuntarily acts upon those who move in it. With its coming, literary evenings began to be organized more frequently, preachers spoke sermons more often, and the newspapers themselves more often turned their attention to what is eternal and sacred. From the opinion just cited from the best newspaper regarding the significance of fasting, one can see with what seriousness the local secular press relates to established facts of religious life. But its religiosity is not limited to these. In the columns of secular newspapers you constantly encounter articles on various religious and theological questions, the Monday issues are filled with excerpts from Sunday sermons, whose recording reporters pursue with the same seriousness as recording parliamentary speeches and debates. At one time, precisely two years ago, according to the testimony of one preacher, all the secular press was occupied with the question of “the eternity of torments”; and when the famous physicist Tyndall, who lectured here, allowed himself to hint at the uselessness of prayer, since, he said, everything is governed by unchanging, fateful physical laws, there was no secular newspaper that did not publish a treatise on this question—in the overwhelming majority of an apologetic character. All this is, of course, conditioned by the strong religious feeling of the local reading public. To what degree is consciousness here sensitive to the importance of facts of religious life is shown by a very recent occurrence. One respectable newspaper published an article that with the acerbity of feuilleton satire mocked two Dutch pastors who published a commented Bible for their indiscriminate rationalism, by which they assigned half of the biblical facts to the realm of myth and fiction. One might think—what could be better?—one could only sympathize with the newspaper. But no: the next day several “letters to the editor” appeared in the newspaper, in which various people expressed their dissatisfaction that the editorial staff had entrusted such an important subject to a feuilletonist… Sunday in America is surrounded by the same rigorous respect as in England. In one large city, namely Cincinnati, the theater owner decided to give several Sunday performances. This immediately raised a terrible storm in the city; meetings were formed mostly by women of the highest classes, who drew up the following resolution: “Recognizing that theatrical and opera performances on Sundays are contrary to the good order and good morality of society, we, the undersigned, promise to abstain from attending those theaters and ball gatherings that will open their doors to such entertainments on Sundays after February 16, 1880.” This resolution, circulating through churches, began to collect numerous signatures and would undoubtedly have responded to the bold theater owner with complete ruin, had he not hastened to publicly apologize to society with the promise never again to give Sunday performances. One Presbyterian newspaper even found it possible to draw a lesson for violators of Sunday from the terrible disaster that recently occurred on one of the Sundays in Scotland, where an entire train broke through a bridge and sank with all its passengers, so that no one remained alive who could even tell of this terrible misfortune. “This catastrophe,” in the newspaper’s opinion, “can be regarded as a judgment of the Almighty upon those who in such a Sabbath-keeping country as Scotland commit lawlessness, violating the sanctity of the Lord’s day with idle railway journeys. No prayers or tears can free them (the drowned passengers) from that place where God ceases to be merciful; but we can pray that this terrible judgment may be a salutary and not fruitless warning to all other violators of Sunday.”

Americans are an extraordinarily mobile and enthusiastic people, and when their enthusiasm is directed toward good, it often presents a remarkable spectacle. Such a spectacle was presented by their noble impulse to help the starving Irish. It is well known what disaster befell unfortunate Ireland in 1879, where hundreds of thousands of people, thanks to shameless exploitation by English lords, were brought to terrible poverty, which, combined with the crop failure of that year, produced actual hunger that was destroying the population of that unfortunate country. To arouse sympathy and collect alms for the suffering people, the well-known Irish agitator Parnell came to America; but his mission was not very successful, as the American press received his tactless agitation plan with disapproval, in which he mixed highly revolutionary elements with charitable ones. The newspaper collection was taken in hand by the editorial office of the king of newspapers here, the “Herald,” and as if at the wave of a magic wand the eyes of Americans became fixed on the suffering country, hearts were seized by an irresistible impulse to help the unfortunate, and dollars flowed in a golden river from wide-open pockets. The newspaper itself opened the collection with its own truly royal contribution of 100,000 dollars, which at the current rate amounts to about 200,000 rubles. Within 11 days the editorial office had more than 200,000 dollars in its relief fund. The enthusiasm that suddenly seized everyone can only be compared to the enthusiasm of the Russian people that seized them during the great Slavic movement. Such is the moral force of this paper king, whose enormous editions of 120,000 copies are sold daily, and are certainly read by ten times that many people.

The grandiose sacrifice of the magnanimous newspaper became an important topic of the day, and preachers in many churches chose it as the subject of their Sunday sermons. One of the most famous preachers, namely Dr. Talmage, said among other things that these “hundred thousand mean much more, they mean millions. This offering as it were gave wings to other givers; its effect spread everywhere with electric speed and force. If this gift had been made for the encouragement of art, it would have been praiseworthy. If it had been made for educational institutions, it would have been glorious. But its purpose is better and higher than all of this: this offering is made for the deliverance of people from death by starvation. Let the people clap their hands and sing alleluia! People living in the realm of a telegraph network that embraces all the Christian world should not be allowed to suffer. But stronger and faster than the electric current is the bond of sympathy by which God unites all nations. Let us never suppress this sympathy in ourselves. Compassion and mercy for the world’s suffering ennoble the human heart, smooth away the sharp corners of earthly life, and make us mutually grateful. 1,400,000,000 members of the human race are all joined by the strings of human kinship, and all these strings of kinship, binding us together, carry the majestic sound of love to the heart of God, so that we all constitute one: heaven and earth, God and humanity—all are one.” This same preacher, regarding American grain trade, by which, as is well known, Americans are beginning to suppress all other agricultural peoples and, among other things, even push back Russia, taking advantage of its recent crop failures, said the following: “The United States can be the provider of the world. Other nations cry out to America: give us 230,000,000 quarters of grain, and we answer them: we will give if you pay us more than it costs! If this is really so[1], then I predict the ruin of the majority of American grain merchants. Such profiteering at the expense of hungry nations will not be tolerated in heaven, if it exists on earth. God will scatter their full granaries. If God strikes the fields and they yield no grain, then we are left only to bow before the Inscrutable. But if, after God has filled the nation’s granary, greedy people strive to overfill it at the expense of the hungry, I sound the alarm, I ring the bells. Who plays with pieces of bread plays with human blood, and I, supported by the people’s cry, will oppose this. Everything that concerns bread touches the essence of national life. This wheat-market blockade robs the masses of people here and in other countries simply to enrich those playing with bread. If we are unjust to other nations, then we must fear retribution from their side.” The language and methods of this preacher are extraordinarily distinctive, and his sermons always gather numerous listeners.

Enthusiasm for any idea in America often passes into unwavering obstinacy, producing curiosities of a purely American character. An example of such enthusiasm is none other than the wife of former President Hayes. She is a member of an extensive society for “Abstinence from Alcoholic Beverages,” and was constantly distinguished by extraordinary energy in spreading the society’s ideas. When her husband was elected president, having moved to the presidential residence in Washington—the so-called White House—she resolved with all the unwavering persistence of a true American lady to apply the rules of the “Society of Abstinence” to the highest Washington society, deciding not to serve wine to her guests. To give an official state dinner without wine was considered a pure impossibility; all Washington society was against her, and this question nearly became a matter of state. For a whole year she was the target of various witticisms, which are so hard for a woman to endure. But she patiently bore all this, and by her unshakable steadfastness finally overcame public despotism. She never offered wine, and so accustomed the highest fashionable Washington society to this that large official dinners without wine finally became a common occurrence, and at present Washington can be considered the most sober capital in the world. This fact in itself, one might say, does not go beyond curiosity, but the moral courage and persistence with which a single woman decided to struggle against a very significant habit of society and won—are truly remarkable!

[1] The preacher was based on a newspaper report of a strike of American grain merchants to raise the price of grain for export abroad.

4. Easter in America

Good Friday and Easter. – Easter service in the church of a famous preacher. – Music and sermon. – Ten cents admission to the cathedral. – Easter in ordinary life.

Holy Week is called “Holy Week” by Americans. Good Friday serves as a turning point in the mournful life of the Christian spirit. For Americans, however, it does not have the same touching-solemn character as it does for us in Russia, and there are no special provisions for it in the laws of the country. But all the more remarkable is the fact that life itself, apart from any law, surrounded it with signs of special respect. Many places of entertainment close, and the Italian opera company here, in the presence of a large audience, performed instead of the usual production the ingenious work of Rossini “Stabat Mater,” that cry of suffering from a mother’s heart, which is at the same time the cry of every Christian soul capable of being penetrated with consciousness of the boundless importance of the moment being commemorated. In one of the best churches at the same time an enormous choir of 400 artists performed Bach’s famous “Music of the Passion,” which constitutes a musical reproduction of chapters 26 and 27 of the Gospel of Matthew. Nothing better, more sublime, or more touching than this musical-evangelical poem can be imagined. Earth and heaven, man and nature here seem to have merged into one joyfully weeping rapture—in view of the greatness of the priceless sacrifice that had to be made for the salvation of humanity.

In New York, as in Russia, Holy Week already bears many signs of preparation for Easter. In shop windows Easter greeting cards have appeared with images of Easter eggs, crosses, and invariably with words, texts, and entire poems glorifying the Resurrection of Christ. These cards among Americans at Easter greetings to each other replace our Easter eggs. For children they are prepared with a special entertaining trick. You see, for example, what appears to be a simple card with a bas-relief flower. But pull it by one corner: the flower instantly rises and before you opens an entire scene of Christ’s Resurrection with words written on it, taken either from the Gospel or from liturgical books. Entire thousands of pious ladies on Holy Saturday occupied themselves with decorating churches with living flowers, and florists made great profits. In view of the enormous demand for flowers they were sold extremely expensively. Thus roses were bought for 25 and 30 dollars per hundred, and lilies for 50-75 dollars apiece. If one takes into account that churches were immersed in flowers, one can imagine how expensive such decoration was for New York. In newspapers—in church announcements—magnificent advertisements appeared about the Easter service, with descriptions of church decorations, with programs of musical pieces and lists of invited artists.

Sunday, March 28th of the new style was Easter Sunday in 1880 for the Western world. From 10 o’clock in the morning the sound of bells began to spread throughout the city, and to their call flowed countless masses of people. To give an idea of the character of the Easter service in America, I offer a description of the service in the church of one of the most famous preachers, namely in the so-called “Tabernacle of Dr. Talmage” in Brooklyn[1].

Dr. Talmage’s Tabernacle enjoys extraordinary popularity, and the program of the Easter service in it was one of the most elaborate and interesting. Upon entering the church, visitors were handed sheets with the program of the service and entire hymns designated for performance. The text of the program was surrounded by a magnificent gold border, on the top of which were emblazoned the words: “Rejoice, Our Savior is alive!” The church itself presented a true flower garden, the beauty of whose flowers rivaled the spring fragrance of their blooms. Above the altar appeared the words “Christ is risen” in white and crimson roses, fastened on ivy, above them a crown made of flowers as well, and at the very top burned an electric star, spreading magical light throughout the flower garden. On the sides of the altar two choirs of male and female voices were arranged, above opposite the altar a large orchestra of wind and instrumental music. The organ sounded and solemn silence reigned. From a side door of the altar appeared the solid figure of Dr. Talmage. His movements were supple and elastic, and his aging cheeks were ablaze with bright color—portending an extraordinarily animated sermon, as the regular visitors and admirers of the famous preacher explained. Leaning on the altar, the preacher as if bent by the weight of feeling bowed his head and covered his face with his hands. The sounds of a few instruments were heard, followed by the entire orchestra, below the choirs took it up, and all merged into an exultant hymn to Christ’s Resurrection. Then followed the performance of the entire program, consisting of the finest pieces by famous composers Handel, Beethoven, Mozart, Gounod, and others. The orchestra and choirs alternated with instrumental and vocal soloists. Among other things, Professor of Music Alary performed an Easter hymn on the cornet. At the wave of the professor’s hand, all the faithful rose from their seats and stood listening to the artistic solo, which to American ears seemed like the trumpet call of angels announcing Christ’s Resurrection. The entire service consisted of music and songs, and only the Lord’s Prayer and the Creed were read by the pastor, after whom every word was repeated by all the faithful in chorus. After the completion of the service program, a festive collection was taken, and to the sound of dollars an opera singer sang a hymn: “I know that my Savior lives.”

The service program was clearly composed to American taste and produced a strong impression on them. When Dr. Talmage ascended the preaching pulpit, his listeners were already electrified to their fingertips. For his Easter sermon he chose a text from the Gospel John 19:41: “A new tomb in the garden.” Looking around himself, the preacher said that he felt as if in a sweet-smelling flower garden of heaven, and then gave himself over to personal elegiac meditation. “Flowers, flowers,” he said, as if to himself, touching them with his hand. “Perhaps you will wilt forever, or perhaps you are immortal. Your fragrance, perhaps, is your soul, and I would not be surprised,” raising his voice the orator said, “if, having passed through the valley of time, I were to pick these roses on the unexplored hills of eternity.” Returning then to the text, the preacher said that his text refers to that time when a rich gentleman, Joseph by name, one of the seventy judges of Christ, while walking through his garden, found a place suitable for a tomb, which he had prepared for the repose of his mortal remains. “Look carefully at this tomb,” the orator exclaimed impressively, “this tomb is the most remarkable mausoleum in all of history!” Then he painted a strikingly vivid picture of this world-historically significant burial: Nicodemus, another rich man, prepares fragrant spices, both of them perfume the body and prepare it for burial, together with two women they carry the body to the tomb, laying it in the hollow of the rock. The door closes and is sealed, but not forever, at this door there will be a struggle, a struggle between heaven and hell, from which the gates of the tomb will collapse. From this simple, but eternally memorable burial the preacher transitioned to the funerals of the present time, and, depicting their ostentatious vanity, advised those of his listeners who can do only a poor burial for their relatives and friends to remember that at Christ’s burial there was no endless procession of mourning carriages and masses of grieving spectators: there were only four sincere friends of the deceased. The present requirements at funerals are so great that one cannot even die unless one is rich[2]. Whatever our tomb may be, we will rise from it. “Gather granite from all the earth and heap it on our tomb: we will rise from beneath it; the gates of the tomb will burst from their hinges and turn to dust. Rejoice, O earth! Rejoice, O heaven! O my listeners! Be filled with joy this Easter morning!” One might have thought the preacher had finished his speech, but he wanted to say a few more words for the benefit of suffering Ireland. “On this day of favor to men,” he said, “there is something beyond New York that inexpressibly tears my heart. There is the old frigate ‘Constellation,’ sent by the United States to Ireland and laden with grain, five hundred thousand puds. Direct the path of this ship, O Christ of Nazareth! You broke bread for five thousand, break this bread for fifty thousand! You hold the winds in Your hands, fill the sails of the ship with a favorable breeze! Wait a little longer, endure a little more, O dying people of Ireland, starving women, exhausted babies! The ‘Constellation’ is coming to you!” One must know the powerful force of Dr. Talmage’s oratorical art to fully appreciate and understand the impression of these words on the listeners. Many of them wept, and the preacher himself barely held back tears.

The impression was so strong that when the preacher finished his speech and bowed his head on his hands, covering his face with them, all the mass of the faithful remained for several moments in mute stupor. And only the quiet tones of the organ seemed to breathe new life into this frozen mass. The subsequent performance of the last part of the musical program fully enlivened the faithful and restored them to their festive Easter mood. In this respect, probably the especially enlivening significance was had by the performance of what was called in the program “Easter choral Alleluia.” It consists of a series of Easter verses, each of which concludes with a single Alleluia. The music of the verses somewhat reminds one by composition of Berezovsky’s “I Believe”: the same transition in tones. But as soon as the choir reached the Alleluia, the orchestra struck, the choir burst into singing like the song of spring birds, and from the mass of all sorts of sounds the sounds of the triangle were heard most clearly: ring-ring-ring, which concluded each Alleluia. After the end of the service Dr. Talmage thanked all who made offerings to decorate the church with flowers, as well as the artists and actresses who took active part in the service. From this one can conclude that the Easter splendor of the described service was for the most part due to the willing zeal of lovers of church adornment.

Similar services were held in other churches. Only the musical program varied endlessly. In the churches of smaller religious communities it lost the dividing line between service and concert. In the service program of the church called “divine paternity” there even figured a Wagnerian march from “Tannhäuser.” The “Easter choral Alleluia” described above must have been to American taste, as it appeared in most service programs. Of the Catholic churches the most splendid service was, of course, in the cathedral of Saint Patrick. I happened to be in the cathedral at the afternoon service around 3 o’clock. This service was not counted toward a subscription and was specially designed for the poor, who could not afford expensive annual seats. Thousands of the poor flooded from all sides to the cathedral and at its very doors removed their thin wallets to pay 10 cents (20 kopecks in our currency) for the right to enter the cathedral. The cathedral holds more than 15,000 people, so the revenue was around or even more than fifteen hundred dollars or three thousand rubles. The service was splendid—with an orchestra, with a choir of 100 male and female voices, and two choirs of children’s voices, and with a sermon at the conclusion.

In ordinary life Easter in America differs in no way from ordinary Sundays; there is none of that rapturous holiday joy with which it is welcomed in Russian life. Here it is celebrated for only one day. But the entire day consists of almost continuous services: service in the morning, service in the afternoon, and service in the evening, and the masses of people only pass from one service to another and from one church to another.

The next day—on our Bright Monday—the machine of ordinary life began to screech its wheels again, children with books went to schools, and adults again rushed off in pursuit of dollars.

[1] Brooklyn, the richest suburb of New York, separated from it only by a river, has half a million inhabitants and is known under the name of “the city of churches.”

[2] Funerals in New York are indeed performed with insane luxury, requiring enormous expenditure.

5. Religion in a Free Country

Freedom, culture, and religion. – Weekdays and Sunday. – Society of businessmen. – Religious meetings. – Society of young Christians.

Those bold liberals but poor thinkers who, by the tradition left them by the past century, continue to insist that religion is an outdated phenomenon, the inheritance of humanity in its infancy, and that for grown humanity positive science should take the place of religion, insist on this only because they are not able to lift their clouded eyes and take a clear look at the phenomena surrounding them. One such look at the phenomena of free, healthy life is enough to scatter the traditional opinion like smoke. The best and most weighty refutation of the frivolous theory regarding the temporary character of religion can be served by the life of the American people. This people enjoys such political and religious freedom, which for many peoples of the old world can only be a dream, and in the breadth of its education and degree of cultural development has no rivals on the entire earth. Thanks to its complete freedom, this people could have long since relegated religion with all its churches and hierarchies to the archive of eternity, and thanks to its development it long since should have been worshiping only the idols of positive science. And yet the life of this people presents a completely opposite picture. Religion, it can be safely said, has nowhere such intensive vitality as in America, its external manifestations are nowhere so numerous as here, and positive science nowhere has smaller pretensions of displacing and replacing religion, as precisely in the life of this most free and most developed people in the world. Life here confirms at every step that inviolable truth that religion constitutes an essential and therefore eternal need of the human spirit, that it is only strengthened by freedom and elevated by culture. This, of course, does not mean that religion finds its highest and most correct expression in America. No—religion here often, and particularly in those spheres where there is no sufficient restriction in education for freedom, passes into licentiousness and vagrancy, and in the simple uneducated classes degenerates into crude superstition. Here the important thing is merely the fact of religion’s persistence, as well as that remarkable fact that the degree of religiosity in the American people is directly proportional to the degree of education. The more educated the classes of society, the more religious they are. Here one is more likely to find unbelief in the person of a street-wise, ignorant vagrant, who will desperately deny religion—and mainly because, thanks to it, taverns are shut down on Sundays—than in the person of an educated man.

The external weekday appearance of the life of the American people bears such a practical, soulless character that one would hardly presume that there could be any sublime, ideal aspirations in this people’s life. Practical materialism, this Moloch of our age, here apparently devours the human heart, leaving only a cold calculating mind, occupied solely with the interests of practical life, “money-making,” as Americans say. And yet, if one glances at this very life even on just one Sunday, one immediately changes one’s opinion of it. Everything in it takes on a completely new aspect, yesterday’s idol is subjected to the strictest ostracism, and the interests of religious and moral life completely absorb the thoughts and desires of the people. The city itself by its appearance shows a striking change. Instead of the endless succession of commercial and industrial carts that flood the streets and hurrying masses of people running along the sidewalks, you see a realm of solemn calm. At certain times the streets are also flooded by masses of people, but now a completely different force moves them and they present a completely different appearance. By the gleaming gold-edged prayer books in the hands of each person you will see that these masses are moving either to church or from church. Going to church here is considered so necessary that it is even required by public opinion, which punishes noncompliance with this requirement. Hence the curious fact that those who have not been in church for some reason hide this from their acquaintances, and to their questions are more ready to tell a lie than to admit the omission. Not to have a church subscription at all is considered in the highest society here such a disgrace as not having a subscription to the Italian opera in Petersburg high society is considered, especially if some famous singer like Patti sings there. Heine in his “English Fragments” says that he from the bottom of his heart hates the English. “Their prayers,” he exclaims, “their mechanical piety, their going to church with gold-edged prayer books in their hands, their absurd and tedious spending of Sunday—all this particularly repels me. I am firmly convinced that a blaspheming Frenchman is more pleasant to God than a praying Englishman.” He would certainly say the same about Americans, as German emigrants do, in fact, who are highly dissatisfied with American Sunday customs, by virtue of which taverns close and the violation of quiet and the sanctity of Sunday is strictly punished. The same, unfortunately, must be said about some of our Russian compatriots, who are also dissatisfied with the local Sunday customs and feel somehow not “festive”… But these customs present themselves in a completely different light to those for whom the interests of religion and morality are dear. This is an excellent moral discipline. Statistical data show that where the laws regarding Sunday are stricter, there is less drunkenness and crime. Consequently, in many states where the laws regarding the observance of Sunday have weakened over time, now there is again an awakening of the desire to strengthen them, which produces no small upheaval in the German population, which is constantly agitating for the repeal of Sunday laws, which supposedly restrict public freedom.

Sunday service usually occurs twice, in some churches morning and evening, in others morning and three o’clock in the afternoon, so that on Sunday the streets you only see people with prayer books going to church or from church. The noon and evening services are attended with the same fervor as the morning ones. At evening service there is often more people than at morning service. It is more interesting: the best music, the best sermons, and luxurious gas and even electric lighting are prepared for it. To attend such a service for an outsider constitutes a high aesthetic pleasure. Those who do not have a subscription ticket for seats in the church usually pay for admission depending on the church and the character of the service from 10 cents to 1 dollar. Foreigners mostly have free admission. However, services are not limited to churches. They take place outside of them as well. In New York there are extraordinarily many different public halls for political and private meetings, lectures, concerts, performances, balls, etc. On Sundays all these halls are transformed into places of religious gatherings, for which each is equipped with an organ, which serves equally for concerts and for services. Sermons in these gatherings are often given by professors of various educational institutions, not ordained with any sacred rank. In one of the best halls, called “Chickering Hall,” the “Society for Moral Culture” gathers on Sundays for a service, and sermons or rather lectures are given by Professor Adler, who usually takes his themes from the broad field of questions about the moral influence of Christianity.

Americans have a strong corporate, public spirit. Every profession, occupation, craft, even age and gender have their own special corporations and societies, which rent special halls where they gather to discuss various questions concerning the interests of the corporation. On Sundays the members of societies gather in their halls for a service and to hear sermons, which are also often given by private individuals. During the time free from the service, religious meetings are held here, at which measures are discussed to maintain the religious and moral character among the members of one community or corporation or another. One recent Sunday there was such a meeting of the members of the so-called “Society of Businessmen.” At the meeting the question was raised, among other things, about the widespread habit among Americans of swearing or rather cursing. The society condemned this vice and after deliberations adopted the following resolution: “Since careless swearing violates the laws of good society and the state, as well as of God; since for honest people it is unpleasant and painful to hear this in society, and since children who hear and learn such swearing often suffer far worse than from the bite of a mad dog, we determine: to remind everyone who carelessly swears that he commits a cruel, dishonorable, and unlawful deed.” In our Russia, where public thought has not yet managed to develop into legislative force and where unbridled individualism often deliberately tramples and violates all public restrictions, on the principle—“do not hinder our customs,” this resolution would have caused only ridicule and increased violation of it, as proof of personal independence. Quite the opposite here, in the land of the freest people. The newspapers received it with sympathetic remarks, and for the members of the “Society of Businessmen” itself, it is undoubtedly law. Regarding this resolution and the leading article about it, the following letter was sent to the openly democratic newspaper “The Sun”[1]: “Having read the guiding article about the widespread bad habit of swearing, as well as the resolution worked out by the ‘Society of Businessmen,’ we consider it necessary to say that two years ago there was a large anti-swearing society here, from which many others were formed in this and neighboring states. We are very glad that ‘The Sun’ has drawn attention to this great and growing evil, especially among businessmen. Nothing so degrades a man in the eyes of another as an oath. We ourselves constitute an anti-swearing society and impose a fine of 50 cents[2] for each idle oath. The money is paid immediately and used by determination of the society. We have very few instances of transgression, and each member of the society considers it an honor to catch his fellow member in a careless oath. Mead, President of the Anti-Swearing Society.” If a simple resolution restricting “freedom of speech” is not enough, here you have even a monetary fine for violation of the resolution. A strange, indeed, this free people!

One of the most wealthy and well-ordered societies is the so-called “Society of Young Men” (Young Men’s Christian Association). It has a huge building in which is housed a spacious library, a newspaper reading room, halls for meetings, lectures, gymnastics, etc. The main purpose of this society is to provide free education to young men and to maintain among them the principles of Christian morality. Each day lectures are read on various subjects, mostly from the field of exact positive sciences; twice a week there are meetings of young men, at which various questions and phenomena of public and political life are discussed; and every day at four o’clock in the afternoon there is a prayer meeting or a short service. I often attended the latter. The large reading room, in which many American and foreign newspapers and magazines are subscribed, is usually overflowing with readers. But when four o’clock strikes, a few resonant piano chords sound from the neighboring hall. This is a call to prayer. The prayer room is crowded with rows of chairs, on each of which lie two books—the Bible and a hymnal with musical notation. Before them a table with the same books and a piano to the side. On the walls large artistic pictures, one of which almost seems to depict the Moscow Kremlin. The chair at the table is usually taken by a member or manager of the society. He announces the hymn number, the pianist strikes the chords, and the whole gathering sings this hymn to his accompaniment. After several hymns the presiding member reads a Bible text and based on its theme gives a sermon. Americans are natural orators; in ordinary life they are extraordinarily talkative and in public oratory it is hard to find them rivals. Words flow easily, freely, and elegantly from them: they always give their speeches and sermons without notebooks. Their imaginative vivacity is remarkable. The themes of sermons are mostly such that for Russians they would seem tedious and scholastic. But American preachers know how to clothe the most abstract thoughts in living flesh and blood. Recently the sermon was on the theme of repentance, on the relative participation of human will and grace in this act. In my opinion, the theme of this sermon for its understanding requires high theological education. Otherwise it can seem uninteresting. In America, it turns out, it has a vital, practical character and is constantly subjected to discussion in the struggle of various religious communities and sects, basing their teaching on one or another understanding of this question. Therefore the sermon was listened to by the whole assembly attentively and with interest. Upon its conclusion several people rose who found facts in their own lives confirming the preacher’s words. First rose a venerable old man, white as the moon, and recalled several incidents from his youth, which occurred some 60 years ago—incidents in which he clearly saw the “voice of the Savior” calling him to the path of righteousness. To hear such words from an educated secular person, to whom respectable gray hair and bodily vigor were evidently given as a reward for this very “path of righteousness,”—was for me a very interesting and instructive novelty. Then among others rose a young man of about 30 and told an incident from his life that also served as a turning point in his life. Ten years ago he was a desperate spendthrift and squanderer and considered all vices to be virtues. Such a life, however, soon emptied his pockets, and one day after a shameless debauch, with no money in his pocket and without a spark of consolation in his heart, he fell into some kind of oppressed despair, and the thought of ending his life began to creep into his soul. Suddenly he met a young man unknown to him, who spoke kindly to him and dispelled the terrible thought. When parting the young man wished to cement the acquaintance and designated one of the churches as the place of the next meeting. “I came to the appointed time to the church, and this was the first time in my life!” he said with the pathos of sincerity. “I did not find the young man there, but I heard a sermon that was light for my dark soul, dew for my parched heart. Then I understood that the Lord Himself was calling me to Him, and I heeded His call. And now I am the happiest man. I have a good Christian wife and Christian children and enjoy complete prosperity, family happiness, and peace of mind. I have never met the young stranger again and do not know who he is. I ask the assembly for special prayers for him.” The story made a strong impression. When the presiding member announced a hymn for singing, the piano chords took up its notes more loudly and the voices of the assembly took it up with greater energy. After the hymn one of those present pronounced an improvised prayer for the young stranger, after which the Lord’s Prayer was read again, and the meeting was declared closed.

Similar to what was described occurs at every prayer meeting, at least it occurred at all those at which I attended. These meetings constantly present the greatest interest. Here the religious and moral life of the people is displayed in living persons. One can only marvel at the energy of religious feeling in this people. Young men of twenty years in response to a customary sermon tell from their lives various facts and incidents with such trembling and sincere piety, which among us might seem an incredible fabrication of a sanctimonious narrator. With a feeling of deep satisfaction I usually left these meetings, and only one thought ran cold through my soul—that we have neither such societies nor such energy of religious consciousness. And this would have saved our poor fatherland from many of the afflictions now oppressing it.

[1] “The Sun” is a large Democratic newspaper with 100,000 subscribers.

[2] Half a dollar, or in our currency—one ruble.

6. The Land of Positive Knowledge

Religion and positive science. – Light-fearingness of unbelief. – Confession of faith from scholars. – Newly-minted theories. – “Religion of the future.”

Both the fact of religion’s very existence and its relationship to positive science can best be observed where both manifest themselves freely, without any artificial support, and solely from internal motives conditioned by internal necessity. Here it will be impossible to get away with such arguments of unbelief as that religion exists only because it is supported by the state, and that positive science does not take the place of religion only because it is oppressed by the state. In America both religion and positive science are completely free, develop according to their own laws, and establish their mutual relationships completely freely, without any external mediation. And what do we see? In the previous essay I noted several passing facts of the energy of religious feeling in America; now I will note several such facts characterizing the relationship of positive knowledge to religion.

America is truly the promised land of positive knowledge. No people can rival Americans in the wealth and spread of this knowledge. All sorts of technical and natural science schools play the most important role in popular education here, and almost the entire population passes through them. Every farmer here is at the same time a technician, he works with machines. Highest positive knowledge—mathematics, astronomy, medicine, etc.—has its most famous representatives here. In a word, positive science has found the most fertile soil in America and luxuriantly spreads through and over it. From the point of view that positive science should take the place of religion for “grown” humanity, one would suppose that America long ago would have relegated religion with all its churches and hierarchies to the archive of eternity, and thanks to its development it long ago should have been worshiping only the idols of the “new faith,” as Strauss called it, and the “old faith” somewhere in dark corners is living out its last days. In reality, all is quite the opposite. If religion nowhere has such energy and such variety of manifestations as in America, then, on the contrary, unbelief hardly anywhere on the entire earth is distinguished by greater modesty and lack of pretension than precisely in this country of positive knowledge. Unbelief here as if fears the light and hides from curious eyes. Its manifestation is hard to find. One of the best indicators of it is, of course, the book market. In Germany, that classical land of unbelief, at the present time in bookstores behind mirror glass so dazzle various treatises on “religions of the future,” on “the self-dissolution of Christianity,” on the “new symbol of faith,” etc. Clearly, the demand for them is great, and the supply from generous suppliers corresponds. Quite the opposite here. On display here are classical works of favorite writers, Bibles, treatises on theological, historical, and positive knowledge, and the newest works of fiction. I was so interested in this fact that I made it a point to examine a good dozen of the best stores to find some of the outstanding works of unbelief. The effort was in vain. Only in one store of imported books did I find behind the glass window the last work of Renan, where it stood proudly beside the latest novel by Emile Zola. But even in this last refuge the brisk novelist completely overshadowed the unbelieving academic: the novel was displayed in a whole dozen copies and in two languages, while Renan’s offspring appeared only in one copy and only in its native language. The fact is not grand, but very eloquent.

If one turns to the living representatives of positive knowledge, they will speak in an even more eloquent language. The first-rate astronomer Dr. Proctor not only does not mock the various astronomical data of the Bible, as the old-fashioned “positivists” do, but constantly publishes articles aimed at scientific explanation of them, with a clear apologetic intent. In one of the holiday issues of the “Herald” he printed a lengthy article on the “star in the east” that guided the eastern wise men, and argued for the real appearance of this star. One of the best naturalists, namely Professor Gray, at the onset of the Lenten season gave a series of lectures on “religion and science” in a reconciliatory and apologetic spirit. The best geologist Dawson published a book titled “The Bible and Nature,” in which he argued for the truth of the first chapter of the Bible. Finally, one of the first-rate mathematicians, Dr. Pierce, also gave lectures on the relation of science to religion, and in mathematics found proofs of the existence of God. But that is not all. Here religiousness is even boasted of by doctors, these, so to speak, professional materialists. Walking once along the main New York street Broadway, I received among a mass of various announcements a fairly bulky pamphlet from a doctor, in which he defined his specialty, described the diseases within its scope, and displayed his own, newly invented means of fighting them. The pamphlet concluded with an eloquent article on the happiness of a healthy person and the bitter fate of the sick person with a final appeal that whoever wants to be happy should go to this doctor, the bestower of health and happiness. This article contained many references to various authorities with extracts from them. Upon reviewing them, I was astonished to find that some of these extracts were taken from the best New York preachers, with their names indicated. A doctor in his advertisement referring to preachers – well, what you will, a unique phenomenon! After all this, it is quite understandable that the fact that ten years ago when Büchner came here, who had made such a stir in Europe in his time with his “Force and Matter” and gave a series of brilliant materialistic lectures, he met a completely cold reception from the American public.

The facts presented above may seem like a new discovery to many Russian readers, because American science, even in its best representatives, is little known in Russia. Some, however, will read these lines with perplexity and ask: “But what about Draper?” Yes, only on this stronghold can one rely. By some strange chance, this American professor was especially fortunate here. His thin works among us were constantly welcomed and translated with greater enthusiasm than in other countries. If it were not offensive to the Russian mind, one could explain this reason by the absence in it of taste for anything more serious. Draper, as a learned medical specialist, is celebrated here and considered one of the best professors! But it is not his learned works that are translated and distributed among us; rather those works of his leisure, which have no relation to his specialty and in whose subject he is therefore just as competent as, according to Krylov’s fable, a cobbler is in baking pies. His last work: “The Conflict between Religion and Science,” translated into Russian as “The Conflict between Catholicism and Science,” had considerable success in America. In five years it went through eight editions. But this is solely explained by the fact that this work by its nature is a political pamphlet directed against Roman Catholicism, which spreads more widely with each passing year in America and inspires concern among politicians about the future fate of the republic. Any resistance to the invasion of Papacy is therefore desired and welcomed with enthusiasm here; all the more so if it comes from science. Thus for Americans the subject of this book is quite practical, vital, and political, and its success is conditioned by political causes. In Russia, in the absence of these causes, its appearance can be explained only by what has been said above. Nevertheless, despite the predominance of the political element over the religious in this book, its success can be called significant only from a Russian perspective. In American terms, it is actually a weak success, and far cannot compare with the success of, for example, Farrar’s recent book on the apostle Paul. Draper’s book in five years had eight editions, while Farrar’s book in five months went through four editions on American soil. The proportion is far from in Draper’s favor.

The newly invented scientific theories, which, as is known, are eagerly consumed by empty-minded stomachs here, do not enjoy such hospitality in America and are constantly pursued by satire. In one of the best New York circuses-museums (both at once) among all manner of entertaining rarities, I encountered an interesting group of mechanical musician monkeys, who, by the motion of a hidden mechanism, splendidly performed various musical pieces – on violins, trumpets, drums, and so forth. Above them a golden inscription read: “Darwin’s Company of Men.” In the most widespread humorous journal (The Puck) in one of the recent issues there was published a hilarious poem celebrating the theory of spontaneous generation and gradual development. The poem presents an entire choir of learned naturalists. One of them enthusiastically recites these theories, concluding each verse with the words: “So, gentlemen, it all turned out by itself.” The choir of naturalists picks up this verse and sings loudly with spirited stamping:

The choir of scholars sings loudly –

Everything happened all by itself.

The satirical attitude toward newly invented theories manifests itself not only in publications that are satirical by profession, but also in ordinary newspaper print. In one of the Sunday issues of the best American newspaper “N. Y. Times” there appeared an article interesting in this regard, titled: “The Religion of the Future.” The article belongs to the so-called “editorial” publications and thus expresses not a private view but the view of the entire publication. A certain Stephen, in one of the monthly journals, published an article in which he argues that Christianity, sooner or later, will outlive its time, cease to satisfy sensitive people; a new religion will arise in its place, based on the great truths of positive science. The examination of this opinion is the subject of the newspaper article mentioned above. Here is what was said in it, among other things:

“Although Stephen is confident that the new religion will agree with scientific truths and discover in them sources for pious reflection, he does not define this religion precisely and in detail. However, this is not at all difficult, and we will undertake the task of sketching the creed and distinctive features of this positive religion of the future. This religion, of course, will not recognize revelation, and consequently, not the truths connected with it concerning the existence of a personal God, the immortality of the soul. If there is no immortality, then naturally there is no reward or punishment after death; consequently there is no distinction between sinfulness and righteousness, and the rule of life can be only advantage. The new creed will consist of three articles: 1) no future life; 2) advantage is the only rule of life, and 3) perhaps there is, and perhaps there is not, a personal God. By its simplicity the new creed is much shorter than the old one and leaves no room for tedious theological speculations.”

“The new religion, of course, will not need either churches or priests, and the entire worship will consist only in that poets will compose odes celebrating the Great, perhaps existing and perhaps not existing, First Cause. But it will, however, contain truths to the contemplation of which people will resort both in joy and in sorrow. These truths will, of course, be positively scientific, and people will be comforted in sorrow by them and strengthened in weakness. A criminal approaching the gallows will prepare himself for death by contemplating the great and glorious truth of the binomial theorem. A priest, of course, will no longer accompany him; instead, some learned philanthropist will come and read him comforting excerpts from algebra and smooth his path to the kingdom of non-being with a skillful exposition of Pythagoras’s theorem. This will influence the criminal so beneficially that he will mount the scaffold with truly scientific calm. When a person is subjected to some dangerous temptation and cannot resist it, he need only retire to his study and engage a little in reflection on the squaring of the circle; this will so strengthen him that he can pass fearlessly through the fiery furnace of all temptations. Such reflection will be exceedingly useful also in sorrow. For example, a man’s dearly loved wife dies. He knows that he will never see her again and that instead of awaiting him in the future world, she will decompose into her chemical elements. In such circumstances, he, having returned from scientific funerals, of course, retires so as to find comfort in his religion. He reflects on the elements of the orbit of a new comet, or concentrates his heartfelt feelings on the truth that the force of attraction is inversely proportional to the square of the distance. This will soon comfort and strengthen him, and he will leave his confinement with peace in his soul. – The new morality will also differ from the Christian. The rejection of the theory that there exists some sin in the Christian sense of the word, and the adoption of the teaching that success is the only rule of life, will lead to results, at the sight of which one should not want to live in such a society where Christian prejudices still exist. The people of the future will undoubtedly discourse on morality as eloquently as the Stoic philosophers spoke of it; but if they find it advantageous to lease their wives to their neighbor, or convenient to end their own lives, then science can raise no objection to this, and much less dissuade them.”

“After all this it is clear that the new religion will be far superior to Christianity, and we should strive in every way for its speedy introduction and dissemination. Ignorant people and weak women, surely, will long still hold to Christianity, but the superiority of the new religion, with its scientific comfort and great promise of eternal death, is so evident to all thinking people, that they will undoubtedly accept the new faith with joy.”

Here is one of many examples of how the free American press relates to dreamy theories about various scientific religions. This calm but deadly sarcasm is more formidable to such theories than lengthy refutations of them: it passes a death sentence on them, and they disappear without a trace into the darkness of oblivion.

7. The Bible in America

The public significance of the Bible among the American people. – The Bible in language, literature, art, and politics. – A newly corrected translation of the New Testament and the public interest concerning this event. – The character of the translation. – A newspaper half the size of the Bible.

“The Bible contains 3,586,489 letters, 773,692 words, 31,173 verses, 1,189 chapters, and 66 books. The word Lord appears 1,855 times, the word and is repeated 46,277 times. The middle verse of the Bible is Ps 118:8. All letters of the alphabet except the letter j are found in 21 verses of the 7th chapter of the book of Ezra. The longest verse is Esther VIII, 9, and the shortest is in the Gospel of John 11:35.”

I recently had occasion to read such a mathematical calculation regarding the contents of the Bible in a New York newspaper, and it represents not only a curious oddity but also an interesting characteristic feature. The scrupulous attention to the contents of the Bible by a busybody counting its letters and words is only one of many manifestations of the general American attitude toward the sacred book. Surely nowhere does the Bible have greater public significance than in America. Here it is not only a book in constant use in the ordinary sense of the word, but has entered into the very flesh and blood of American society. If it were possible to take the Bible away from the American people, it would mean depriving them of half their being. For the American, the Bible is connected with the sweetest memories of early childhood. As soon as a child becomes conscious, he begins to see in every house without fail a thick gold-edged book, which a white-haired grandfather or a wrinkled grandmother in silver spectacles invariably reads every morning and evening by a blazing fireplace. The monotonous and peculiar recitative of this reading forever becomes associated in the child’s mind with the blissful period of happy childhood. When the time comes for schooling, on the Christmas holidays the father gives to his son or daughter, along with other gifts, also a tiny pretty Bible. Then school begins, and there again the sweet memories of the child’s family life are revived and sustained by daily Bible reading. In American schools, instruction daily begins with reading a chapter from the Bible, though without any explanation. But the Sunday school, which in America is at a high level of development, has as its special purpose the explanatory study of the Bible. Remarkable success is achieved in this regard. Children in America generally develop very early, but clear and distinct biblical knowledge is acquired by them at an age when European and especially Russian children have no notion of the book itself. At Easter in one of the New York churches I attended a celebration of the Sunday school’s anniversary. About seven hundred children had gathered. After several hymns came what was called in the program an annual review of the work. The instructor of religion listed in order the Sundays on which Sunday school was held and asked the children what text was explained on such and such a day, and immediately the entire mass of children with astonishing clarity and liveliness recited the text by heart. Since the explanation of texts in school is conducted by the same system by which the Bible is read in church, this made it possible for the press to follow the teaching in Sunday school, and in the Sunday issues of secular daily newspapers one can always find a more or less detailed explanation of the text that is coming up in Sunday schools, so that children have the opportunity to encounter the same text three times in different forms – in church, in school, and in the newspaper.

Given all this, it is understandable what influence the Bible has on the life of American society. When you enter an American home, you will see on the table in the parlor a book that you can recognize as the Bible by its appearance alone. Sometimes the Bible is preserved as a heritage from distant ancestors, and on its margins is recorded the precious chronicle of family traditions. Often such a Bible serves as the sole decisive arbiter of disputed questions in court concerning the legality of inheritance. Look around, and you will see on the walls small plaques that harmonize very elegantly with the color of the wall decorations. If you examine these plaques closely, you will see biblical texts on them. Together with the Bible on the table lies an album. In it, besides photographic cards, you will find a multitude of Christmas and Easter cards with which Americans give each other presents at Christmas and Easter. They are inscribed with holiday wishes and biblical texts. Because of this, what is astonishing is the knowledge of texts that one can constantly encounter in conversation with Americans. Their conversation itself bears a strong biblical tone. Along with verses from Shakespeare, an American will certainly bring forth several biblical texts. In comparisons they constantly turn to biblical facts. The influence of the Bible on literature is even more noticeable. No literature bears such a strong biblical imprint as American literature. Biblical texts and turns of phrase are encountered daily in newspaper articles claiming literary merit. “We have no book that exerts such a deep influence on the thought and style of the newest literature,” said the “Herald” regarding a recent occurrence. “For every writer with claims to thought, it is impossible to avoid obligations to this sacred source. There is no work that has so deeply imprinted itself on the hearts and minds of all English speakers.” Texts sometimes begin leading articles in secular newspapers, as, for example, an editorial in the “Herald” regarding the election of a new president. In art, the Bible also plays an important role. Biblical subjects are eagerly developed by American painters. At annual exhibitions of paintings, you constantly encounter either several biblical pictures or genre scenes with the introduction of family Bible reading by the hearth. Bible reading is sometimes even introduced into theatrical plays depicting the everyday family life of the American people. Finally, both in everyday life and in the heat of political struggle, one can constantly encounter traces of biblical influence.

Political orators in addressing the masses constantly illuminate their thoughts with biblical examples, though sometimes not of the most elegant kind. During the presidential election of last year the air trembled with such biblical-political speeches. Once a zealous democrat, his voice hoarse from political zeal, amid the whistling of rockets in the evening air, from a high platform exerted himself to prove to the gray mass of people gathered before him that they should vote for the democratic candidate and not the Republican. Having laden the latter with all manner of ponderous epithets, the orator declared that his nomination was itself impious and shameful. “The Republicans say,” the democrat orated, “that the nomination of General Garfield as a candidate for the presidency was accomplished as if by inspiration. Yes, truly by inspiration, but what kind of inspiration? – Countrymen, it was indeed inspiration, but not one kind or another, but that great inspiration by which the swine of Gadara rushed down the cliff into the water. Just as the swine of Gadara had one and the same inspirer, so too do the Republicans, and that inspirer is none other than the evil spirit – Satan.” And then the democrat orator, finding approval among his listeners for his apt comparison, drew a long parallel between Republicans in general and the swine of Gadara. The gray mass only roared and guffawed. Differently does Garfield himself explain his nomination for the presidency. As is known, he rose to the highest position in the world’s greatest republic from the canal tow-path, where as a child he earned his meager daily bread. Such an extraordinary elevation in itself suggests the thought of divine providence, and all the more so for Garfield, who himself was once a preacher in a church of the community of “Disciples of Christ.” The action of transcendent providence manifested itself also in his nomination for the presidency. This nomination was completely unexpected. The candidates were such famous figures as General Grant, and there was no thought of Garfield at all. Nevertheless Grant suffered defeat, while the canal boy received the nomination. On this occasion Garfield himself tells the following story: “The night before the nomination we sat until past midnight, trying to sort out the tangled state of affairs. Affairs were in a hopeless state and we, having rested a little, began to prepare for a new futile struggle. When I set out the next day to the convention, I passed a man who was eagerly handing out sheets to every passerby. I took one, thinking it was probably an advertisement for some patented medicine or something of the sort; but upon glancing at it, I saw that it was a sheet from the Bible, and therefore I did not throw it away, but put it in the pocket of my coat and forgot about it. Soon the nomination was made and telegrams poured in from all sides. I read them and placed them in the same pocket. After the session, I went to my hotel, and telegrams continued pouring in in great quantity, so that it was impossible to answer them all, and I ordered my secretary to put them all in a bag, so as to examine them at home. Grabbing from my pocket a packet of telegrams, I handed it to him. ‘And what is this?’ he asked me, showing me the printed sheet. It turned out to be a sheet from the Bible, and it folded in such a way that only one verse could be read, namely: ‘The stone which the builders rejected is become the head of the corner. This is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes.’ Those present at the time were astonished and drew attention to this occurrence. I believe, gentlemen, in Providence, added the President. A sparrow cannot fall to the ground without it. But – I shudder at the very thought that such a high Power acted for my sake or for my advancement.’”

Given the enormous influence of the Bible on the life and thought of the American people, it is not surprising that every event concerning the Bible becomes a major public event. Such an event was recently the publication of a new corrected English translation of the New Testament. The current English translation of the Bible, in general use among English-speaking peoples, was made under English King James I and is therefore called the Jacobean. This translation, according to experts in the English language, is distinguished by major literary merits. Its language is distinguished by a majestic and at the same time simple style, elegant, clear, strong, and musical. It is one of the finest examples of English classical prose. These great merits explain the remarkable fact that it came into universal use, displaced all other translations, and became the “authorized” translation, without being officially authorized by anyone. It is used in churches and families, and its somewhat archaic language has become entirely sacred language for the people, like our Slavonic. With time, however, the popular English language underwent such changes that some words acquired an entirely different meaning or fell completely out of use, so that the Bible translation in certain places ceased to be understood by ordinary readers. Given the prevalence of the Bible among the people, this began to concern preachers of God’s word, and they began to think about correcting the translation, especially since with the development of biblical-critical science it seemed necessary to them to make corrections in the text of scripture more substantial than a mere correction of the translation. Ten years ago, for this purpose a special Bible society was formed. It included all the best learned scholars in the field of biblical exegetics and philology, both in England and in America, and in a membership of eighty began the work. The English and American parties worked completely independently, and only at certain periods presented their work for comparison, and then in case of disagreement the matter was decided by majority vote. The work consists not only in correcting the translation but also in checking the text itself by newly discovered ancient manuscripts and in critical evaluation and verification of the meaning of every word of the Greek or Hebrew original. The work is obviously colossal, especially given that the number of different readings (variants) in the various discovered manuscripts and translations of the New Testament amounts to 150,000. The public followed the progress of this important work with interest, and the interest naturally increased as it drew to a close, until finally it turned into actual impatience. Already by the end of last year newspaper reports began to appear of the translation approaching completion, but the translation itself appeared only on May 20 of this year. And this day, together with the entire week that followed, was a day of extraordinary triumph of God’s word. America, as is known, is a country of literary sensations. Any literary work, strongly touching the sensitive string of public life and sufficiently preparing itself through loud advertisements and original announcements, completely captures the minds and hearts of society and quickly sells in a series of several successive editions. The new translation of the New Testament had no artificial announcements for itself other than those reports which the all-pervasive and all-knowing reporters strove to disseminate, and yet the day of its release was such a literary event as America does not remember. Even before the publication of the translation, up to 800,000 people in New York and Philadelphia had placed orders for it! Then on the very day of its release there was talk of nothing but the new translation. Newspapers published leading articles on the significance of the Bible in general for the English people; reporters scattered throughout the city, asking all somewhat competent persons about the merits of the new translation; crowds of people thronged outside shops impatiently awaiting their turn to receive a copy of the New Testament, while small booksellers transported the new translation in bales to their shops. To what extent the demand was great, one can judge by the fact that on this single day alone 300,000 copies were sold, at prices ranging from 15 cents to 10 dollars. The next day about 200,000 more copies were sold, and within the first week the number of sold copies had risen to a million – and this only in New York and its immediate vicinity. Newspapers throughout the entire week were filled with articles and reviews of the merits of the new translation. In the “Herald” in five successive issues there appeared such a mass of articles and reports on the new translation that if they were collected together, there would result a substantial book of some ten pages of ordinary print. And if all this material were translated into Russian, then given that each Russian word is at least twice as long as the English, there would result a substantial book of about twenty printed pages. All of this was published in five issues of the “Herald” newspaper. If one takes into account that this newspaper is distributed daily in 125,000 copies and is read by at least five times that number of people, then the public became fully and comprehensively acquainted with the new translation. Even greater interest in this new translation was shown by the Chicago newspaper “Times,” published in the city of Chicago, three days’ railway journey from New York. In order to give their readers the opportunity to become acquainted with the character of the new translation on the very day of its publication, the New York correspondent of the newspaper transmitted by telegraph all twenty-eight chapters of the Gospel of Matthew. In the next two Sundays preachers chose the new translation of the New Testament as the theme of their sermons, and the preacher’s reviews again occupied entire pages in the Monday issues of newspapers. It was a great and perhaps unprecedented day of the shining of God’s word. I have no factual data for comparing this public interest of Americans regarding the publication of the new translation of the New Testament with the public interest manifested in Russia on the occasion of the appearance of the first authorized translation of the Bible into Russian; but I shudder at the very thought of such a comparison…

7. The Bible in America (Cont.)

As for the external and internal peculiarities of the new translation, they are too numerous to include in this brief sketch. The translators and editors not only changed and corrected words and expressions of the previous translation but made corrections in the text itself. In some places they completely altered the accepted text and omitted many texts that had become intertwined with the religious consciousness of the people. Thus in the narrative of the apostle Paul about the Last Supper in 1 Cor 11:24 are omitted the words: “Take, eat” as if not justified by the best manuscripts. On the same ground, as a later interpolation, the well-known verse 1 John 7:8 is omitted: “Three are they that bear record in heaven.” These and similar changes produced strong confusion in a society accustomed to these texts. But the confusion turned almost into indignation over the fact that the translators, on the basis of learned research, came to the conclusion that a certain doxology concluding the Lord’s Prayer: “For yours is the kingdom” is also a later interpolation, and on this basis omitted it also in the new text. In view of such radical changes, it is supposed that despite its undeniable learned merits, the new translation will never receive the people’s sanction. Americans are an extremely conservative people, and the most popular and widely circulated newspaper states that it was not advisable to make any changes at all to the present Bible, since even the most archaic words in it have acquired a special sacred meaning and tone in the consciousness of the people. All the more inappropriate are such changes as the omission of entire and particularly popular texts. Many preachers from church pulpits have also openly and strongly spoken against the new translation, so that in all probability it will remain only as a learned edition and will not penetrate into the sanctuary of the temple. Nevertheless, by its appearance it has aroused unprecedented interest in God’s word, and on this account, notes one newspaper, the sacred book has been and will be read again by whole hundreds of thousands of such persons to whom it had previously been closed. And the benefit of this reading, even if it were to flow from mere curiosity, is beyond any doubt.

In conclusion of our discourse on the book of books, a few words about the newspaper of newspapers – the New York “Herald.” Its Easter issue for the present year was, as the editors themselves declare, an epoch in the history of journalism. It was a gigantic issue of 24 pages, regarding the quantity of printed material in which one can judge by the following reasoning of the editors: “The New Testament is a book which people study throughout their entire lives, never reaching the depth of its sacred mysteries. The Easter issue of the “Herald” is almost twice as large as the New Testament. The Bible is the embodiment of centuries of faith, instruction, history, and revelation, and the devout reader, turning its pages morning and evening, thinks – how great is this book. Today’s “Herald” in the number of words equals more than half the Bible. We could print the greater part of Shakespeare, Byron, Macaulay, the best parts of any classical author – on the paper occupied by today’s “Herald” and sold for five cents. In current literature there is no such thick journal that gives as many words as today’s “Herald.” It is more than three times larger than the monthly magazine “Harper’s Magazine,” and almost three times larger than the famous trimonthly “Edinburgh Review.” – In a word, the “Herald” should be published not in New York, but in white-stoned Moscow, and should be called the tsar of newspapers.”

8. The Kingdom of the Dollar and Preaching

The almighty dollar. – The sale of pews in churches. – An auction and good
earnings. – A curious lawsuit. – Preachers and preaching. –

Humor and the telephone on the preaching pulpit.

Philosophers, as is known, have long sought to find the seat of the soul in man. The ancients pointed to it in the breast, moderns chiefly in the cerebellum. But one recent philosopher, to whose observation an American came, found the seat of the soul – in the pocket. And he is in considerable measure right. If one examines the political and public life of Americans, one can see that the main lever that controls the entire mechanism of their life is precisely in the pocket, filled, of course, with dollars. With them everything is calculated in dollars. Politicians pave their way to the presidency with dollars, the position and significance of a man in society is valued in dollars, we are rewarded in dollars for bodily injury, for example on railways, for wrongful arrest, for slander, and so forth. Finally, even prayer itself is weighed against dollars with them. When a man suddenly has a desire to pray, he cannot immediately satisfy his desire. To enter the house of prayer, he must first check with his pocket whether its contents are sufficient for free entry. This custom of payment for the right to enter a church has developed into the regular custom of the annual sale of pews in churches, performed at a fixed time. In each church you usually see on the front columns posted tables that show a plan of the church with numbered seats and indication of the cost. Upon the completion of each year the resale occurs according to the prices shown. Having paid the money, the worshipper receives a key to his seat, which he keeps until the next sale. This is the usual form of sale at set prices. But in many and especially the best churches, the sale takes the form of an auction in the ordinary sense of the word. Newspapers usually announce that on such and such a day there will be an auction in such and such a church and therefore all who wish are invited. Such an auction recently occurred in the church of the famous American preacher Dr. Beecher, the brother of the well-known writer Beecher Stowe. Besides the announcement in the newspapers, upon entry to the church were distributed sheets on which the prices of pews were indicated and the rules for the auction sale were set forth. The auction was appointed for 7 o’clock in the evening, and by that time a multitude of people had gathered. On the platform, or as we call it the ambo, the church trustees occupied their places at a special table with writing materials and a gavel. At the appointed time Dr. Beecher himself arrived and, greeting the purchasers, addressed the assembly with the words: “Well, a pleasant evening has come to us again. You, gentlemen, of course, know the conditions of sale, and if not, you can learn about them from the rules in your hands. For my part, I can give you only one instruction, which is usually given to children in school: ‘Speak, children, loudly and clearly.’ For this evening I yield my place to a man whose speech should raise more money than any single speech by the greatest preacher and orator can raise. He will take my place and will orate to you,” said Dr. Beecher with a smile and departed. A church trustee took his place and opened the auction. The first pew, valued at 100 dollars[1] quickly passed through the assembly and one by one voices “loudly and clearly” cried out: two hundred, three hundred, four hundred, five hundred. At five hundred they stopped and the gavel confirmed this price. The pew went to a respectable-looking gentleman, who was immediately congratulated by acquaintances. The entire sale proceeded in this manner, with all pews being purchased at prices two and three times higher than the nominal. The nominal value of all pews in the church in total equaled 12,852 dollars. The auction sale produced a sum of 40,289 dollars, that is 27,437 dollars above the nominal. If one takes into account that the church also has additional collections of up to 10 thousand dollars and the clergy consist of only one pastor-preacher, one cannot but say that its budget is quite respectable. Under special and exceptional circumstances, such as the sale of pews in a newly constructed church that therefore needed special financial assistance, the auction often presented remarkable examples of religious zeal.

When the first auction took place in the newly constructed Cathedral of St. Patrick, then for the first pews instead of the nominal price of 150 dollars, purchasers paid 5,000 dollars.

Where the matter is placed on purely financial grounds, there disputes are inevitable with their further consequences. An interesting example of this was provided by one of the recent facts, characteristic, among other things, of the generally mercenary nature of Americans. In one church a respectable Yankee rented a pew for 500 dollars and peacefully prayed in it for several months. After Easter the closing of services was announced for two months for the purpose of church repairs. When the church reopened for services, the respectable Yankee, coming to the church, could scarcely find and recognize his pew: right above it a staircase to the choir had been built. His spirit was troubled by such a change, and he could not pray, as he himself declared, and without delay brought a lawsuit against the church administrators. In his complaint he accused them of willful encroachment on his property, of causing him moral and material losses. Since his pew now, not having its former conveniences, is not worth the sum he paid for it and since he can no longer pray in this place, – then in compensation for all of this he asked the court to fine the church administrators a thousand dollars in his favor. But American court is as calculating as the Yankees themselves, and it did not immediately yield to the complaints of the petitioner. It calculated monthly how much money the petitioner had already consumed through his prayer before the church repairs, and deducted this sum from the accounts. But then it nevertheless weighed how much the petitioner’s moral suffering was worth from the interruption of prayer and how much his present uncomfortable position was worth until he found a new pew in the church, and for this added a few hundred dollars. The petty result of these calculations and deductions was that the court ordered to collect in favor of the petitioner from the church administrators six hundred dollars, so that the respectable Yankee could rent a new pew in the church and still have a hundred dollars left as compensation for his moral suffering. This curious lawsuit is not at all exceptional; in judicial practice such facts occur daily, only, of course, from different spheres of life.

What determines the comparative value of pews in a church? It is determined partly by the location of the church in one part of the city or another, partly by the beauty and richness of the temple’s decorations, by the music and singing, but more than anything by preaching. Preaching in American churches constitutes the main part of worship and upon it is based the significance and fame of the church. The better and more brilliant the preaching in a church, the more visitors are attracted and at the same time the higher the price of pews rises and the greater the church budget becomes. With the weakening of preaching the church empties and becomes poor, becomes entangled in debt, and quickly moves toward the usual sad fate – sale for debt at auction. In view of this, the direct interest of church trustees is to attract and hire the best possible preacher for their church. In this regard American church trustees proceed exactly the same way as theatrical impresarios when they invite and hire famous and celebrated actors for their theaters. The calculations and interests are the same. For this purpose the trustees carefully follow preachers throughout the country, send special agents to search for the best preachers, and at the first opportunity hire them for their church. The salary paid to the best preachers sometimes reaches a tremendous sum. Thus Dr. Beecher, considered the most famous American preacher, receives half of the entire annual church budget, that is 25,000 dollars a year. For a preacher this figure is very substantial, especially if one takes into account that the President of the United States receives only 50,000 dollars. Other preachers, depending on their talent and ability, receive 20, 10, 5 thousand, and in the poorest churches of New York 2–3 thousand dollars a year. Such an order of filling preaching pulpits, making preaching into a simple money-making occupation with usual competition, was at the same time the reason that preaching positively developed into a special art. American preachers – they are in the true sense artists, whose success and fame depend exclusively on their literary and oratorical talents. A man with weak talents has no chance here of occupying a preaching pulpit except perhaps somewhere in the backwoods, without hope of ever getting out of them. The strict selection of preachers, conditioned by the very money system of their hiring, is at the same time maintained by the free judgment of the community and the press. The press takes a lively interest in preaching, and in Monday issues of newspapers usually give reports of Sunday sermons with critical approval or censure. The community at any time can deny their preacher a place when he does not satisfy them and hire another, more capable one. All of this together maintains preaching at a remarkable level, and the sermon here appears as a tremendous public force. Besides churches usually being filled with listeners, you constantly hear conversations and judgments about one or another particularly remarkable sermon in homes. It is interesting for foreigners to know the external aspect of American preaching. In this regard it is distinguished by remarkable peculiarity. Americans in general are an extremely lively and mobile people and usually express their feelings energetically through the movement of their limbs. With preacher-orators this mobility sometimes reaches comic dimensions. They not only gesture with their faces and wave their hands, but give full scope to physical movement – in all its manifestations. The preacher, depending on the content of the speech, sometimes depressedly droops his head and covers his face with his hands, sometimes proudly throws it back and snaps his fingers; sometimes drops to his knees, sometimes jumps up, claps his hands, strikes his fist on the pulpit; he lowers his voice to a caressing whisper, then raises it to the threatening roar of thunder, and you see before you now a humbly repenting sinner, now a terrible judge. Plastical dramatism in preaching plays a very important role, and in the best preachers it sometimes reaches artistic development. Together with external dramatism in American preachers is combined an extraordinarily easy and vivid language. In this regard Americans hardly have rivals even among the French. With the French, ease and vividness of language often passes into soulless and empty phraseology; here, on the contrary, with vivid language is constantly combined clear and distinct thought. Possessing strong imagination and healthy observation, American preachers often paint pictures of social life with remarkable artistry, and the discussion of some outstanding social event is often more interesting to hear in church from the best preachers than to read in newspapers. From the formal side preachers are not limited to a determined homiletical form of sermon; they use all possible literary forms and intersperse the sermon with philosophical maxims and proverbs, verses and anecdotes, tragic tirades and comic passages, witticisms and puns. Sometimes the sermon takes on such a humorous character that all listeners laugh till tears. Once I happened to attend such a sermon. The preacher discussed the life of “unbelief” and depicted it in a series of such humorous anecdotes that the entire assembly was literally dying with laughter. I became so interested in this form of Christian apologetics that at the end of the service I thought it worthwhile to introduce myself to the humorous preacher and personally speak with him about this form of preaching. Having expressed my pleasure at such an entertaining sermon, I incidentally asked him whether its form contradicted the generally accepted custom. The preacher quickly understood my thought and answered with a smile: “It not only does not contradict the generally accepted custom, but even sacred Scripture. Jesus in his encounters with the unbelievers of his time very often put them by his questions and objections in such a comic position over which those present undoubtedly laughed more than my listeners laugh now. And what forms did the Old Testament prophets not give to their speeches, if only to strike, humiliate vice and exalt virtue? What can compare, for example, with this tirade of Ezekiel (and he recited several verses by heart), where sarcasm cuts more powerfully than an Indian tomahawk and irony stings more deadly than the fang of a rattlesnake? For my part I consider irony one of the best instruments for the elevation of humanity, and in ordinary secular literature humorous works influence public consciousness more directly and powerfully than any other kind of literature. I am not, however, acquainted with your Russian literature and do not know to what extent the divine humor enjoys the rights of citizenship with you. But your church does not permit humor?” – Having answered this question, I took leave of the respectable preacher.

Occasionally extraordinary phenomena appear as preachers, distinguished by some remarkable qualities. Thus recently in New York there has been attracting numerous listeners the so-called “boy preacher.” Scientific discoveries are also applied to preaching. On one of the recent Sundays beneath the pulpit of Dr. Beecher an entrepreneur set up a telephone apparatus, so that his sermon was heard at the same time in fifty different locations – in New York and in cities of the neighboring state.

[1] A dollar by exchange equals two rubles.

9. In the Camp of Salvation

The summer season and religion. – The exodus of pastors. – Religious camps. – On the shore of the ocean. – Warriors of salvation. – Sunday. – A colored preacher and a Negro hymn.

American summer is truly a fiery furnace. The heat begins very early; already by the end of May the mercury in the thermometer approaches 40 degrees and soon after adopts this point as its permanent residence, making only occasional excursions higher. Life itself becomes a burden, and daily bulletins report whole dozens of death cases from sunstroke. What is most difficult is that the heat scarcely diminishes at night; the night brings only an oppressive stuffiness. The bed is hot even to the feel of hands, and Americans go to sleep placing a fan beside them and setting a pitcher of ice water nearby. During the day there is no relief even under the shade of chestnut trees, which abundantly line the sidewalks. The very leaves of them instead of coolness breathe scorching heat. There is no need to even speak of the stuffiness that exists inside buildings with a large gathering of people. It is simply unbearable.

Such stuffiness manifests itself with particular force in church gatherings. Despite the fact that in churches, thanks to a definite number of pews, there is plenty of space, perspiration breaks out on all faces and streams down the cheeks. Church trustees come to the aid of the worshippers and prepare entire mountains of Chinese fans worth five kopecks, which are distributed before the beginning of services to all the pews. Every worshipper, regardless of gender and age, has in his hands this instrument of coolness. Men, women, and children – all work the fans vigorously, and the rustle produced by them fills the church with some strangely musical noise. With the purpose of producing coolness, other, more effective measures are taken. So, the walls and floor in the church are lined with ice and air is artificially passed through it, which, having passed through this cold purification, loses a considerable portion of its oppressive heat and appears as a pleasant breeze. But such arrangements are effective only in spring, when the mercury has not yet risen to its highest point. Already by June such measures prove insufficient, and then Americans resort to another method of fighting the heat: they simply close churches. So the summer season in religion arrives, church vacations. Newspapers daily publish announcements informing of the closing of one church or another – until a certain date, and on the front church columns notices are posted with the same content. Not all churches close, of course, but at least two-thirds of them are given over to summer rest. Parishioners depart to their country houses and the pastors themselves, breathing the fresh air of fields and forests, replenish themselves with new strength for the activity of the following year. Most of the pastors are very educated and at the same time wealthy people, and therefore they usually devote the summer to distant excursions and travels. A particularly large number of them depart for Europe. Each summer ocean ship takes them by the dozens, and newspapers constantly print lists of them under the heading: “the exodus of pastors.” There they spend the summer in capital cities, predominantly in Paris, London, Vienna, Rome, and others, stocking themselves with new impressions from the moral and religious life of mankind. Some even depart for Jerusalem and other sacred cities. The multitude of their correspondence sent to newspapers serves in a certain way as a substitute for their live teaching words for parishioners. The parishioners themselves, from the highest wealthy classes, in thousands depart for summer in Europe and spend the summer season in Switzerland or other pleasant European corners. Europe is still to this day the homeland for Americans, and they find in it many such charms as America does not present.

But not everyone departs for Europe; a multitude remains at home. How then does this multitude spend the summer season? I have previously noted the facts of the energy of religious feeling among Americans. The presented fact of the closing of churches for an entire summer may appear to be a contradiction. In fact, it only serves as confirmation. With the closing of churches the religious need does not cease; it demands satisfaction, and in America it has found a remarkable solution, representing one of the most peculiar sides of the religious life of the American people. Not being able to conduct worship in actual temples, the people have transferred worship to the open air and there created summer mobile temples made of canvas, like tabernacles. The new part of New York, the so-called “Upper City” still presents many vacant lots covered with greenery. With the arrival of summer most of these vacant lots became white with tents, on whose front usually appears a large inscription: “Every evening – a sermon! Free admission!” These are the so-called religious camps, similar to military camps, but here not warriors of destruction but warriors of salvation, fighting against the dark kingdom[1]. People gather each evening in the tent, where sacred hymns are sung and sermons are preached. This is the simplest form of religious camp. But outside the city it takes on a more complex form, developing into an actual camp with many tents serving as dwellings for whole thousands of people throughout the summer. To give a clear picture of American religious camps, I will describe my journey to one of them – on the shore of the ocean, in the so-called Ocean Grove, in the neighboring state of New Jersey.

To Ocean Grove run two roads—a sea route and a railway. In the heat of summer, of course, choice always falls on the first; so I made my way to the Hudson River shore, where among a multitude of steamships of every description stood a magnificent four-story floating palace of a steamer, the “Plymouth Rock.” It was on Saturday, when the machinery of workaday life begins to brake with its wheels and crowds of people surge in mass toward country summer retreats—to breathe fresh air and find rest from six days of the feverish toil and worldly bustle. The “Plymouth Rock” rapidly filled with people, mainly from the middle class—craftsmen, mechanics, clerks of every kind. The final whistle sounded and the floating palace began to move. On either side, things blurred past—on the left the brown masses of New York, and on the right the picturesque heights with the capital of the neighboring state of New Jersey settled upon them. These two states are separated only by the stream of the Hudson River, and their capitals look upon each other from opposite shores, forming as it were one city, yet having their own distinct laws and their own particular self-government. Ahead, the magnificent stream of the river spread wider and wider, crossed in every direction by a dense swarm of boats, ships, and steamships, and in the distance the very gates to the ocean opened up. A sea breeze, as though by divine blessing, swept across the deck, and the crowd, exhausted by the stuffiness of the city atmosphere, began with eagerness and bliss to inhale the living breath of grandfather-ocean. And now came the very gates themselves, with hills as their door-posts and bronze-banded Cerberi watching silently from behind the ramparts. These are the very same gates which form the only access for ships to New York, and through which I first entered the New World on the ship “Scythia” late last year. Now I involuntarily recalled the state of mind in which I had entered here. At the present time I see nothing remarkable about this place: the hills are exactly like those I have seen a thousand times over in Russia, and the sand is like any sand. But then all of this seemed something altogether different, and the very shore of America seemed to me more like the shore of the moon or some other planet, rather than earth. With strained, trembling attention I peered into each hillock, each bush, and each grain of sand and—to my amazement—saw in them something so extraordinary, so new. Now none of this was so anymore, and I could only laugh silently at myself and involuntarily repeat the profound saying of an ancient sage, that man is “the measure of all things.”

Meanwhile, on deck came the sounds of an orchestra—an inevitable fixture on every American steamship. As usual, I expected some spirited, merry tune, but suddenly heard something entirely different. The orchestra took up a sacred hymn, and its sounds were taken up by the mass of passengers, and soon the whole forward part of the ship merged in fervent singing of an extremely popular hymn: “There is a Land That is Fairer Than Day” with its concluding verse: “we shall meet on that beautiful shore by and by” (in the sweet by-and-by). The hymn hymns the life beyond the grave, and I could not help but wonder how this exhausted laboring class, setting out for a holiday rest, preferred hymns of this sort to others in which they could find more merriment. But then I remembered that this steamer was not heading to any ordinary country amusement resort, but to a “religious camp.” This was a ship of soldiers of salvation. Looking at the inscriptions on the walls, I found that they were all written with texts from Scripture: “love one another,” “praise God,” and the like, and even on the very life-jackets was written: “In God We Trust.” But what struck me most of all was one inscription which appeared in many places on the steamer. The inscription read: “The Plymouth Rock is a steamer of temperance.” I guessed what was going on, but for further clarification I went to the bar and asked for a glass of California red wine. The bartender looked at me in surprise and silently stretched his hand toward a notice hanging above the bar. The notice once again spoke of temperance. “Surely you don’t have even red grape wine?” I asked. “No, sir, not a drop of anything! And no one asks for it,” added the manager of the “temperance bar” with a faint smile about the breaker of the rule. A strange people, I thought. We don’t have such temperance bars in Russia. And the orchestra continued to play sacred hymns and the voices of passengers supported them with a powerful wave.

It was already around 8 o’clock in the evening when the steamer, gently swaying on the quiet swell of the ocean, approached Ocean Grove. The sun was already hiding behind the hills and pouring forth a sea of fiery-golden rays along the shore and across the horizon. Along the undulating shore, descending to the ocean in golden sand, a multitude of tents turned white, and on either side rows of simple wooden summer houses stood out. The steamer stopped at the pier, a long bridge jutting out to sea. Not knowing what to do, I began to walk about among the tents, which stretched out in endless rows across the hills. All was dead around—not a sound, not a rustle of bushes. A chill came over my soul. After watching for about ten minutes the magical interplay of the ocean with the rays of the setting sun, I did not notice where the whole mass of passengers had gone. Suddenly from behind one ridge of hills came the singing of many voices, and I headed that way. “Brother, do you love Jesus?” suddenly came a voice as I passed by one tent. A shudder involuntarily ran through my body, and I stammered an affirmative answer in confusion. “Also love your neighbor and pray for me—a sinful old dog!” said the same voice in some heavy tone, and—I quickened my pace. Beyond the hill a large clearing opened up and it was darkened with people. It was an evening service. The crowd had settled on the grass with a pastor standing before them on a special raised platform before a small table. The pastor appointed a hymn; nearby someone’s resonant voice rang out and the whole gathering instantly took it up; thousands of voices merged into one ecstatic musical wave and it reverberated somehow monstrously in the neighboring hills, wrapped in the semi-darkness of night. After several hymns a preacher came forward with a speech. He first read a prayer that God would bless his word, make it fruitful like spring rain is fruitful for the sown fields, like dew for those thirsting for truth, and like a two-edged sword for hardened hearts. The prayer was lengthy and consisted of a list of all manner of petitions like those presented. Its reading was distinct and to each petition the people responded in chorus—“amen.” The preacher chose as his text the words: the love of God is like mountains. In contemplating mountains the preacher always got the idea of their likeness to God’s love. Their foundations are as vast as God’s all-encompassing love, and their interior is as deep as God’s love is deep. They are as unchanging as God’s love is unchanging. Everything in nature changes over time, but mountains stand from age to age. Finally, they do not require proof of their existence, just as God’s love requires no proof. A blind man cannot see them, but climbing them he feels their presence; so every weak person feels the action of God’s love upon himself. The improvised orator continued in this manner to stretch his comparisons, and remarkably, they made a strong impression on the crowd. Throughout the crowd individual exclamations rang out now and then—“amen,” “hallelujah.” Meanwhile the sky began to sparkle with bright stars, more eloquent than the orator in speaking of God’s love and glory, and from the dark belly of the ocean floated forth a fiery moon. When its pale silvery rays spread across the hills and across the huddled crowd on the clearing, it was a wondrously beautiful sight, made even more lovely by the concluding hymn, which glorified the majesty of the Creator.

After the service the people scattered to their tents, while temporary visitors went to hotels, arranged in whole rows around the camp. Speculation in America does not sleep and knows how to take advantage of every opportunity. This place was recently a wilderness, but as soon as it was chosen eight years ago as the site of a religious camp, light yet massive hotels sprang up all around. In the tents there live constantly during summer up to two thousand people, and in the hotels up to three thousand, while by Sunday up to twenty thousand gather. A service like the one described is held each day, and all life in the “camp” bears a strictly religious character. This can be said to be an American monastery, and if there were a separation of sexes, it would be a true monastery. In any case, these are certainly warriors of the spirit, struggling against the world and its charms. The intensity of religious enthusiasm here sometimes reaches frenzy, and during prayer often a whole crowd is seized by an irrepressible rapture and begins to cry out in broken exclamations: “Glory! glory! hallelujah! hallelujah!” These gatherings are for the most part Methodist, though people of every denomination participate in them. All the hotels have restaurants attached. But on the doors of all restaurants a large sign invariably states one and the same thing: “A Restaurant of Temperance.” Within a mile all around the camp it is forbidden to have any other restaurant except one of temperance—that is, without a drop of wine or any intoxicating liquor. When I took my little room and gazed from the window at the starry sky, across which the moon rolled majestically, spreading its magical light across the tents, all around the camp could still be heard the sounds of sacred hymns, gradually dying away in the night stillness.

Sunday opened with a magnificent morning. It is the day of rest and all nature seemed to be fulfilling the great commandment. Sunday in general is held in high honor in America, but in the religious camp the strictness of its observance reaches an incredible rigor. On weekdays one can always get a newspaper here; on Sunday their delivery is prohibited, since selling them constitutes commerce, and any commerce on Sunday is unlawful. On this same basis it is forbidden for various small traders to appear in the camp—with fruit, milk, buns, flowers, and so forth, for cabbies to bring passengers into the camp, and generally on Sunday it is forbidden to come to the camp on horseback. How strictly these rules are observed can be seen from the following incident. Once General Grant, when he was President of the United States, wished to visit this religious camp. It was Sunday. Knowing the Sunday laws of the country and the strict additions to them in the camp, he previously requested permission from the camp authorities to come on his horse into the camp. But the soldiers of salvation did not break their strict rules even for the president. They measured off one mile from the camp and marked a point to which the president could ride on his horse. The rest he had to walk, and—the president obeyed.

[1] Camp meeting—literally, camp gathering, camp.

9. In the Camp of Salvation (Cont.)

Not far from the white camp a black one was situated. The tents there were as white as here, but only the faces of their inhabitants were black. This was a camp of the “colored” people or Negroes. On Sunday evening I happened to be present at their service. On a green clearing was arranged a black mass, and in its midst rose the figure of a black preacher. The clothes were gay with various colors, and some “colored ladies” were dressed entirely in white, but this only made their black faces stand out more. In the dim of night this mass presented a strange sight: as if the whole assembly was without heads, and only the gleam of the whites of their eyes showed the discerning viewer what was going on. Eyes on the faces of the colored people are like stars in the midnight sky. The service consisted of hymns and a sermon. Being for the most part Methodists, the Negroes use the common Methodist hymns in their worship; but they have their own too, and the latter are especially energetically taken up by Negro voices and especially sweetly resound in Negro hearts. They belong to Negro poets, who alone could with their poetic genius grasp all the depth of the Negro heart and express its feeling in wonderfully Negro verses. The forests and hills all around trembled and marveled when the colored people sang one of their favorite hymns:

“Jesus[1], give me to wash in the river,

Give me to wash in the river,

In the river, in the river, in the river, in the river,

In the river, in the river,—river.

Jesus, give me to love the sister,—in the river,

Give me to wash in the river,

In the river, in the river, in the river, in the river,

In the river, in the river,—river” and so forth.

After several such hymns the colored preacher came forward with a speech. The colored people here speak English, though with an African accent which in pronunciation recalls the rough abruptness of our Kazan Tatars. The preacher was a true shepherd of his people and spoke with the same accent, not a little troubling for a foreigner to understand English. I, however, listened attentively and penetrated the secret of the Negro word. The preacher, among other things, said: “God created the earth. He created the sun, the moon, and the stars. He created only one sun, one moon, and one earth. Why did He not create two suns, two moons, and two earths? This is a mystery which we do not know. It puzzled Plato and Demosthenes and all the great learned men. Even Moses did not know this mystery, and he was the greatest historian who ever lived on earth. He was educated in Egypt among the colored people and was their friend—yes, their friend, the best they ever had.” Passing then to the New Testament, the preacher continued: “What was Jesus? He was the Son of God. Some ancient chronologists of old say that He was a Jew. I don’t care what He was, whether He was a Jew, or an Indian, or an Arab, or a colored man. I know one thing: He was eternal and lives in eternity. The sun is not eternal; the moon is not eternal: this earth on which we dwell, on which we stand now, is not eternal; the angels are not eternal: they will die in time, and we shall all die; all great men have died. But He is eternal. Yes, brothers, God alone is eternal. Do you understand this, my friends?” A tremor of emotion visibly ran through the colored people, and a choral “amen!” again and again confirmed and approved the orator’s utterances. At the end of the sermon the hills and valleys trembled again from the ecstatic songs of the colored people.

[1] Jesus—the American pronunciation of the name Jesus.

10. The Knights of Mystery

A passion for processions. – Revelation to the Masons. – The Egyptian obelisk and Masonic ceremonies. – The public and religious position of the Masons.

Whoever has not seen America can be said never to have seen processions. Surely no nation in the world has a greater passion for them than the Americans, and nowhere do they play such an important public and political role as here. Every somewhat significant popular holiday is celebrated with processions, and every public event is marked by them. Every political party, every corporation, every club has its own special annual holidays, and all are celebrated without fail with processions, wherein the members of each society or corporation, in their own special original uniforms, with banners or torches, march majestically through the streets, beating the military step to the sounds of an inevitable orchestra of musicians. For all such general love of processions among Americans, there are however special seasons when the passion for them passes into a kind of madness. This happens precisely in autumn of a presidential election year, before the November election of the president. The President of the United States is elected every four years in the month of November. In the elections two main parties compete—the Republican and Democratic—striving to elect a president from their midst. To secure the presidency for their candidate, the parties resort to all permitted and unpermitted means, and among the chief means of agitation are solemn processions—with banners glorifying their candidate and belittling the other. Last year was precisely a presidential year, and processions, each more splendid, more solemn, and more numerous than the last, continually marched through the streets of the city. These processions represent something like a puppet war and are reminiscent of something naively childish, but for Americans it is almost a Hamlet-like question—to be or not to be? And remarkably, in these tiring processions, necessarily to the beat of a military march, not only young people participate, but often very old men, and they with the greatest seriousness, straining all their last old-age strength, strive to keep pace with their young brothers. Truly comoedia humana!

Among other processions, on Saturday, October 9th of last year, there occurred one which had a special character. It was namely a brilliant procession of members of the local Masonic order. Three years ago the Egyptian khedive presented America with a magnificent obelisk, the so-called “Needle of Cleopatra.” When the obelisk was removed from its ancient pedestal, strange emblems were discovered which puzzled the learned world with their enigmatic character. But what is mystery for men of science proved to be clear revelation for the knights of mystery, or Masons. In these puzzling Egyptian emblems the Masons found striking resemblance to their own emblems, which, as is known, abound in the mysterious order. This discovery stirred up the whole Masonic world and its rejoicings knew no end. The order recognized the Egyptian emblems as Masonic, and they were for it a new revelation concerning how deep into antiquity the history of the order’s existence extends, and in what secret primordial antiquity one must seek its origins. Now this obelisk arrived in New York and a place in Central Park was designated for its erection. On the named day the cornerstone-laying ceremony was taking place; the Masons took the work of laying it into their own hands and performed it with such splendid ceremony and such ceremonialism as only the order’s means and inventiveness permitted.

In the center of the city, namely at the corner of Sixth Avenue and 23rd Street, stands an enormous building which at once strikes the eye with the grandeur of its dimensions, the originality of its architecture, and the quantity of mysterious bas-reliefs adorning it. Its enormous windows are covered with gold-trimmed curtains, and the whole house regards the surrounding bustle with a kind of mysterious, thoughtful silence. Even the rumble of the air trains constantly rushing past does not lend it an enlivening character. This is the temple of mystery, the temple of the Masonic order. The organization of the order is remarkable. It enjoys complete freedom here, is considered on equal terms with all other societies and clubs, conducts services and has periodic gatherings, publishes journals and—in all this, remains as mysterious and enigmatic as where it constitutes a secret society out of necessity. Everyone knows that this is a Masonic temple, that gatherings occur there, everyone has a friend and acquaintance, a known Mason, and yet no one knows what is actually done and said at these gatherings. The secret of the society remains a secret, despite all its external manifestations. On the named day, around 2 o’clock in the afternoon, the environs of the mysterious temple became gay with masses of elegantly dressed people. The knights had gathered to open the procession to the site of the celebration. Precisely at two o’clock the procession began to move down Fifth Avenue, the aristocratic street of the city. Music thundered and the knights in formations, representing separate lodges, marched forth with drawn swords, each group under the command of a grand master and under the guidance of a standard-bearer. In the bright sunlight the columns presented a brilliant picture. The knights, mainly representatives of the richest families, and their brilliant costumes with ribbons, various gold and silver decorations, triangular hats with feathers, and drawn swords played in rainbow colors with the sun’s rays. On their hands were high leather gloves reaching to the elbows with red crosses; on the uniforms and banners were in abundance multicolored crosses, lending the whole procession a religious character. Each lodge moved with its own special banner, on which shone a special emblem and a special inscription—in Latin. Among many other inscriptions were the following: In hoc signo vinces; Rex regum; Dominus dominorum; Magna est veritas et prevalebit, and so on. The musicians constantly played Masonic hymns, and one of them in its melody simply astounded me by its resemblance to the tune of the well-known Russian folk song: “Along and by the river, along the Kazanka…” Could it be of Masonic origin? The grand masters repeatedly shouted words of military command, and the knights performed elegant military evolutions with remarkable dexterity for non-soldiers; they now closed into one column, now broke up into pairs, threes, etc., depending on the command. In the procession were about 10,000 people, and all of them for the most part respectable elderly people from the richest families of New York and neighboring cities. From the Masonic temple to the site of the obelisk’s erection is three miles or more than five versts, and one could only marvel at the patience with which the knights, many of whom were simply deep gray-bearded old men, in undisturbed order, with measured military step, walked all this distance, while from time to time performing military evolutions at command. The pavements were covered with people, and from the balconies of houses ladies waved handkerchiefs in greeting.

Upon arrival at the site of the celebration, the knights of mystery closed into four-square columns around the place of the cornerstone laying. When order was fully established, the “most worshipful master” stepped forward and addressed the following speech: “Brothers! We have gathered here to lay the cornerstone in the foundation of an ancient monument, known by the name of the Needle of Cleopatra. An occasion such as this is one in which our brotherhood may take pride and has great significance for the history of our order. Coming thus publicly before the world in the capacity of members of a society which has a right to the sympathy of all honest and unprejudiced people, we openly declare our unwavering devotion to our holy cause. We have a task before us, but in accordance with ancient Masonic instruction, before we begin it we must unite in a prayerful appeal to the Deity.” The grand chaplain of the Masonic temple read a prayer, after which the most worshipful master addressed the most worshipful treasurer with the words: “Now place the order’s charters on the rock,” and he indeed began to place a whole mass of Masonic charters in the foundation, minutes of Masonic sessions, statutes and rules of every kind, and finally a photographic picture of the Masonic temple. After the placing of the charters was complete, the most worshipful master approached the stone designated to serve as the foundation, and sprinkled it with cement. Then he took the working tools and handed them to the Masonic overseers. At this point the following conversation took place:

“What constitutes the true jewel of your office?” asked the worshipful of the first overseer.

“The square,” replied he.

“What is its moral and Masonic use?”

“To measure man’s actions squarely by the square of virtue and justify one’s work.”

“Apply the tool of your office to that part of the stone which requires verification, and render your account.”

The overseer applied the square to the stone and said: “Most worshipful master, I find the stone to be square. The workers have fulfilled their duty.”

The worshipful turned to the next one:

“What constitutes the jewel of your office?”

“The level,” replied the overseer.

“What is its Masonic use?”

“Morally it reminds us of equality, and its function is to verify horizontal lines.”

“Apply the jewel of your office to the stone, and render your account.”

The overseer applied the level to the stone and answered: “Most worshipful, I find the stone to be level. The workers have fulfilled their duty.”

The worshipful turned to the third overseer:

“What constitutes the true jewel of your office?”

“The plumb,” replied the overseer.

“What is its Masonic use?”

“Morally it teaches us uprightness of conduct, and we use it to verify perpendicular lines.”

“Apply the tool of your office to the various sides of the stone and render your account.”

The overseer applied the measuring tool to the stone and answered: “Most worshipful, I find the stone to be plumb. The workers have fulfilled their duty.”

Then the worshipful approached the stone, sprinkled it with cement, and, striking it thrice with his staff, solemnly proclaimed: “I, Jesse B. Anthony, grand master of the Masons of the State of New York, declare the stone to be plumb, level, and square, well dressed, correctly, properly, and as it should be laid. Let the elements of initiation now be presented.” Then the deputy grand master stepped forward, sprinkled the stone with grains of bread, and pronounced: “I scatter these grains as an emblem of abundance and plenty. Let the generous blessings of heaven be poured down upon us and upon all such patriotic and charitable enterprises, and inspire the hearts of the people with virtue, wisdom, and gratitude.” After him the senior grand overseer approached the stone, and pouring wine upon it, spoke: “I pour this wine as an emblem of joy and gladness. May the Great Ruler of the universe bless our national, state (New York county), and city governments, preserve the union of states, and may it be a union of friendship and fraternal love, which will continue for all time.” Then the junior grand overseer drew near to the stone and, pouring oil upon it, spoke: “I pour this oil as an emblem of peace. May its blessings remain constantly with us, and may the Great Chief of heaven and earth cover and protect widows and orphans, and guard us from trials and the vicissitudes of this world, and thus pour out His mercy upon the oppressed, the laboring, and the sorrowful, that they may sorrow no more and labor no more.” Finally, the most worshipful grand master, standing before all, raised the following prayer: “May the all-merciful Creator of nature bless the inhabitants of this city with an abundance of things—necessary, useful, and comfortable for life. May He help in the raising of this foundation and in the completion of this undertaking. May He protect the workers from every mishap, long preserve this specimen of the work of Eastern workers from ruin, and may He grant us all abundance of grains of food, wine of refreshment, and oil of joy. Amen.”

During all these ceremonies a deathly silence reigned around, thousands of Masonic faces seemed to have turned to stone in reverent solemnity, and only the sun smiled in the sky and a light breeze playfully played with the feathers and ribbons of the Masonic uniforms.

The worshipful then rendered proper honor to the great architect for the successful laying of the foundation; after him the grand marshal of the grand lodge came forward and in the name of the grand master of the Masons of New York State finally proclaimed that the cornerstone of the Egyptian obelisk, known by the name of the Needle of Cleopatra, had been properly laid. This proclamation he made to all four directions of the earth—south and north, east and west—and at each proclamation the side of the square formed by the Masonic columns, facing the direction toward which the proclamation was directed, three times clapped their hands. In sign of final confirmation of the deed. To conclude it all, the most worshipful grand master addressed the Masons with a long speech in which he examined the significance of Egypt in the history of mankind, displaying a mass of knowledge—literary, scientific, archaeological, architectural, astronomical—and argued that all contemporary sciences have their cradle on the shores of the Nile. There too, in his opinion, Masonry has its cradle, though of course that Masonry differed greatly from the contemporary one, into which many new elements developed by modern civilization have entered. Tracing the history of the obelisk, the worshipful concluded: “The ancient mason built not for one age, but for eternity. So, brothers, should it be with us. Let us then labor faithfully in the present, awaiting the reward promised to him who fulfills his whole duty, and may the past, present, and future of each and every one greet him with: well done, good and faithful servant!” The Masons approved the speech with enthusiastic shouts, and the grand chaplain raised a prayer of thanksgiving to the Almighty for this glorious day, which forever linked Egypt, the land of the past, with America, the land of the future, and asked that the union of states exist forever. “Amen, so be it!” thundered ten thousand voices, and the echo repeated the Masonic cheer many times over in the grottoes of the park. A command rang out, the Masonic columns swayed, broke up into formations, and to the sound of a march began their return journey. And the sun had already hidden behind the hills on the Hudson shore, and only bright stars smiled upon the Masons, gleaming on the dark blue sky.

The Masonic society is extremely extensive and numerous in America. Its individual lodges are spread throughout all the United States. It counts its members in the hundreds of thousands, and in New York State alone there are more than 100,000. It carries on vigorous propaganda and at every convenient opportunity makes itself known through loud and brilliant demonstrations. Three times a year there is usually a general council of the Masons in one of the principal cities of the country, and each time such an event is marked with solemn parades. The funeral of any Mason is performed with general’s honors, with music and a ceremonial procession of knights. As a society, the Masonic order enjoys great public respect, and without exaggeration one can say that to it belong all the highest, wealthy, and educated classes of American society. In its essence the Masonic order is a religious-charitable society, without any political admixture. At least politically it makes no demonstrations of itself even at the time of presidential elections, when the political passions of the whole people are inflamed to impossibility. Its charity, however, is limited only to its own members, and from this side every member of the Masonic brotherhood can consider himself secured against need and misfortune, wherever he may be. Every Mason has a sign which he need only show in a Masonic lodge for him to receive aid in sickness, money in need, defense in court, and so forth.

10. The Knights of Mystery (Cont.)

Concerning the Masonic society in a religious respect, there are vague conceptions. It is certain, however, that to it belong many pastors of American churches, who evidently consider compatible their representation in the Christian church with membership in the Masonic society. There are, however, also opponents of such a state of affairs. In this respect, the discussions which took place at one session of the general synod of Reformed churches are not without interest. From some communities there was sent to the synod a declaration expressing the decisive rejection of all societies bound by oath as un-republican, anti-Christian, and anti-Reformed. “We, priests and elders,” said the declaration, “do not permit Masons to be members in our churches. We forbid them to participate with us in the performance of the sacrament of the Eucharist. But when we attend private or general synods, we sometimes have to listen to a sermon and receive communion from the hands of those whom we excommunicate, which places us in an awkward position and offends our conscience.” From this declaration one can see that, while some Reformed priests excommunicate Masons from the church, others are members of the Masonic society. When the question was proposed for discussion by the synod, the same diversity of views on Masonry appeared. Thus the reverend Winter attacked Masonry with harsh criticism. He depicted “the humiliating ceremonies upon admission to the lodges” and argued that these ceremonies are anti-Christian, since they teach that a brother Mason, having passed through the Masonic school, living for Masonry, and receiving Masonic new birth, thereby secures for himself the right to the kingdom of heaven. Then he spoke of the oaths of various degrees and argued that in them Masons swear to protect murderers and criminals from the law, if such should turn out to be a brother Mason. No Mason, in his opinion, can be true to himself, to his family, to his church, or to his God. It is impossible for a man to be at one and the same time a good Mason and a good Christian. He was answered by the “divine doctor” Porter in no less harsh terms. He said that he himself was a “royal grand master” and at the same time a servant of the Lord Jesus Christ, and denied that Masonry prevented anyone from being a good Christian. “I before God wish,” he said, “that the Christian church had enough wisdom to act after the manner of Masonic lodges, and then it would do more good. You will never find widows and orphans of Masons in poorhouses.” After him rose the reverend Lepeltac—and again attacked Masonry. Masonic prayers, rites, and teachings, in the opinion of this orator, are contrary to the idea of one true God. Masonry, he said, makes mockery of God’s word and fosters unbelief. He began to tell how Moses is depicted among the Masons before the burning bush and how a candidate for the third degree is initiated in a half-naked state,—but the adherents of Masonry would not let him finish. One of them angrily interrupted Lepeltac with the question whether he knew what he was talking about from his own experience or had heard it from some Masonic apostate, and another jumped from his seat and cried: “Every word said by the brother about Masonic rites is false, every word is a lie!” A terrible commotion arose, all were shouting, and no one was listening, the bell rang hopelessly and pitifully in the chairman’s hand. The forces of the contending sides proved to be equal, and therefore the commotion ceased only when everyone grew tired of the fruitless struggle. Without a resolution, however, the matter could not be left, and the synod worked out the following definition, which could be accepted by both disputing sides: “The synod, on the basis of the information and data at its disposal, cannot give its official decision either for or against Masonry and other oath-bound secret societies. Considering it sacred and inalienable the right of all its priests and members to personal conviction of conscience and freedom of speech, with submission only to Christ and His church, the synod nonetheless hereby declares that no member or priest of the Reformed church in America should have anything to do with any society, secret or open, whose principles and activity are contrary to Christianity or contrary to the faith and activity of the church to which we belong.”

This definition, of course, did not resolve the disputed question, but thanks to its indefiniteness it satisfied both sides. Opponents who just before had been inflamed, now conversed with each other in a friendly manner and as a sign of peace lit cigars for one another.

* * *

Native Echoes

1. A Russian Festival Across the Ocean

A Russian jubilee. – Voices of Americans. – Their view of Russia’s past twenty-five years. – Russian and American press.

Along one of the longitudinal streets of New York, namely Second Avenue, the rail of the elevated railway runs at a fearsome height, above five-story houses. The trains continuously rushing along it present a monstrously grand picture, at the sight of which in an unaccustomed observer fear struggles with amazement. On the transverse 50th Street crossing this avenue is located a station of the elevated railway; from the station a four-flight staircase leads down, resting on a stone pavement, over which rises a row of elegant chocolate-colored houses, simple to the point of monotony, and at the same time elegant in their own unique way, of American architecture, with a whole row of passages identical to the point of indistinguishability. One of these passages, however, at once draws the attention of those descending from the elevated railway station. As soon as the royal celestial light rises above the horizon, its rays concentrate with particular tenderness on a small golden cross standing above the passage, under which, right above the door, shines a golden inscription: “Greco-Russian Church”[1]. On Tuesday, March 2 according to the new style (February 19 according to the old style) in 1880, at 11 o’clock in the morning, unusual activity was taking place around this passage. Luxurious carriages one after another drew up to the passage and, having let off their passengers, stood in neat rows; from the elevated railway stairs and from the cars of the horse-drawn railway came ordinary Russian people, who bowed before the golden cross and entered the open door; passing Americans with interest stopped before the passage and admired both the golden gleams of the Orthodox Russian cross and the movement happening at its foot. The Americans had no need to inquire about the reason for this movement at the Russian church. They all knew it. There was not a newspaper in New York that did not carry an article on this day about the “great Russian festival,” about the “jubilee anniversary of the tsar.” Yes, it was a great Russian festival on American soil, and the movement described above was its outward expression. On this day we Russians, separated from our homeland by ninety-nine lands and a boundless ocean, in thought and heart merged with our native land and together with it sent a fervent greeting of love to our beloved Monarch, on the eternally memorable day of the twenty-five-year anniversary of his reign.

Preparations for this great festival among us began long before its arrival. Besides decorating the church, the chief concern was to form a singing choir, since the one-voiced singing of the psalmist was utterly insufficient for such a solemn day and service. The question of forming a choir with the insufficient number of Russians living here proved quite difficult. True, many Americans and especially American ladies viewed our festival with great sympathy and promised their help; but a rehearsal showed that their help would only complicate matters, since they would have to be taught to pronounce Slavic words utterly beyond their ability, and for them the whole liturgy would have to be written in English letters. To perform the liturgy in English, as happens on Sundays, was considered unsuitable for such an exclusively Russian festival. Consequently, we had to decline the kind offer of help from the American ladies, thanking them for their sympathetic attitude toward Russia and the Russian celebration. We had to limit ourselves to Russians. Fortunately, among them we found people who willingly took on the work. These were a Russian doctor P. living here and a former marshal of the nobility in Russia, B., who together with the psalmist made up a trio. The Slavic service with such a Russian choir, in the presence of a crowd of selected public with official representatives at the head, had an extraordinarily solemn character and corresponded to the importance of the day being experienced by Russian history. This prayerful and thanksgiving offering to the Almighty by Russian hearts across the ocean was as it were an echo of the fervent unified prayer of the Russian land itself, which had raised it for its tsar seven hours before us. The difference between Moscow and New York in time is approximately 7 hours; therefore, when our service was just beginning at 11 o’clock, in the heart of Russia it was already 6 o’clock in the evening and the illumination was being lit. I will not describe the details of the service and its setting, and will leave their description to the distinctive language of one of the American reporters. In the evening edition of the largest and most widely circulated American newspaper “Herald” the following appeared on the very day of our festival.

“The twenty-five-year anniversary of the ascension of the tsar to the throne was celebrated today in the small Greco-Russian church in proper form with a certain degree of splendor and ceremony. Reverend Father Bierring conducted the service in a rich gold-embroidered vestment (namely, the riassa), under which was worn a silk violet inner garment (the podriznik), and a hat of the same color, recently sent to him from St. Petersburg as a mark of distinction. In Russia such a hat is worn only by bishops[2]. The service was conducted in the Russian language, except for the exposition of sacred scripture, which was read in English. The Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, customary on feast days, was sung by a select choir of male voices, and prayers were offered for the Emperor and the Imperial Family and fleet, that God would take their side and subdue under their feet every enemy and adversary. Prayers for long life, strong health, constant victories, and final salvation of the “most pious and God-protected Alexander Nikolaevich” were frequent and touching. Also offered was a prayer for peace and the well-being of the church and the whole world. The President of the United States and the tsar were mentioned together in the petitions.”

“The hymn—‘We Praise You, God’—concluded all the service. Among the worshippers were: the Russian envoy to Washington, his wife, and two sons. The envoy was dressed in his official court uniform, with the insignia of his position on his breast and shoulders; as representative of the Emperor, he occupied a place behind a special partition. The Russian consul general with his wife; several foreign consuls in New York and a dozen or so distinguished American ladies also attended the service. Many important spiritual and civic figures of the city sent their congratulations on the long and fruitful reign of the Emperor and on the preservation of his life, expressing their strong contempt for the nihilists who had attempted his life. The Empress was touched upon both in the church’s prayers and in letters received by Father Biering from Americans. The small chapel was filled to overflowing and the entire service made a strong impression.”

The extent to which Americans were interested in our Russian festival can be seen from the fact that in some illustrated publications detailed engraved depictions of the church and the whole setting of the service appeared. Only here free art gave full rein to imagination, and behind bold and shameless flights thereof the actual subject of depiction could scarcely be recognized. Thus in a picture placed in the illustrated magazine “Frank Leslie,” the priest is clothed entirely in Anglican vestments, with a koukol on his head, however, and with a high-held Catholic cross with a bas-relief depiction of the crucifixion in his hands; and the three-voice choir is bloated into an innumerable one in which a mass of heads stretching toward sheet music cannot be counted. The general setting of the church, however, was captured quite accurately. Alongside there appeared a rather accurate portrait of the State Emperor.

The letters from various highly-placed American persons mentioned by the reporter I had the opportunity to read myself, and I must say that all of them are permeated with such warmth of feeling of love and sympathy for our crowned Jubilee and for the whole Russian people as could only come from the heart of friends sincerely loving Russia. The Americans expressed their sympathies for our beloved Monarch and for all of Russia, however, not only in private letters; they expressed them openly—in the newspapers. All newspapers printed on the very day of the festival a leading article expressing these sympathies and congratulations to Russia on the day of its great festival, and the principal newspapers, such as the “Herald,” gave on their pages entire essays on the past twenty-five years. In its leading article the king of newspapers wrote, among other things, the following, dwelling mainly on the evil disgracing Russian soil:

“Twenty-five years have passed since Alexander II ascended the throne of the Russian Empire, following the death of his father, Emperor Nicholas; and this day the nihilists have chosen, if one can seriously take their threats, as the moment in which they wish to strike their fellow citizens with a deed of devilish fury[3]. And why? Because Russia is not governed as they wish to govern it. Because the ruler, who is a part of a complex state organism, does not create chaos by proclaiming a wild universal republic; for this reason these people contemplate bestial vengeance upon the most humane, animated by the best wishes for the good of his people, and the most enlightened Monarch that Russia has ever had since the overthrow of the Mongol yoke. A liberal and constitutional system of government is preferred because it gives moral and material advantages, better secures life and property, and raises the general development of the people. But do the nihilists promise all these advantages through their system of murders and arson? And can the Russian people be convinced by fire and revolver that the nihilists are better than those whom they wish to replace? There has never been a revolution in history based on such mad, childish theory. The essence of nihilist theory consists in compelling the government to reforms through intimidation. This theory is based on the assumption that the entire people are pervaded by cowardice and that the fear of death is sufficient to compel anyone to a course of action which is presented as an alternative to murder. But matters have turned out exactly the opposite. No one was frightened, the government only became stronger, and the people now hate nothing so much as the mad political theories, in the name of which their houses are burned and their best people are killed.” In proof of the love of the Russian people for their Monarch, the newspaper cites in another place the account of its St. Petersburg correspondent, who says that “when near the Alexandrine column at nine o’clock in the morning burst forth the national hymn: ‘God Save the Tsar!’ and the frosty air trembled from the movement of thousands of common voices, it was difficult for a foreigner to think that nihilism was anything other than the product of a disturbed imagination of some secret agent, and that Alexander II does not have a firm place in the hearts of his countrymen and subjects.”

Another American newspaper, second after the “Herald” in circulation, but first in seriousness of direction, namely the New York “Times,” published an article under the title: “Twenty-Five Years of Empire,” in which, in typical American fashion—by figures—it proves the benefits for Russia of the past twenty-five years. Here is what the newspaper wrote:

“The present reign, which has lasted twenty-five years, has been the most fruitful period in Russian history. Since Alexander II ascended the throne, Russia has made more actual progress than in all the previous century. In 1855 it had only 419 miles of railways; now it has more than 10,000. In 1855 only three cities in the whole empire, namely Petersburg, Moscow, and Odessa, were decently paved or illuminated; now each of the principal provincial cities is well provided in both respects, and the new St. Petersburg gas company is one of the most flourishing in the empire. In 1855 the total number of factories and mills in European Russia was 17,536, producing annually 350,000,000 rubles; in 1867—in the first half of the present reign—there were already 23,721 with an annual production of 500,000,000 rubles, and now both of these figures are of course much larger. The irregularity and confusion in legal proceedings conducted according to antiquated medieval forms were incredible; now the jury court, introduced in 1865, has become a popular institution. The terms of military service for Russian soldiers were 25 years and more; now it is limited to 7 years. Various cruel and degrading punishments constantly practiced in the imperial army have now almost been entirely eliminated, and since 1861 there has been only one case of running the gauntlet. In 1855 23,000,000 peasants were slaves; now they are free and many have become landowners and wealthy merchants. Even in territory Russia has made significant acquisitions during this period. In Europe it acquired southern Bessarabia; in Asia Minor it annexed part of northern Armenia; in central Asia it conquered territory equal to France; the southern border of Siberia has been extended almost 1,000 miles at the expense of China, and on the Great Ocean an important island, Sakhalin, has been acquired. But beyond all this Russia has taken a step which could not better remedy one of her greatest shortcomings. It has formed, if not entirely a middle class, then the germ of such a class, which now spreads wider each year. Out of a population of 55,000,000, which was properly in Russia in 1861, 29,000,000 were free peasants and 23,000,000 were slaves, so that—to balance them—there remained only 1,000,000 nobles, 4,000,000 townspeople, and 650,000 clergy. All that is needed for the mass of the Russian people is conscious obedience to government. The chosen instruments of nihilism are not those who couldn’t fit into anything—the middling sort and dreamy half-educated, who have nothing to lose and whose heads are as empty as their pockets. The safety of Russia requires the development of such a class of business and industrial people for whom order would be the first condition of well-being and any violation of it would be ruin.”

From the excerpts presented, one can see with what seriousness the American press concerns itself with the fate of a foreign land, Russia, and with what sound practical understanding it weighs the conditions of her existence and development. What, then, does our Russian press do? When will it free itself from the shameful nightmare of gossip, quarrels, and vapid liberalism? When will it look with straightforward heartfelt love upon the crying needs of the homeland and call forth the forces that lie hidden in the unexplored depths of the Russian people and await only a sincere call from the heart, not a weakly false one? It is time to come to our senses, long past time!..

[1] The inscription is made in English: The Greek-Russian Chapel.

[2] It is difficult for readers to guess what hat (hat) the reporter means here. This is how he describes our priestly klobuk, which in Russia, in his opinion, only bishops wear! To such a degree little do Americans know even the external aspects of our Church. A curious example of this ignorance was also provided by the St. Petersburg correspondent of the Herald. In an enormous telegraph correspondence from St. Petersburg describing a jubilee celebration there, he incidentally remarked: “In the Imperial Church the liturgy was celebrated, and the sounds of the organ reached the large hall where a numerous assembly awaited the appearance of the Emperor.” An organ in a Russian church—surely an original innovation was made by the respectable American correspondent! But this is an unintentional compliment to the musical singing of the court choir.

[3] In American newspapers there was published a statement of the well-known “executive committee” that it was preparing such an illumination for Petersburg on February 19 as the world had not seen since Nero burned Rome.

2. Russian Sorrow

An echo of Russian sorrow across the ocean. – Americans’ condolences. – Voices of society, the press, and government. – Memorial services in Washington and New York. – An American preacher on freedom and its abuse.

Joy and sorrow are inseparable in human life, and sorrow often treads close upon joy. Only a year before, the Russian people had celebrated together with their tsar another anniversary of the twenty-fifth year of the reign of their beloved Monarch, and popular jubilation resounded throughout the country. But sorrow, terrible and heavy sorrow, was already at the doors. And so it came, and a cry of the people rang out across Russian soil, sweeping away the traces of the joy just experienced. Oh, joy! fleeting is your true name!

From the horror of a wickedly bloody tragedy, forever disgracing Russian soil, the whole earth trembled, as far as the iron nerves of the earth extend. Across the ocean, in New York, the terrible news was received on the very day the sacrilegious crime was committed. Newspapers received telegrams around six o’clock in the evening, and at about the same time a telegram was sent from Washington from the Russian Imperial Embassy to the Russian church priest, summoning him to the national capital to perform a memorial service. Meanwhile, newspaper reporters spread the fateful news throughout the city, and all of New York instantly became a place of terrible agitation: a murmur of indignation and horror spread through all public and private institutions where living people could be found. The next morning, the sorrowful fact appeared on the pages of all newspapers, and there too was expressed the sentiment with which the American people received it. Never had they expressed such strong and unanimous indignation as they now expressed against the villains who had raised a deadly hand against the crowned head of the Russian Tsar-Liberator. The American people had themselves once experienced the shame inflicted upon them by villains in the assassination of President-Liberator Lincoln; therefore they are capable of understanding Russian sorrow more deeply than any other people. And the deeper he felt his condolences to the Russian people, the more terrible was his indignation against those responsible for their sorrow. The New York Herald, printing the next day a vast account of the tsar-murder with a detailed sketch of the past reign, said in its leading article:

“Murder can never be beneficial to the fate of kingdoms and nations; on the contrary, all friends of freedom above all others mourn any attempt to achieve it by means of murder. Nihilism or revolution will never receive a heavier blow in the eyes of humanity than by the murder of this noble and valiant sovereign. These attempts to change a people’s fate through violence against the fundamental law of social existence are the extremes of madness. As far as America is concerned, the fate of the tsar will be received with deep sorrow. He was not only the head of a nation connected to the United States by bonds of special sympathy, but he was a friend of the Union at a time when the Union needed friends. The world will remember him as the liberator of the serfs. America will not forget him as the only sovereign who, during our civil war, was magnanimous and open in his sympathy for our cause. And now, when the shadow of death has fallen upon his royal brow, our sorrow is increased by the fact that in his loss civilization has lost a farsighted and beneficent sovereign, and America has lost a devoted and powerful friend.”

The stately newspaper then, with bitter indignation and thunders of curse, beset nihilism. But to characterize American public opinion on this matter, I present an excerpt from another most serious American newspaper, the “Times.” In a leading article entitled “What Have the Nihilists Done?” the newspaper says:

“The nihilists have killed the tsar, but have they not also killed nihilism? These savages and half-deranged women vainly imagined that the throne, crown, and imperial rule would instantly vanish as soon as the spark of life was extinguished in the cruelly mangled body of their victim. They have set forth no goal other than the one they have now achieved. They boasted of being apostles of pure destruction; and besides that, they have no remedy for human ills, no plan to rebuild the state and form a happier society. This is a revolting and soulless gang. Their chief and deadly aim (tsar-murder) is now achieved, and they are face to face with the most complete test of any system – first success. When the shock of horror from their terrible crime passes, the world will wait to see what the nihilists intend to do next, and it will see that – nothing. Their empty and inhuman doctrine leads them no further. But they will answer for their bloody deed, if not before Russian justice, then before the rest of the world, and will lose the last spark of sympathy with which some poorly educated friends of freedom in other lands have regarded them. Now, as never before, nihilism has thrown off its mask and openly stands as the chief enemy of the freedom of the Russian people. It has slain the Tsar-Liberator, whom the peasantry loved because he broke the chains from their hands, and whose only enemies were the castoffs from the bloated and dissolute middle class and the false friends of freedom calling themselves nihilists. Nihilism has constantly impeded the growth of Russian freedom and now, perhaps, has dealt it a blow from which it will not recover for a generation. It is known that Alexander II was a sovereign of liberal tendencies. Proof of this is sufficient in his emancipation of the serfs and in the warm sympathy with which he regarded popular institutions as they exist in the United States.”

The American people expressed their sympathy for the Russian people not only through the press but also through their representative assemblies. Thus, the legislative assembly of New York State, in one of its first acts in the session of March 14 (2), adopted the following resolution concerning Russian sorrow:

“Resolved: that the assembly of the State of New York, representing more than five million of the American people and the moral, political, and social sentiments of the state and the whole country, has heard with the deepest sorrow of the death by assassination of Alexander II, tsar of Russia since 1855. He was a friend of the American Union when the country was plunged into a terrible civil war. The liberator of 23,000,000 Russian serfs, the liberator of Bulgaria, and by his death was occupied with establishing a constitutional form of government for all the Russian people. In the course of the past year, he abolished a grievous tax on the poorest classes of his people and destroyed the despotic power of the Third Department, which arrested citizens on suspicion and exiled them to Siberia without investigation or any form of trial. The people of this state, sympathizing everywhere with constitutional freedom and just equality, at the same time abhor assassins, whether under imperial rule as in Russia or under popular rule as in the republic of the United States. It remembers the brutal murder of its own chosen chief, President Lincoln, and wishes to bear witness to its abhorrence of the crime of political assassination, considering them hostile to freedom, civilization, and Christianity, and the deadliest enemies of any reform – both in the states and nations of America and in the states and empires of the whole world.”

A member of the legislative assembly, Mr. Erastus Brooks, who introduced this resolution, addressed the assembly with a long passionate speech of sympathy for the Russian people, and the assembly unanimously adopted and approved both the speech and the resolution.

Similar resolutions were adopted by the legislative assemblies of other states of the American union, and as it were their common epitome, there came a resolution of the Senate of the United States in Washington. In the session of March 14 (2), the American Senate unanimously adopted the following resolution:

“Whereas the Senate of the United States of America, now convened in special session, has received notification of the death, through unlawful and inhuman violence, of His Majesty the Emperor of Russia Alexander II, therefore

“Resolved: that the Senate joins its voice with the voice of all civilized nations in condemning murder as a means of avenging any oppression, real or imagined.

“Resolved: that recalling and with pleasure cherishing the relations of true friendship which have always existed between the peoples and governments of Russia and the United States, for the strengthening and maintenance of which the late Emperor seriously employed his great influence, the Senate expresses to the government and people of Russia its condolences in his bitter national loss.

“Resolved: that the Secretary of the Senate shall transmit a copy of these resolutions to the President of the United States, with a request that he communicate them to the government of Russia.”

Regarding this Senate resolution, the Herald wrote: “Universal expression of sympathy and condolences for the deceased tsar throughout the civilized world is what one would expect, and it is quite fitting and touching. We are glad that the Senate of the United States followed Blaine’s (the prime minister’s) swift action in sending a message of condolences to the Russian government. Regarding the crime, there can be only one opinion.”

Finally, the young American students did not lag behind others in expressing their sympathies for the Russian people and contempt for the villainous gang of murderers. Students of the best college in New York, Columbia, Faculty of Political Science, “unanimously adopted a resolution of condolences to the reigning house of Russia and to the entire well-disposed and law-abiding Russian people, striving for gradual, peaceful, and constant social development. And they cannot sufficiently strongly and severely condemn all seditious outbursts of violence and criminal acts as senseless, ineffective, and bringing in their wake the most baneful consequences for constant social progress.”

Newspaper reporters scattered about the city, seeking out and questioning everyone who had any connection with Russia, and the opinion of all such people (excepting a few fragments of the nihilist party, who openly gloried in the crime, thus drawing upon themselves even greater public contempt) was unanimous and mighty sympathy for the Russian people and indignation against the villains. Flags of all foreign consulates and even private institutions hung at half-mast – in position of mourning, and through the usual hum of monotonous industrial bustle of the American metropolis, there noticeably passed a sorrowful note of condolence for the poor Russian people who had allowed such a crime to be committed in their midst, news of which cries grimly to heaven.

Having received a sorrowful telegram from His Excellency, the Russian Imperial Minister in Washington, the rector of the Russian Orthodox church in New York quickly prepared for travel, and on the night of Tuesday he set out for the national capital of the American people, together with a cantor and the General Consul of New York. A swift train thundered through the night darkness and arrived in Washington early in the morning. There active preparations were already being made for the memorial service, and the wife of the Imperial Minister Bartolomei personally occupied herself with putting her hall in the appropriate condition for the sorrowful service. Meanwhile, the capital of the American people watched these preparations with warm sympathy, and it was expressed, among other things, in the fact that priests of an Episcopal church offered their temple as a place for performing the memorial service, accompanying this offer with warm declarations of their sympathy and condolences. “Daring to make such an offer of our temple for Orthodox use,” says in his letter the venerable rector of the church Harold, “I solely intend to declare my deep respect for your ancient catholic church and to express my heartfelt condolences to the Imperial family and the Russian people.” Since proper preparations had already been made at the residence of the Russian Imperial Minister, the Russian priest had only to thank the Episcopal American rector for his kind offer and warm sympathy for the Russian people, which he did, paying him a personal visit.

The memorial service was appointed for 3 o’clock in the afternoon on Tuesday (15) March 3, and official invitations were sent to the representatives of the powers. At the appointed time, the carriages of the envoys one after another began to drive up to the entrance of the Russian Embassy, and from them emerged brilliantly uniformed figures, whom the Russian Imperial Minister and his wife, dressed in deep mourning, kindly received. The brilliance of diverse court uniforms, shadowed by mourning crepe throughout the surrounding arrangement, by the dull flickering of three candles burning on a table before which stood the priest and cantor awaiting a sign to begin the memorial service, the wafting of incense in thick clouds settling upon the group of representatives of the powers, and the quiet murmur of greetings and condolences – all this was a solemn and impressive expression of the prevailing mood of sorrow. Reporters carefully followed the performance of the memorial service, and the next day detailed accounts of the performance of the “Russian requiem” appeared in all the newspapers of Washington, New York, and other cities. In the Washington newspaper “The National Republican” the following description of the memorial service was printed:

“The residence of the Russian Minister, on Connecticut Avenue, yesterday afternoon was the scene of an impressive and brilliant assembly on the occasion of a commemorative service in honor of the deceased tsar of Russia. It was interesting to see how the diplomatic corps and the families of ministers and attachés proceeded under the heavy arch of crepe, serving as an emblem of mourning. Inside the house, profound silence prevailed and the mood of sorrow reigned. The windows were darkened, the walls hung with heavy folds of mourning material, framed with silk crepe and fringe, and there were visible all the signs of mourning with which the Eastern church and the Russian court express all the sorrow for a deceased monarch. On the eastern edge of the hall an improvised altar was set up, on which three lighted candles were the only signs of the faith of the church. In front stood members of the Russian Embassy and General Consul Weletzky from New York, whose court uniforms were shrouded in crepe and the buttons of court dress covered in black. The British Minister with his family, the French and German Ministers, in short, the entire diplomatic corps crowded behind the Russian Embassy. The State Secretaries (Ministers) of the United States, Blaine and Lincoln, with their wives and specially invited friends, witnessed the religious service performed by Father Nicholas Bierring and his assistant, the venerable Father (!) Lopukhin, from New York. “Grant rest, O Lord, to the soul of your departed servant, the most pious Emperor Alexander Nikolayevich,” said Father Bierring, and this was the prevailing spirit of the entire service. His assistant answered and sang: “I will pour forth my prayer to the Lord, and to Him I will declare my grief.” At the conclusion of the ceremonies a blessing was given to all through the elevation of the cross, and there was sung the proclamation of eternal memory to the deceased monarch. In one of the back rooms of the house appeared a large portrait of the deceased Emperor, hung with emblems of mourning, and added still greater sorrowful solemnity to the entire surrounding arrangement.”

Similar accounts were transmitted by telegraph to the newspapers of New York, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Boston, Chicago, and other cities of the country.

Among the members of the diplomatic corps were representatives not only of European and Christian powers but also of Asian ones. Thus, there were members of the Chinese embassy in their national costumes, and members of the Japanese embassy in brilliant European uniforms. The Turkish embassy was present in its full complement. A remarkable feature of it is that it consists entirely of Orthodox Greeks, and therefore belongs to the parish of the Russian Orthodox church in New York. It was expected that the newly elected President of the United States, Garfield, would be present at the memorial service, but his laborious activities in his new position forced him to limit his representation to the first ministers of the cabinet – Blaine and Lincoln, who stood out sharply from the ranks of the members of the diplomatic corps in their simple black dress. For the latter, attendance at the Russian Orthodox memorial service was accompanied not only by the feeling of general condolence to the Russian people but also by deep personal sorrow of his own heart. He is the son of the famous President of the United States Lincoln, who, like our deceased sovereign, was a benefactor of humanity, a liberator of millions of slaves, and like our sovereign, fell from the villainous hand of enemies of true freedom. The sorrowful tones of the memorial service for the deceased sovereign now pressed upon his son’s heart with full weight, revived in him the memory of his valiant father, who perished for the good of humanity; he could not overcome his feelings. He wept throughout the entire memorial service… Yes, truly great is the dark power of infernal malice on earth, and only by the blood of martyrs is the kingdom of truth and goodness purchased in humanity!

On the following Sunday a memorial service was held in the Russian church in New York. The church was draped in the deepest mourning, in which, thanks to the consul’s care, refined taste was happily combined with the marks of heavy grief. The memorial service was set for eleven o’clock in the morning, after the usual liturgy; but crowds of Americans began arriving from early morning, and by ten o’clock not only was the church packed full, but the entire sidewalk outside was black with people, whom a patrol of eight policemen, detailed to keep order, could barely manage. Besides attending the Russian church in person, Americans expressed their sympathy in written statements as well. Both on the very day of the memorial service and on the following day, the Russian priest received a mass of letters expressing deep condolence. Letters came not only from residents of New York, but from neighboring cities and even from distant states.

2. Russian Sorrow (Cont.)

American church preachers joined in the general chorus of sympathy for the Russian people and in their sermons expressed both condolences to Russia and contempt for the mad and brutal nihilist movement. One of the preachers, namely Doctor Newman, on this occasion developed an entire treatise on freedom and its abuse, which may not be useless for those who confusedly understand the idea of freedom, of whom there are, unfortunately, not a few in Russia – even among those who consider themselves guides of public opinion[1]. The preacher took as his text the words of the apostle: “You were called to freedom, brothers; only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for the flesh, but through love serve one another.” Gal 5:13. “Many imagine,” says the preacher, “that under the Gospel they can do whatever they wish, and this without sin. Some think that virtue and vice are conditional terms which do not represent realities but only conventions. Others think that freedom is the negation of law, order, and propriety, and as applied to morality, politics, and well-being, it means liberation from all constraints. On the contrary, freedom in its very concept contains limitation and responsibility. Absolute freedom is not only nonsense, but the attempt to realize it is a crime against the universe. Man is an organized limitation. The human body can grow only to a certain height. Cast aside this law of limitation and a man’s head would reach such a height where life would be impossible. Man can eat and drink only a certain amount, can sleep only so much, and can endure only so much cold and heat – all of this contains limitation. We are so constituted that even sensitivity has its limits. Heightening of feeling beyond a given point leads to fainting or death. We could hear the music of the spheres if we had sufficient hearing; we could see the throne of the Invisible if we had the appropriate optical ability. Our mental ability is such that for it there are certain limits beyond which we cannot think. Nature everywhere calls for a stop. Man has social obligations, as he has personal rights. Marriage is limited to two persons because the number of sexes is equal. Children must obey their parents to ensure domestic harmony and happiness. Organized society is organized limitation. This means a surrender of personal freedom for the benefit of organized society. Government is a necessity which flows from our social needs. Every man is so created that he instinctively entrusts to his community the care and protection of his rights and the avenging of his wrongs, and his brothers in turn instinctively accept this responsibility. He and they do this with the full force of natural law. There is no place for choice – whether or not a man wants to be a member of civil society. He becomes such as soon as he begins to live, and society at once provides him all the benefits of its care and demands from him the fulfillment of certain obligations. From this mutual relationship arise the duties and rights of patriotism, and in recognizing this relationship a citizen obeys the law, pays taxes, and if necessary lays down his life for the good of his country. In recompense, the citizen receives protection of his life, property, and family, the benefits of education and religious freedom. At the present time there is outcry against the limitations represented by government; but this is the outcry of the mad against wise and beneficent security and protection. It is the outcry of the lawbreaker, the prodigal son, the drunkard, the cheat, the robber, and the murderer. One form of government is undoubtedly better than another, but what is most important here is not the form of government but the character of the citizen himself. Better men have lived under worse forms of government, like the apostles under Nero, the Puritans under the Stuarts. They were oppressed, persecuted, condemned to death, and they – valiant men – were models of virtue. It has also happened that under the finest, most fatherly forms of government have lived the most vicious, brutish people. Of all the most honorable words in our speaking world, the sweetest to enchantment and most powerful to inspire is “freedom.” It warms our hearts, broadens our minds, inspires our courage. For it mankind has struggled for sixty centuries, for it men have died in fire, on the field of battle, at the hands of enraged crowds. But what terrible crimes have been committed in the name of freedom! The fires of the French Revolution burned at cries of – freedom; the Commune dyed the streets of Paris with human blood with shouts of – freedom; the tsar of Russia was murdered in the name of “freedom.” But this is dissolution; this is contempt for law, order, and propriety; this is the destruction of organized society; this means robbery and murder; this is the abuse of freedom. The hand that struck the tsar of Russia or attempted the life of the Emperor of Germany would also strike the president of a republic. These are enemies of established authority, organized limitation, and should have no indulgence from those who love order and respect the law. At the present time in our country there is outcry against capital, but capital is as necessary for the well-being of society as government itself. The enormous commercial enterprises of our time, which give employment to thousands of industrial citizens, cannot be conducted without enormous capital. These political and social errors flow largely from the philosophy of free-thinkers, who claim the right to think, speak, and act – exactly as they please. I deny this right. The law of limitation has as much dominion everywhere as the law itself, and human thought is no exception to this rule. There is, of course, a difference between the ability to think and the right to think. I have the ability to think that two and one makes four, that a part is greater than the whole, that an effect can exist without a cause; but I have no right to do so. By right I understand justification. To think that a part is greater than the whole is to think nonsense. You have the ability to think that there is no God, but you have no right to think so, because you are obliged to think according to the laws of thought, the facts in a given subject, and the results that might follow from your thinking. To think that an effect can exist without a cause is to commit a crime against reason, because you have no right to think what is contrary to self-evident truth. Communism and nihilism are products of this monstrous absurdity, that man has the right to think as he pleases. The freest man in the world is he who renders the fullest obedience to the law, and he who recognizes the beneficial limitations in which he was created. This is religious freedom in its highest form. This is the emancipation of the soul from sin to a life of righteousness.”

[1] Incidentally, we recall an example of the most confused understanding of the idea of freedom that happened to strike our eye while reading a weekly newspaper. Speaking of freedom of the press, a Russian publicist remarks with brazenness: “It is known that in America there are no laws regarding the press whatsoever, and the press enjoys there absolute freedom.” Aside from the falsity of the very proposition that in America there are no laws regarding the press—for here the legislation on the press is much more definite, complete, and in some cases stricter than the Russian—in this publicist’s utterance one is struck by the equation of the absence of any laws (lawlessness) with absolute freedom. Until this utterance, as is known, the teaching prevailed that laws are precisely what condition freedom, give it life, while outside or without them only arbitrary rule exists, which is death for freedom. As for the strictness of American laws on the press, it is sufficient to note not merely the fact that for any personal slander, which can have a harmful effect on a person’s moral, social, or economic position, the newspaper is subject to a fine of hundreds, thousands, and even tens of thousands of dollars—in favor of the slandered party. With us, as is known, we are freer on this account.

3. The Russian Church in New York

The plan of New York. – Location of the Russian church. – The American house and premises occupied by the church. – Consecration. – Rector and cantors. – Parishioners. – A decade’s record. – Russian charitable society. – Sunday worship and the motley assembly of worshippers.

The plan of American cities is ordinarily extremely simple. It represents a grid, regularly divided into small squares by streets bearing numerical names. Cities in America were usually built so quickly that the first settlers could easily plan the entire future city as they saw fit, and streets were laid out and settled with such speed that the city officials did not have time to invent special names for them, and therefore resorted to the simplest method – calling them numbers: First Street, Second Street, and so on. New York has exactly such a plan. It is located on a long narrow island formed by the Hudson and the East River with the Harlem strait connecting them on the north. The island stretches like an arrow from south to north and is ten miles long and about two miles wide. The streets running along the island are called avenues and there are eleven of them in all, while the cross streets are simply called streets and there are more than two hundred of them, with numerical names, except for a few streets in the old “lower” part of the city where they have their own names. The settlement of the city moved from the ocean pier inland, from south to north; therefore the numbering of streets runs from south to north.

In the southern part of the city there are many stations of horse-drawn railways, from which wagons and trains depart every minute to the north along various avenues of the city. On the very shore of the ocean bay is located the station of the elevated railway. Let us climb the stairs to the high station, mounted on iron pillars, and take a ticket for the elevated train. The trains do not keep us waiting long. In a minute or two, a puffing monster darts out from around the corner of red buildings and instantly stops at the station. “All aboard!” sounds the conductors’ command, passengers with shoving rush into the cars, the iron doors snap shut, and the monster, puffing and clanking, speeds along its usual path on the latticed iron railway, secured by tall pillars above the street. The train races at a speed of forty versts per hour and before you there is only a glitter in the eyes of the tops of red and brown houses, and below the masses of bustling people still scurry. Conductors shout out station names, the train stops at each of them every four or five blocks for half a minute to take on new passengers, and speeds further and further to the north. At one of the fortieth streets across the second avenue there is a cross section of the elevated railway, and our train, to avoid collisions, waves through it, so that the railway bed rises to a terrible height. The unaccustomed passenger’s heart contracts from fear, and he hurries to get off at the nearest station.

“Fiftieth!” mechanically shouts the conductor, and seeing your Russian awkwardness, unceremoniously pushes you out at the station to snap the door shut and speed ahead. From the station a very long staircase of more than a hundred steps leads downward and comes to rest on a stone pavement, over which rises a row of chocolate-colored houses of simple but elegant American architecture, with a row of identical indistinguishable entrances. One of the middle entrances, however, stands out sharply from the rest. Above it gleams a golden Russian cross, beneath which appears a golden English inscription: “Greco-Russian Church”[1]. So, here is located this Russian Orthodox sanctuary, the only one on the entire eastern ocean coast of North America. The house in which the Russian church is located is right in the middle of a city block on the left or western side of the street and is not distinguished in any way from the neighboring houses, closely adjoining it on the right and left sides, under one continuous roof. The entire block, about 40 sazhens long, appears as if it were one large house, but in reality it consists of seven or eight separate houses. The American house is quite different from the European one. In large European cities, a house usually has dozens and hundreds of windows facing the street and is divided by floors into apartments with one or two common entrances. It is quite different here. Americans laugh at European construction. According to their saying, “my house is my castle,” and an American cannot tolerate anyone else entering the door to his house except himself and those who have earned his special favor. Therefore, houses here ordinarily consist of three windows facing the street, rarely four and often two, with each house having its own special front entrance from the street, and the entire house, for the most part four or five stories, occupied by one owner. On one floor he has a parlor, on another a dining room, on a third a bedroom, on a fourth a study or children’s room, and running up and down stairs is the most characteristic feature of American home life. The house occupied by the Russian church is of exactly the same arrangement. It consists of four stories, has three windows facing the street, and a front entrance with steps leading directly to the second floor.

Having climbed the steps, the visitor rings the bell, the door opens, and he enters a narrow corridor designed for stairs to all the floors and occupying the space of one window. Upon entering the corridor on the left side, the visitor sees a door, and it leads to the church itself. It is a small room with two windows facing the street, about one and a half sazhens wide and three sazhens long. In ordinary American homes, this floor constitutes what is called a parlor or drawing room and ordinarily consists of two halves, divided in the middle by sliding doors. Such arrangement of the parlor made it possible without any alterations to convert it into a church. It was only necessary to replace the sliding doors with an iconostasis, and immediately the front part of the parlor became the church and the back – about one and a half sazhens in length and width – became the altar. Such an arrangement presents the current location of the Russian church in New York. It makes a good impression on every visitor – of elegant simplicity and coziness. On the walls, crosses of golden-framed icons of the Moscow type are hung, before the iconostasis on both sides are small gratings for the choirs and above them one banner each. In the left wall in the middle of the church is built in a fireplace, ordinarily brightly burning with flames during winter services, and the entire floor is covered with a fine Persian carpet, as is ordinarily the case in any parlor among Americans, who are not particularly fond of parquet. Behind stand several soft stools for American visitors, not accustomed to standing in church, and before the iconostasis are three candlestands and one lectern on each choir. The iconostasis is of fine elegant workmanship. It was sent ready-made from Russia. By its dimensions, it is obviously calculated for a small space, but here, thanks to the described peculiarity of the American house, it turned out to be too wide, could not fit in entirely, and therefore when it was installed it had to be shortened. For this reason, both side doors are turned toward the walls and present simple pictures, and the iconostasis has only one door to the altar, namely the royal gates. This, of course, is a great inconvenience in many respects and first of all in the liturgical respect, as it does not allow for the fullness of the great and small processions, but it was impossible to avoid it. As a result of this, it is also impossible for a visitor to pass directly from the church into the altar. For this, he must go out into the corridor and from there enter the altar through another door. The arrangement of the altar is very elegant and presents the ordinary type of a Russian altar. Only it faces not to the east but directly to the west, which again could not be avoided in this location. From the windows opens a magnificent view of a row of small courtyards covered with the green of grapevines and ivy, and in the distance majestically rises the white mass of the new Catholic cathedral of Saint Patrick. This immeasurable contrast between the modest, unnoticed Orthodox altar and the majestic, grandiosely rising Catholic temple towering over the whole city strikingly depicts the comparative position of these two churches in America. One has only just timidly stepped onto American soil, while the other has already reaped a rich harvest.

In the fall of last year, precisely on November 12 (24), exactly ten years were completed since Russian Orthodox worship was first heard in the capital of the eastern ocean coast of the American continent. On this day the church was consecrated by Bishop Paul, formerly bishop of Alaska, who performed the first service in it during a chance visit to New York – in passing through to Russia. There is no need to say what an important event this was for the local Russian colony. I lack the strength to depict the feelings experienced at this sweet moment by simple Russian people cast by fate across the ocean. Suffice it to say that one elderly Russian sailor, who had lived in America for twenty years, still cannot restrain his tears when he recalls how he, during ten years, having almost never heard his native language, suddenly heard: “Let us pray to the Lord in union!” – “Lord, have mercy!” – “Oh, like our mother suddenly spoke to me,” he conveyed his feelings to the author of these lines. “I fell to the earth and the tears flowed and flowed, and I do not know how I even got up”… Americans and especially from the upper classes filled the church as much as the premises allowed, and looked with wonder at the never before seen Russian Orthodox worship, and newspaper reporters spread the news of it throughout the country, proclaiming a new addition to the cosmopolitan world of American religiosity.

After the consecration of the church, regular Sunday worship began, first in English and then gradually in Church Slavonic. The rector of the church was Father Nicholas Bierring. He was Danish by origin, born in 1831 in a small town in Denmark, where he received a solid education. Upon reaching adulthood, he was a zealous minister of the Roman Catholic church and in various parts of the globe carried out various assignments from Roman Catholic authorities. In 1868 he was appointed professor of philosophy and history at the Roman Catholic Academy in Baltimore in the United States, and held this position for about a year. At that time, the Roman Catholic world was troubled by the question of papal infallibility, and when this question, to the world’s surprise, was resolved by establishing the dogma of papal infallibility, the spirit of many zealous Catholics was troubled by such falsehood. Among them was Father Nicholas Bierring. He could not reconcile this falsehood with his convictions and turned to where eternal unchanging truth dwells, turning to the bosom of the Orthodox church. In 1870 he was solemnly received into Orthodoxy in the church of the St. Petersburg Academy and was then ordained to the priesthood and appointed rector of the Russian Orthodox church in New York. Everyone who has had close relations with Father Nicholas Bierring acknowledges that he is an educated man, well-read in philosophical and theological literature, and a remarkable linguist. Besides his native Danish language, he speaks freely German, English, and Swedish and is literarily familiar with Latin and French. This extensive linguistic knowledge gives him the ability to communicate easily with the diverse-speaking visitors to the church, of whom there are ordinarily many at each Sunday service. But it is surprising that the Russian language has not yielded to him at all and he still speaks and reads neither Russian. He is a family man, with a wife and four children. Three stories of the house in which the church is located are occupied by his family.

The assistants to the rector are the cantors. At the New York Russian church there is ordinarily one cantor, appointed for three years. The position of the Russian church, first appearing among the most active and developed people in the world, undoubtedly required great rigor in the choice of both its rector and cantors. With the constant struggle of various confessions and churches in America, history has worked out here a remarkable type of priest who must always know precisely all the philosophical, historical, and theological foundations of his church, so that on every occasion, and there are very many such occasions, he can give an answer concerning his faith. The same, of course, was required of the Russian priest and his assistants, so that they could stand on equal ground with the ministers of other churches. In general philosophical and theological education, the rector of the Russian church stands at the height of his calling. But many theological and historical foundations of the Russian Orthodox church, which give it its especially distinctive character, are rooted in the east and are known in perfection only to those who were born and raised in the east and in the bosom of the Orthodox church. For a western person, they are unclear and inaccessible. To make up for this side in the representation of the Russian Orthodox church in America, an assistant was needed for the rector – a man completely Russian with higher theological education. So it indeed was from the very establishment of the Russian church in New York. During the past decade, four cantors have served here successively – all with Russian higher theological education. Three of them have already completed their term of service and the fourth is serving now. The first cantor was a candidate of the St. Petersburg Theological Academy E. K. Smirnov, now serving as rector of the Imperial Embassy church in London. Following him was a candidate of the same academy A. Y. Perov, now serving as a priest-teacher in the Elizabethan Women’s Institute in St. Petersburg. For the next three years the cantor was a candidate of the Kiev Academy A. I. Mikhailovsky, now serving as a lecturer in English at the same academy. The current cantor, candidate of the St. Petersburg Academy A. P. Lopukhin, entered the position in late 1879 and has been serving for about two years.

The parish of the local Russian church is not large, but diverse. Besides official parishioners – members of the Russian Embassy and Consulate, it includes Russians residing here, Slavs of various tribes, and Greeks. At present, there are about fifty Russians in New York; of them about a dozen educated people, and the rest simple laborers, mainly from Russian sailors. In spite of their difference in education, they are all alike in their fate. With two or three exceptions, all the Russians here are unfortunate stepchildren of fate, forcibly driven onto the soil of the New World and most of them are in a dire situation. All these are, so to speak, prodigal sons: some fled from Russian justice, others from debts, still others from military and naval service, and so forth of that kind. But prodigal sons often return to the bosom of the Heavenly Father with such fiery repentant love as is often lacking in those who constantly remain in that bosom. For many of the Russians here, the church is the only support – both moral and material. There are also about fifty Slavs and most of them are Austrian Serbs, fleeing from German oppression. They understand Church Slavonic, the language of worship, well. Greeks constitute the largest nation in the parish. There are more than a hundred Greeks in New York; all of them are industrious family men and some of them are very wealthy, conducting extensive cotton trade. When comparing the social position of these three Orthodox nationalities in America, it is regrettable to say that the Russians prove to be the least capable of winning themselves a decent position in that country of free labor. The Greek, the Slav – they readily establish themselves here and set up a household and family, while the Russian constantly remains a proletarian and an isolated bachelor, unable to withstand the competition of more shrewd, bold, and independent people. Two or three of the Russians belong to those who in Russia call themselves “preachers of honest labor.” Their present life in the country of free labor shows that preaching honest labor is far from the same as actually living by it. Idle illusions have now turned into hungry reality.

[1] The Greek-Russian Chapel. 2–d Avenue 951. N. Y. city.

3. The Russian Church in New York (Cont.)

By the way, it should be noted that the majority of the Russians here lead lives of poverty and regret the abandonment of the homeland, claiming that they were bitterly mistaken in their hopes for a better life in the New World. This is partly their own fault. It is truly worthy of wonder – the frivolity with which Russians ordinarily decide to migrate to America. Most of them arrive in America not only without having determined a plan for their future life in the country but often with no notion whatever of the actual conditions of life, the customs, and even the language of the country to which they are moving. Considering sufficient those pieces of information picked up in various alluring and at the same time false little books, filled with all sorts of fabulous nonsense from ignorant and superficial travelers to America, Russians come here as to the promised land of free, profitable, and easy labor. Meanwhile, American labor requires such persistent willpower, agility, and skill in specialized crafts, which are inconceivable in Russia. As a result, Russians, even ready craftsmen, cannot withstand competition from Americans, are rejected in the labor market, and are therefore forced to work at half-pay in various disreputable establishments, and very often remain without any work at all. There is no need to mention the dire and helpless position of those Russians who arrive without any knowledge of specialized craft, with only what is called general education. For such people, there is literally no place in America; the local competition crushes them completely, and they are the ones who most often and most need assistance, until they learn some trade. And there is a place to learn. One young Russian with a university education, having arrived in New York without knowledge of a craft, was for a long time in the most dire position until he ended up in the state prison Sing Sing. Prisons in America are put on a practical footing, as are all things among Americans, and represent something in the way of enormous factories, where the prisoners are obligated to work for the benefit of the state. Our countryman was assigned to the hat-making trade, and in six months of his imprisonment became so skilled that upon release he was able to earn his bread by his newly acquired trade. For others, who unfortunately are not few, even this school often passes without effect, and they remain in their helpless state as before.

With such a composition of clergy and parish, the Russian church in New York began its existence ten years ago and exists now. The family element in the parish, mainly Greeks and then Slavs, remains unchanging, as it is firmly settled in America, but the Russians constantly change, except for a dozen also well-established people. Before the establishment of the church, this Orthodox population was in the most abandoned state. More or less wealthy people went to San Francisco, seven thousand versts away, for church services, while others made use of chance visits of Orthodox priests through New York, but for the most part were deprived of all religious consolation, weakened in their devotion to Orthodoxy and, having married American women, became adherents to the confessions of their wives. With the establishment of the Russian church, the Orthodox population began to gather around it, and many Orthodox who had married unbelieving women and had previously had their children baptized in unbelieving churches now had their new children baptized in the Russian Orthodox church. Substantial church services, of course, could not be many given the small number of the parish, and yet in ten years they accumulated a sufficient quantity to justify the existence of the Russian church in New York even from a practical standpoint. From 1870 to 1880, fifty-five baptisms of children of both sexes, twelve marriages, and fourteen burials were performed in it. There were also conversions to the Orthodox church, though few and rather random. In ten years four people were received, one male and three female. Among them the wife and daughter of the priest.

Americans are the most reading people in the world, and every institution, religious or political, can only find its way to their consciousness and win their sympathy through literature. With this goal, the rector of the church has translated and published several works in English, which are mainly designed to introduce the teaching of the Orthodox church to the understanding of non-believers. Every American church or community then has its own literary organ, and it is considered such a necessity here that Americans cannot imagine a church as a living body without it. In light of this, a literary organ was necessary for the Orthodox church as well. Such an organ was founded at the end of 1878 under the name “Journal of the Eastern Church” (Oriental Church Magazine) and now the third year of its existence is being completed. The journal, in these three years, has presented a wealth of interesting material of great importance for acquainting Americans not only with the teaching and rites of the Orthodox church but also with the life of the Russian people in general. It is the only organ from which Americans can obtain direct and impartial knowledge about the Russian people – with their beliefs and life, and it is a powerful refutation of the false lies spread among Americans about Russia by the hostile German-English press. The American press ordinarily receives each issue of it with vivacity and sympathy. Its further existence is undoubtedly a vital necessity for the church.

One of the prominent sides of the life of American churches is their charitable activity. Charity is considered an essential obligation of the church, and in some churches it reaches remarkably broad dimensions. In this regard, the Roman Catholic church especially stands out here. It has so many charitable institutions and such excellent organization that even the government of the State of New York recognized this activity as being of important public significance and, contrary to the legal separation of church and state, makes it considerable monetary assistance and has practically entrusted it with all care for public charity. Each church and community in turn concerns itself with the care of poor members of its parish, and for this each church has its own charitable society and its own collection for the “poor of the parish.” As a result of both this general principle and especially in view of the dire situation of many members of the Russian parish, the need for organizing charity naturally expressed itself at the Russian church. The idea arose long ago, but with a complete absence of any monetary means, it could not be realized until recently. Only at the end of last year, thanks to the assistance of His Excellencies the Russian Minister and General Consul, did the rector manage to gather some monetary funds, relying on which he could establish the “Russian Charitable Society.” The fund was formed from voluntary contributions of the clergy, members of the Embassy and Consulate, and wealthy Americans. The society proved to be extremely useful and even more strongly began to gather the local Orthodox population around the church. Rarely a day passes without some impoverished Russian appearing with a request for assistance. Many come complaining that they have nowhere to sleep and have been hungry for a day or two. To organize more regular and substantial assistance, the priest came to an agreement with wealthy American charitable societies and at a cheap price acquired a whole packet of tickets, giving every holder the right to free use of lodging, meals, and hospital in the institutions of these societies. Every poor man who received such a ticket from him can consider himself secure from hunger and exposure for two or three days. Sometimes direct monetary assistance is also given – as a loan or free – and over the past year the society has already expended more than 200 dollars on charitable needs. Word of the charity spread throughout the entire population that has any contact with the church or even simply with Russia. Often Poles and Jews, who have emigrated from Russia and speak Russian with difficulty, come seeking assistance. Once even a German came, who knew not a word of Russian, but called himself Russian and therefore had a right to assistance, since he had lived in Russia for some time. What a great unifying moral power Orthodoxy possesses can be fully understood and seen only abroad. It unites here into one family people who often have nothing in common – except Orthodox faith. On one of the Sundays, leaving the church after worship, I met at the entrance two swarthy men in Turkish red fezzes. They were hesitantly looking at the golden cross and the inscription beneath it, obviously trying to understand its meaning. Seeing me, they addressed me in French, and from this and from a card they held in their hands, I understood that they wanted to see the Russian priest. It turned out that they were Turkish subjects – Orthodox Arabs from Syria. Having come to America, they found themselves in dire straits in a completely foreign country without knowledge of the English language, and now turned to the Orthodox priest as the only guide, who for them, distant sons of the east, was the only close person on the distant western shore across the ocean.

On Sundays, services are held regularly; on Saturday at 5 p.m., an all-night vigil is served in Slavonic, and on Sunday at 11 a.m., the liturgy alternates between Slavonic and English. The vigil service is seldom sponsored, but at the liturgy there always gathers a fairly large congregation. The gathering is usually quite diverse. There is a Greek millionaire conducting trade in cotton with India and Australia, and a former Russian actor who sells matches on the street; a Russian doctor scraping by with tutoring, and a Moscow University student handling logs at the docks; a runaway sailor serving as a clerk in a toy shop, and a former nobleman’s marshal working as a coffee maker in a restaurant; a merchant’s son who fled military service and struggles along without knowing the language, and a former second lieutenant collecting rags on the streets; an Austrian Serb serving as a Russian interpreter at a hotel, and a Russian radical living on loans he never repays; a Pole calling himself purely Russian, and a Russian Navy lieutenant laboring over making sausage in a German establishment. Usually there are several Americans of both sexes present, and often there are American clergy of various denominations who drop in. Several times various bishops of American churches have been in the chapel. Among distinguished Russian guests, the church has received the Grand Dukes Alexei Alexandrovich and Constantine Constantinovich during their stay in New York, and the Archbishops John and Nestor of Alaska during their passage through New York. On solemn civil holidays there are many representatives of various governments and of the United States government, with Russian official representatives at their head, and a good dozen reporters from various newspapers. All visitors generally come away with a good impression, although there is a constant sense of deficiency in the musical aspect of the service. The entire musical resources of the church consist of a single cantor, and his unison chanting, however well done, presents a meager contrast to the full orchestral and vocal choirs of American churches. During the Slavonic service a simple Russian church melody is ordinarily used, with some selections of melodies from Russian church composers, and for the English service there is a special musical arrangement of the liturgy by Vienna professor of ancient literature Chavarie. This music is very melodious, and Americans prefer it to the Slavonic; but it carries a strong tint of Anglican sacred melodies, particularly, for example, in the “Peace of the world.” At one time a visiting Russian merchant made a donation to the church specifically for a choir, and indeed for a while a small choir existed, but it disbanded when the funds ran out.

At present, as we understand, the Russian government has appropriated a considerable sum for building a proper church in New York, and this will undoubtedly mark a new epoch in the history of the Orthodox Church’s mission on the American continent. It is only necessary that, along with the construction of the church, the dignity of the church service be increased and at least a small choir be established, the absence of which is keenly felt by all visitors to the church.

4. Americans in the Russian Church

American visitors to Russian Sunday services. – Their impressions. – The social position of the Russian priest. – The need to become acquainted with the Russian Church. – The importance of the church organ. – Conclusion.

The opening of the Russian Orthodox Church in New York in 1870 was for Americans a new and extraordinary phenomenon. The capital of the New World is truly a metropolis of churches. On a single street here you can count a good dozen temples, all of different denominations and sects. But until that year there was among them no church that, like a majestic queen, sat enthroned in the distant and mysterious East, as it appeared to Americans. The longstanding friendly relations they maintained with the Russian people, as the principal representatives of the Orthodox Church, awakened interest and a desire for closer acquaintance with the mysterious Church of that friendly nation. When, therefore, the distant and hitherto inaccessible church suddenly appeared among Americans, they turned to it with the liveliest interest, carefully studying the rites and teachings of the Orthodox Church. On the American continent, it is true, an Orthodox Church already existed and even an entire diocese—namely in the “far west” in Alaska and San Francisco—but this far west, located seven thousand versts from the principal center of American life, remained until very recently, even when railroads were built, completely a world apart, and the existence of the Orthodox Church there has had almost no significance for the acquaintance of Americans with our Church. That church is a church for the Orthodox population already existing there and for kindling the light of true faith among the semi-savage sons of the distant north. For Americans, only a church on the eastern ocean shore of the continent could have significance, and therefore the appearance of the Orthodox Church in New York was for them such a novelty as if the Orthodox Church had not existed at all on the American continent before.

From its very opening, the church in New York became the object of the liveliest public interest. Despite its modest outward appearance, which was entirely out of keeping with the dazzling splendor of Eastern church rites and ceremonies that Americans imagined, and its insignificant position among the magnificent temples of other denominations, it at once assumed a prominent place in society and, in the early days, there was scarcely a Sunday service about which the newspapers did not publish the most detailed accounts. With time, of course, this interest, aroused by the novelty of the subject, somewhat diminished, but even at present every more or less significant holiday in the church attracts newspaper reporters from the best papers and large numbers of Americans of various denominations and congregations. In ten years, from among casual American visitors, several individuals have come forward who now form the regular attendants of Sunday service. On the great annual holidays they come in such numbers that the church cannot hold even half of them all. Those who arrive late return home with regret, while the more fortunate ones fill the church to capacity, though afterwards they usually complain of the inconvenience of such crowding. For Americans accustomed to comfortable seating in their own churches, our Russian custom of allowing anyone to enter the church freely and according to their devotion, rather than by tickets and numbers, seems like the height of inconvenience, and only the most lively interest in seeing Orthodox worship makes them overlook such discomfort. Americans behave extremely decorously in the church, carefully follow all the smallest details of the service, and their faces stretch out into a remarkable picture of curiosity when, for example, the royal doors are opened, the great procession takes place, or even simply a candlestick is moved from one place to another. The newspaper reporters are the most curious of all. Not understanding the Slavonic language in which the service is ordinarily conducted on great holidays, they concentrate all their attention on the external setting and service itself: they describe the pictures (icons), banners (liturgical vestments), count the candles and describe their placement, follow the spread of clouds of incense and the manner of the incensing with frankincense, sketch the appearance and gestures of the priest and cantor, and make comparisons regarding the similarity or difference between Orthodox worship and the worship of other churches, determining the number of worshippers and their conduct, and so on. After the service they pounce on the priest or cantor with questions about the inner side of the service, asking about the meaning of various rites, about the content of prayers or hymns, and inquiring about the text of the read gospel and epistle. The next day, and often the same day in the evening editions, detailed accounts appear in the newspapers, eloquently written on the basis of their observations and inquiries, with curious headlines like: “Father Bierring and His Russian Altar,” and filled with many curiosities in the content itself. Some American visitors linger after the service and turn to the priest for explanations of the aspects of worship that impressed them most, and American ladies often ask to examine church vestments more closely, their cut and the material from which they are made.

Apart from ordinary Americans, representatives of various American churches—pastors and bishops—often come to the chapel. Some travel from far away. Not long ago, for instance, a pastor came from Chicago, fifteen hundred versts from New York. As educated theologians, they regard the church and its worship not with simple curiosity but with criticism, and in conversation with the priest or cantor they enter into consideration of the historical and theological foundations of the Orthodox Church. From these conversations both with pastors and with ordinary Americans, one could discern certain common traits in their attitudes toward Orthodox worship. Americans in general are extremely polite and will offer you a mass of compliments before moving on to a critical expression of their views. Therefore, to initial questions about how they liked the Russian service, they always respond that they “very much enjoyed it” and that they take away “the best impression in the world.” They are extremely interested in the external setting of the church and they inquire curiously about all its details, having first assured themselves that this church represents a typical Russian temple generally. They regard our church as a remarkable archaeological monument, preserved from the golden ages of Christianity. Moving on to the service itself, they also cannot help but acknowledge its antiquity, but here they look from a more practical point of view and consider it somewhat outdated for our time. They cannot understand why our service involves so many repetitions of the same prayers (“again and again, with peace, let us beseech the Lord”). In their view, this is a great anachronism for our time. Instead of these repeating prayers, they think it would be much better to introduce as many moral lessons as possible from Holy Scripture into the service, or in the form of preaching. American worship is shortened to the utmost degree and consists merely of a few hymns and principally of preaching. The absence of preaching in our service surprises them most of all, since with them the glory of the church is based on preaching. Reporters ordinarily conclude their newspaper accounts by saying that “there was no sermon, according to the Eastern custom,” and when there is one, they make large excerpts from it. The absence of music in the church also, in their view, deprives the Russian service of much in comparison with the Western churches. They cannot understand why our church is so strict regarding music, when music, according to Holy Scripture, exists even in heaven and the trumpet calls of the archangels ceaselessly sing the praises of the Creator. In this respect Americans truly come closer to the archangels: in the musical program of their services you constantly find “trumpet call” in the form of some solo on the cornet. Such remarks about the lack of music in our church are more likely provoked, however, by the poverty of vocal resources in the worship of the New York church itself. A small choir would entirely eliminate this remark, as one can judge from the account of the Petersburg correspondent of the Herald about church singing in the great cathedrals of our capital. In his opinion, “it is difficult to imagine anything better than Russian church singing by a choir of male and children’s voices.” In America children’s voices are ordinarily replaced by women’s, and this remark is therefore especially interesting in a certain respect. Nevertheless, despite the meagerness of Russian singing here, Americans are interested in it, amazed at the uniqueness of the melodies, and often ask to see the musical notation itself. At one Sunday service a Bishop Jung from Florida visited our church with his wife and examined in detail the notation used in the service. He became so interested in some melodies that he asked the cantor to send him from Russia several similar musical church compositions. The Bishop had traveled extensively in the East, had been to Petersburg and Moscow, and shared his impressions with lively interest. He was a member of the commission that the American Episcopal Church sent to the East in the 1860s to investigate the question of church unity. Among other bishops, Bishop Quintard from Tennessee visited our church more frequently than others. He is especially interested in the canon law of our church, and once, in a difficult case in his episcopal practice, consulted with Father Nicholas Bierring about how such cases are resolved in the Russian Orthodox Church. In general, it is pleasant to see how Americans are interested in our church, but even more pleasant to hear how they, in generalizing their observations, ultimately conclude that in any case they take away the “best impression in the world.”

One of the interesting aspects of American church and religious life is the social position of the clergy there. The priest constitutes, one might say, the soul of society. No meeting of any importance whatsoever takes place without him, and at the same time he is the first friend of every household in his parish. Thanks to a high level of education and strong oratorical talents, pastors play an important role even in the political life of the country, and at every political rally, several “divine doctors,” as pastors with the highest scholarly theological degree are officially called, always appear among the speakers. Owing to such an arrangement, Americans have formed the view of the priest as an important public figure and a man of great connections and influence outside the church as well, so that they most readily turn to him for “patronage” in case of any difficulties or needs. The more influential the priest in this respect, the higher his church is valued. The rector of the Russian church holds a very advantageous position in this regard. He is a member of many societies—charitable, literary, scholarly, and political—and thanks to this has extensive acquaintance both in the city and beyond its borders. Among scholarly societies, for example, he is an honorary member of the well-known “Geographical Society.” Americans are passionate lovers of clubs, and they are scattered throughout the city in countless numbers, with various names and purposes, and each club has a priest who delivers speeches at its meetings and reads a prayer before formal, monthly, or annual dinners of club members. Prayer is considered necessary by Americans even before public dinners at clubs. With us, as is known, music displaced prayer in such cases long ago. Father Nicholas Bierring occupies such a position in one of the city’s wealthiest clubs, namely the “Club of Saint Nicholas,” which has given him the opportunity to enter into close relations with such first-rate statesmen as, for example, the former Democratic presidential candidate General Hancock, with whom he maintains family acquaintance. It is interesting to note here, by the way, one trait that recalls the well-known saying: Amicus Plato, sed magis amica veritas [A friend to Plato, but a greater friend to truth]. Father Nicholas Bierring, as an American citizen, has long been a Republican in his political convictions, that is, a supporter of the Republican party. Now the selection of his family friend by the Democrats for the presidency would naturally be expected to draw him to the Democratic side, but he remained faithful to his party and casts his vote for the Republican candidate, announcing that in this case he prefers the principles of his party to the interests of personal relations. For that reason he enjoys even greater honor among the Republicans. At a recent reception in New York of the former President, the famous General Grant, the leader of the Republican party made him a personal invitation to participate in the celebration. Such a social position of the Russian priest is extremely important for the Russian population here. With his patronage any Russian can find for himself a more or less respectable position, provided he is not prevented by ability, education, and the “convictions” of the petitioner. Unfortunately, most of the more or less educated Russians here have “radical” inclinations, and to recommend such gentlemen to the confidence of Americans would mean losing one’s own confidence. Nowhere, surely, are people with “radical” inclinations held in greater contempt than in this free country. To others he renders important services. Various societies often invite the Russian priest as a guest to their ceremonial gatherings, where representatives of science, literature, and art are present, and there are sometimes amusing incidents. Such was, for instance, a gathering at the “Arcadia” club, where there were poets, philosophers, politicians, and, among others, the Russian priest was invited. At the gathering, as usual, endless speeches were given—an inevitable feature of every American assembly. Among the speakers, the poet Joaquin Miller and Father Nicholas Bierring particularly distinguished themselves. The newspaper account reports it this way: “The next speaker called was the poet Joaquin Miller, but he responded to the call by saying he had decided this time not to make any speech and quietly sat back in his chair. This fairly well-known American poet makes a strange impression. He looks exactly like a Russian peasant. He eats a lot, drinks a lot, and sits silently working his teeth throughout the entire dinner. The next speaker was the Russian priest, who praised the American Constitution and declared that if there are any shortcomings in the government, the people themselves are to blame, as they should be more careful in choosing the men to whom they entrust power. It was quite curious to observe the appearance of these two vis-à-vis, the popular American poet and the modest Russian priest. The American poet resembled a Russian livestock dealer who had come to the Nizhny Novgorod fair, whereas the Russian priest had the appearance of a very respectable American farmer.” It is easy to guess which of the persons concerned was more pleased with this account.

The prominent position of the Russian church’s priest in American society has important significance both as a representative of the Russian people among Americans and as a representative of his church. Americans are aristocrats at heart and regard with great respect and interest a church represented by a man of good standing in society and with high education. Meanwhile, by some strange coincidence, there have circulated among Americans certain books about the Russian Church that depict it and Russian clergy in the most unattractive light for Americans. For this reason it is the more pleasant for Americans now to see in the representative of the Russian Church qualities precisely opposite to those described in these malicious books, and with greater vivacity are they interested in the Orthodox Church.

4. Americans in the Russian Church (Cont.)

There is, meanwhile, great need among Americans to become acquainted with our Church. Besides coming to the church to observe and become familiar with Orthodox worship, they often make more serious inquiries in this respect. In the early years after the opening of the church in New York, American visitors asked the priest so frequently about the history and distinctive features of the Russian Orthodox Church that he was compelled, in response to these inquiries, to deliver a series of lectures—from the church pulpit in place of sermons—setting forth in outline the history of the introduction and spread of Christianity in Russia and sketching the present state of the Orthodox Russian Church. He has had to deliver similar lectures outside the church more than once. American schools have the custom of inviting speakers, mostly from among preachers, at their annual celebrations to deliver edifying or otherwise appropriate speeches. Many schools on these occasions turned to Father Nicholas Bierring, asking him to deliver a lecture on some aspect of Russian life, the religious state of the Russian people, education in Russia, and the like. Father Bierring always gladly agreed to such requests and delivered several lectures for the instruction of young American generations. He has had to deliver lectures on the same subjects at large literary gatherings, at the request of members of various societies. Thus, he once delivered a lecture in a large public hall “on the attitude of the Orthodox Church toward other denominations.” The hall was, according to newspaper account, overcrowded with listeners from the educated classes of society. Among them were many clergy of various denominations and many ladies, and “all listened to the lecture with rapt attention.” “The speaker was frequently interrupted by signs of approval and, at the conclusion, received enthusiastic applause, in which the members of American clergy present took especially lively part.” Not infrequently inquiries of another kind are made about matters concerning our Church. For instance, a telegraph report appears in the newspapers about some church event in Russia. In such form it is incomprehensible to most American readers, and so, to clarify it, newspaper reporters quite often come to the Russian priest with questions about what this report means, how such and such a fact could occur, and so on. Since this clarification is ordinarily intended for publication, one can easily understand how ready the Russian priest must constantly be here not to compromise his position. Last spring, the newspapers published a report that Jews in Russia were being subjected to government persecution, and reporters pounced on Father N. Bierring with questions about what this report meant, whether such persecution was really possible in Russia, how the Russian government treats non-believers in general, whether religious freedom exists in Russia, and so forth. Then a brief report appeared about a memorial service that was held in Moscow for the late Empress on the fortieth day after her death, and again reporters appeared with questions for clarification of this custom of the Orthodox Church, its origin, significance, history, and so on. American reporters are relentless tyrants of every public figure, and by the established custom here no public figure can escape their questioning under pain of great unpleasantness—such as public ridicule. They shamelessly intrude into every home and even more shamelessly begin to torment with their questioning anyone who has become the victim of their curiosity. The conversation is often transmitted in the newspapers not without cutting remarks about the victim.

Given such a demand from Americans to become acquainted with the Orthodox Church, the church journal assumes especially important significance. Many articles in it were written directly at the request of readers expressing a desire to become familiar with this or that aspect of the life of our Church. Coming to the church and being especially struck by some act of sacred action or by the symbolism of Orthodox rites, Americans usually request more or less detailed explanations regarding these aspects, and these are provided them by literary means—in the next issue of the journal. Americans in general present fertile ground for the work of religious and church figures.

Good soil into which seed falls brings forth good fruit thirty and sixty and a hundredfold. What fruits may be expected from the coming closer acquaintance of Americans with the Orthodox Church? In a few lines it is impossible to answer such an important question. One can only note some facts that cast a shadow of what is possible in the future answer. Contrary to the stories circulating among us in Russia, Americans are a deeply religious people, which strikes any more or less attentive observer of their life at once. True church and religious life is greatly hindered by wandering sectarianism, but even in this respect the most recent times show a remarkable change. Since the fratricidal war of the 1860s, the country entered a new epoch of its history. A sense of its national and state unity began to strengthen among the people, and increasingly the party fell away that regarded the states as merely a political union of separate and independent states that could break it apart at any time, should they find it disadvantageous to themselves. Together with the development of the idea of national unity came a movement for religious unity. Religious ferment weakens, small sects disperse, and there is a noticeable centralization around the largest congregations. The impulse of national unity cannot help but carry with it the impulse of a single, strong church. The Roman Catholic Church was among the first to perceive this pulse of national life and has made the best use of it for its own purposes. It now grows and strengthens rapidly in the country, and one of the chief reasons for its success can be indicated, without much risk of error, in precisely this process of national centralization. The people see in it the most ancient and majestic representative of Christianity and strive for its bosom in spite of the fact that, in essence, the history and system of papal infallibility are far from sympathetic to it[1]. If it had been shown something else earlier—another no less majestic, but still more ancient church, free from the system of papacy and incomparably better having preserved the purity of Christianity of the golden ages, the Eastern church—then one could say with confidence which way its sympathies would have inclined. Americans are an extremely Western people, but in their souls the feeling of longing for the East is all the stronger, as the common homeland of humanity. They are a deeply Christian people, and all the stronger in them is the love for the East as the cradle of Christianity. For them more than for any other people in the world the motto ex oriente lux[2] is understandable.

* * *

[1] More on this, see my special study “On Roman Catholicism in America.” St. Petersburg 1881.

[2] On the religious state of the American people, see my book “Religion in America,” first chapter. St. Petersburg 1881.

Public and Economic Notes

Our Trans-Atlantic Friends

One of the causes of foreign press Russophobia. – Russian correspondents in American newspapers. – Misleading American public opinion. – Examples of American attitudes toward Russian questions. – The Russo-Turkish war on the American stage.

Anyone who has had occasion to follow everything written about Russia and Russian questions in the foreign press has undoubtedly been struck by the bitterness of Russophobia and the shamelessness of all manner of slanders which are generously supplied to the columns of various newspapers. We are accustomed to explain this phenomenon by the general hatred of the Western European world for its Eastern half, on which fate has settled the Russian person. But there are particular causes which give this hatred an especially bitter direction. Passing through England, I had the opportunity to meet in London a Russian who, having lived there for more than ten years, had been able to gain insight into the life of the English newspaper world. The conversation naturally dealt mostly with the attitude of English public opinion toward Russia and Russian affairs, and I was amazed to hear that the English generally love Russians, and only their traditional Eastern policy compels them to take a politically hostile attitude toward us, which is supported in every way by the Cabinet, which was then still Conservative. As if as factual proof of English love for Russia, in our company sat an Englishman who was devoted to Russia with all his heart, was interested in all its internal and external affairs, was studying the Russian language, and even adopted the Orthodox faith. How could I reconcile with this the desperate Russophobia of the English press, which, as a completely free press, must undoubtedly be a complete and accurate reflection of public mood?—I asked my compatriot in amazement. My compatriot smiled and remarked: “It is plain that you are new to being abroad. When you have lived here a bit longer, you will have a more correct idea of this notorious freedom. First of all,” he continued, “in political questions the press is far from as independent from the Cabinet as you are inclined to think. Suggestions from above play, one might say, a more important role here than in our Russia, inasmuch as they are incomparably more definite here and are expressed in round sums of pounds sterling. In particular, regarding Russia and Russian questions, the press cannot even be independent and autonomous. The English in general are not distinguished by knowledge of foreign languages, and Russian in particular. Therefore…

“Therefore, the Russian sections of the newspapers must be in the hands of Russians, and that certainly cannot promote Russophobia!”—I interrupted my compatriot impatiently.

“Exactly so,” he replied: “English newspapers cannot get along without Russians, or rather without those who know the Russian language. But that is precisely the point of the whole question. By some coincidence, which however is understandable from a certain perspective, the representatives of knowledge of the Russian language, possessed at the same time with a passion for writing, have historically been not real Russians, but Russian Poles and Jews. It is they who direct the Russian sections of the newspapers. Some time ago I myself became interested in this question, took the trouble specifically to find out who in fact serve in the local newspaper world as representatives of Russia, and my investigation fully confirmed what I have just said. In ten of the best newspapers, the Russian sections, as it turned out from my investigation, are in the hands of almost exclusively Poles and Jews, and among them only one or two Englishmen. And these Poles are of such a sort that they cannot say two words about Russia without frothing at the mouth, the bitterest enemies of ours and incurable dreamers of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth…”

These revelations of my London friend were for me an instructive novelty and gave me the opportunity to understand more clearly certain aspects of the relations of English press to Russian questions, if only, for example, this well-known feverish sensitivity of theirs to the Polish question, this unceasing hysterical, malevolently helpless howling about the oppression by northern barbarians of poor, defenseless Poland. Two years have passed since then as I have crossed the ocean and settled in the New World, among our trans-Atlantic friends. The press here is already completely free, there is no traditional policy regarding the Eastern question, and the known “friendship” toward Russians can least of all support Russophobia. With a lively sense of self-satisfaction I ordinarily took up American newspapers in the early days to find out what our “friends” were really saying about us. If anywhere, then surely here we should have defenders against Western European slander and malice. Not at all. All the slanders, outrages, and absurdities with which the Western European press abounds concerning Russia are calmly transplanted to American pages and even with the addition of new ones. Struck by such abnormality, I set about discovering its cause. One aspect explained itself quickly. If Western Europe is little acquainted with the Russian language despite constant relations with Russia, then Americans do not know it at all, and it serves as a veritable Chinese wall in the business of direct acquaintance with the Russian people. Meanwhile, there is enormous need to become acquainted with Russia, and to satisfy this need the newspapers calmly reprint everything that appears on Russian questions in German, English, and partly French newspapers. In the course of time I had occasion to become somewhat acquainted with the intimate side of the American press and found that it has Russian contributors as well. But this acquaintance only served to clarify why it with such indiscriminacy, or rather with such hellish discrimination, carries over to its pages all the lies and filth with which the Western European press abounds concerning Russia. The fact is that there is not really any intelligent Russian element in New York that could undertake the task of seriously acquainting Americans with Russia. But in its stead there lives a whole gang of adventurers, whose various exploits, partly political but mainly of a purely criminal character, have forcibly driven to the soil of the New World, placing them in a hostile relationship toward Russia, which is inaccessible to them. Lacking any trade or skill and without any positive scientific or literary knowledge, they are at the same time filled with indignant negation. Part of them hovers around dirty German socialist papers (it is remarkable that there is no English socialist press here), and part has installed itself with large newspapers as “Russian correspondents” and managers of Russian sections. These are the ones who treat the American public to selections from Western European newspapers with the addition of their own inventions, explanations, and supplements. And you will encounter in American newspapers news of every trivial gossip and filth with which the Russian press abounds, but mostly in such an inflated form which gives the trivial fact the significance of “a symptom of incurable decomposition”; but in the meanwhile you will never learn of the most significant gratifying fact, unless you are informed about it by telegraph by real American correspondents in Russia. There is nothing to say about what damage this does in establishing correct relations between two undoubtedly friendly peoples, how much it confuses American public opinion regarding Russia. One need only wonder that with such a state of affairs they sometimes manage to express their warm sympathies toward Russia and the Russian people, especially on account of outstanding events in its life, such as, for example, the celebration of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the reign of the late Emperor, when almost the entire American press unanimously blessed our crowned jubilant and cursed nihilism. On such occasions American sympathies for us burst forth in a turbulent stream, and “Russian correspondents” ordinarily hide in their holes, not daring to contradict public opinion of the country. But the very next, “ordinary” day they crawl out of their holes again and continue as before to earn their daily bread.

Fortunately, we have, though few, some good defenders among Americans themselves, namely among those who have had occasion to personally become acquainted with Russia and the Russian people during their residence in it. They eagerly share their sympathetic impressions drawn from personal observation of Russian life, and even acquaint Americans with the historical heroes of the Russian people. Thus, at present in one of the best monthly journals Mr. Schuyler, the former American Consul General in Russia, publishes a magnificent biography of our great reformer Peter the Great and with such splendor as is unthinkable in Russia. Each page is illustrated with superb engravings, the total cost of which amounts to 30,000 dollars. Another American, the well-known lawyer Stoughton, recently returned from Russia, where he held an important post as Minister of the United States, published in the most widely distributed journal the “North American Review” an article whose character is to some extent determined by its very title: “Popular fallacies about Russia.” In this same journal, several months before that, a “Russian” published an article under the title: “Empire of the discontented.” Desperately waving his pen of denial and discontent, the author got so carried away and went to such lengths of invention that even the American editorial office found it necessary to wash its hands and on the very first page made a footnote remark that it “does not assume responsibility for the accuracy of the facts reported by the author.” Stoughton’s actual article serves in a certain sense as a reply to the article by the “Russian,” and is interesting not only from this perspective, but also from the fact that the author has just returned from Russia, where he held an important and high post, which gave him the opportunity to penetrate into such spheres of Russian life which are not accessible to everyone, and wrote his article under the vivid impression of observations just received. Therefore I consider it not inappropriate to present brief excerpts from this article, and especially from that part of it which has direct bearing on the subject touched upon.

“The tendency of newspaper correspondence and journal articles of recent times,” says the author, has been to produce the impression that the Russian Empire is filled with seeds of disorder, threatening uprising and even revolution, if the government does not make immediate changes to satisfy what they call the demands of the people. This literature is mainly of English origin and is the result of that prejudice and that hostility toward Russia which, with insignificant interruptions, have constantly existed in England for the last hundred years. Their origin actually dates to the reign of Empress Catherine II, who, for all her faults (and they are much less than attributed to her) was one of the greatest and wisest rulers who ever lived; and, what is especially remarkable, these prejudices and hostilities arose as a result of her refusal, during our struggle for independence, to help Great Britain in its war with France and Spain, or through bribery to contribute to European peace, so that England, freed from its continental enemies, could with all its might crush our ancestors and suppress their uprising. Since that time Russia, its people and government have constantly been friends of our country, continuing to be so even at a time when no other government in Europe regretted the partition and the subsequent threatened destruction of the great republic. We must not forget that the Emperor of Russia, who is accused of such oppression of his people as to justify even murders and the outrages committed and threatened by nihilists, is that very humane and Christian monarch who in 1861, risking his life and throne, freed millions of slaves. We must also remember that when in 1861 the echo of our southern cannon thundered across Europe and its rulers gladly took it as a signal of a dying nation, he with sincere sympathy, which obligates us to his eternal gratitude, and with a deep understanding of what the integrity of the Union meant for us, entrusted his Chancellor Prince Gorchakov to announce to us his “deep interest with which the Emperor followed the development of the crisis threatening the prosperity and even the existence of the Union”; that “in the course of more than eighty years of its existence the American Union owes its independence, its grandiose growth, and its progress to the agreement of its members, sanctified under the guidance of its famous founder with institutions which could combine unity with freedom. This Union was fruitful; it presented to the world a spectacle of prosperity without precedent in the annals of history. It would be lamentable if, after such a brilliant example, the United States were to rush to the violation of the solemn treaty which until the present time constituted their strength… This Union in your eyes is not merely an essential element for universal political equilibrium. It constitutes, moreover, a nation toward which our most August sovereign and all Russia nurture the most friendly feelings; for these two countries, lying on the outskirts of two worlds, both in the ascending period of their development, seem called to a natural community of interests and sympathies, for which they have already given each other mutual proofs.”

A ruler who could praise republican institutions before the face of monarchical Europe in such enthusiastic expressions and who understood so clearly their significance for the development of the resources, wealth, and happiness of a people, cannot be indifferent to the welfare of his own people or inclined to deny them such political advantages and free institutions as they are capable of enjoying and benefiting from. Therefore it would only be just toward him and his government to suppose that as soon as the Russian people (the mass of whom were only recently serfs) is capable of enjoying that political freedom which consists in representative government, it will be granted to them. And indeed, I have the highest authority to say that this is precisely the goal of the imperial government, and that some time ago it was seriously occupied with discussing a plan of how, on a more general basis of representation, one could introduce partial representation, by means of which the highest interests of all parts of the Empire could be represented in St. Petersburg. It would not be surprising if even the highest and most humane mind had doubted the wisdom of granting recently freed slaves the right to elect representatives to assist in governing a great empire. But they do not even wish for this. The murderers who have recently declared themselves unfit for freedom or even for life except among savages and lawless vagabonds do not belong to the freed class or even to any of Russia’s productive classes at all. They are few in number, recognize no organization except for purposes of outrage and murder; they have no plan for changing or reforming the government; they have no theory except the theory of destroying and living without labor, by robbery of others. Nihilism is a doctrine from which even socialists and communists shudder. It presupposes the destruction of everything that holds even the worst society together. Its first mission, according to the declaration of its founder, consists of the destruction of “lies” and “the first lie is God. When we are rid of it,” says this abhorrent missionary (Bakunin), “and are convinced that the existence of ourselves and everything around us is due to a conglomeration of atoms, according to the laws of gravity, then and only then shall we take the first step toward freedom, and meet less difficulty in freeing the soul from the second lie, which is right, invented by force, which creates and destroys laws.” And then he declares that “when our souls are freed from fear of God and from this childish reverence for the fiction of right, all the other chains which bind us and which are called science, civilization, property, family, morality, and justice, will break like threads.” Such is the teaching of these wretched men, who have drawn attention to themselves by their murders and attempts at murder and who, among ignorant and irresponsible people, have even gained sympathy as the oppressed and working for the sake of state reform.

Our Trans-Atlantic Friends (Cont.)

“I need not say to those who know anything of the character of the Russian peasant, of his respect for law, reverence for the Church, awe before God, that he turns away from the nihilists, their teachings and goals, and among the arrested and judged he appears rarely. Similarly, the recent outrages have been committed and instigated not by workers or industrial classes, but usually by semi-literate, excited half-educated students who, though educated mostly at the government’s expense, become intolerant of religious instruction and any weakest control; and by a few desperate dare-devils who, having fled from the police, poison the souls of frivolous youth with their criminal teachings and finally lead some to the commission of the most terrible crimes. They are sometimes helped by women who boast of belonging to respectable and even noble families, but who in fact are such that the doors of respectable homes are not opened to them. It is difficult to understand how such persons can be considered reformers. They represent in Russia neither property, nor intelligence, nor the industry of the people, and those who have studied their careers must have noticed that they have never proposed definite reforms, or even such changes as would not destroy the very foundations of society and the state. Nevertheless, part of the English press, and sometimes even our own, has supposed, and many in our country now believe it, that the efforts of the nihilists to kill and destroy have as their goal the achievement of liberation from an oppressive government, and that the great majority of Russia’s population is subjected, thanks to tyranny and exactions of a despotic, cruel, and irresponsible power, to great and almost unbearable oppression and suffering. People believing this attribute to the nihilists and their murders a national and even patriotic purpose, and as a result are inclined to justify the most cruel means for achieving the supposed goal. The nihilists themselves strive to produce such an impression and, with the help of English press, not unwillingly spreading any news calculated to humiliate the Russian government and people in the eyes of the world, they have to a certain extent achieved their desire (which would have less consequence if this impression had not affected the consciousness of our own citizens) – to the great injustice toward the government, whose domestic administration and foreign influence have long been distinguished by wise and honest statesmanship and generally magnanimous goodwill, especially toward oppressed Christian peoples of Europe.”

“I dare conclude with the assurance that if we carefully study the history of the Russian Empire for the past hundred years and compare it with the history of any other European power, we shall find that its government has surpassed all others in sacrifices made by its people and treasury to help oppressed Christian peoples to liberate themselves from tyranny and slavery; and if we take into account the policy of the great Empress during our struggle for independence, and the sympathy expressed to us by her royal successor during our last struggle for the integrity of the inheritance left to us by our fathers, then we must acknowledge that Russian sympathy is serious and sincere, and not merely a product of Russian interests.”

This article was read by Americans with lively interest and was welcomed approvingly by the press. The dark clique hid in their holes and dared not open their mouths.

It is remarkable that no American who has had occasion to live some time in Russia and directly observe the character and life of the Russian people has come away from it without taking away the best impressions. As a new example, in addition to those given above, one may point to Greene, a lieutenant-engineer of the United States Army, who served as attaché at the American Embassy in Petersburg. His recently published book: “Sketches of Army Life in Russia” on every page reveals not only friendship for the Russian people in its ordinary sense, but the warmest, almost familial sympathy, which one does not encounter in Western European writings about Russia.

That Americans consider us Russians their friends—this is undoubted. To be convinced of this, you need only walk down Broadway in New York. There you constantly encounter signs and advertisements that lure Yankee buyers with the name of the people friendly to them, “Russian.” Confectioners announce that they have the best in the world pastries—Russian, shoemakers proclaim that they have boots made from Russian leather, bathhouse keepers trumpet that their Russian baths cure all ailments. In one place I even happened to read such a strange sign: one physician announces that one can obtain from him “truly Russian remedy for cough.” Since I was not suffering from a cough at that time, I had no particular interest in investigating what this native remedy was; but, in any case, it is pleasant to patriotic feeling to see such Russiaphilia in the capital of the Americans.

However, Russian sympathy is not always displayed by Americans in a flattering form for us. If you were to ask any Yankee which play of the past season he liked most, he would answer, not quite respectably: “of course – Fatinica”! Indeed, “Fatinica” is one of the most popular and beloved plays in New York; it was performed here for a whole year almost continuously, moving from one theater to another, of which there is a legion here. In form, it is a comic opera, or as we would say, an operetta, in which musical-vocal passages are mixed with dramatic ones – the form most beloved by Americans, since they, with their extraordinarily quick-moving, humorous, and mercenary nature to the very core, cannot at all endure true opera with its tediousness, diffuse idealism, and sentimental philosophy. The American Fatinica is a peculiar adaptation of the well-known operetta by Suppé, and its plot is adjusted to the recent Russian-Turkish war. Good production, magnificent music, and talented performance made Fatinica the darling of New York, and the position which the Russians occupy in it makes it not without interest for us, Russians. Though not entirely pleasant, yet not without interest to know how our trans-Atlantic friends make fun of us.

With the aim of becoming better acquainted with the play, I set out to one of the theaters where, as stated in the theater advertisements (which here, it should be noted, in their mercenary eloquence not at all yield to any other speculative advertisements), Fatinica was given with unprecedented splendor: “With brilliant scenery, the most luxurious costumes, the best music in the western hemisphere and the most brilliant execution,” – as the advertisement literally stated. In America, theatrical notions of precedence are somewhat different from ours: the rows of seats nearest the orchestra are not in honor, and you can always obtain them as rejected merchandise if you are late in securing a seat in one of the middle rows. So it happened to me. Sitting in the front row awaiting Fatinica, I examined my “theater journal,” as the playbills are called here, which are distributed free and which really represent not playbills but journals, containing, besides the designation of the characters in the play, several decent critical notes on various theatrical plays, an abundance of anecdotes and puns, with which in case of lack of your own material you can amuse your lady, and masses of various advertisements. The orchestra, it cannot be said, the best in the western hemisphere, performed the overture; then the curtain rose and opened a scene of the Russian-Turkish war.

The action takes place on the Danube, opposite a Turkish fortress. Winter. Little Russian soldiers sleep on the snow, with crackling frost. Dawn breaks and a sentry from his post with a deep voice hymn awakens the soldiers; but the exhausted soldiers do not hear the hymn and get up only when a drunk, barely standing on his feet “sergeant Stepan” begins to beat them with a whip right and left. The little Russian soldiers are all dressed in American overcoats with hoods; only one sergeant is dressed in Russian fashion; on his neck, together with his flask, hangs a pair of Russian mittens, with which he slaps, obviously driving away the cold. A common camp scene begins with a sutler, who appears to be a Bulgarian brother, serving as a spy for the Turks. A mass of “cadets” plays at ball games, throwing them at sentries. Among those awakened appears a young cavalry lieutenant Vladimir Dimitrovich (without a surname), a dreamy lover, who sings a decent aria: “My sweet sleep is broken.” His ardent virginal heart had only just known the bliss of love in Petersburg when the god of war called him to the banks of the Danube. Once, during a “carnival,” the youthful lieutenant, in the guise of Fatinica, was presented to an important “boyar,” who had a pretty niece Lidia Ivanovna. The boyar, not joking, fell headlong for the false Fatinica, and Fatinica fell for his niece. Now in camp life Lidia Ivanovna is the constant object of the lieutenant’s sighs and languid moans. As soon as the lieutenant finished his languid song, Cossacks dragged a spy into the camp. “A spy, a spy – ready for the gallows is he!” the chorus cried out. But in the supposed spy the lieutenant recognizes his acquaintance, a correspondent of a large American newspaper, Forbes. Revived from fear, Forbes, when asked by the Russian warriors what a correspondent is, gives a hilarious recitative characterization of a “reporter.”

“You surely must excuse the mistake, sir,” Captain Vasily apologizes to him.

“Please, no apologies, captain: on the contrary, I am very pleased. Just think what a magnificent correspondence I can write to my newspaper – two columns at least: ‘Capture of a special correspondent by a Cossack detachment. Brave and courageous defense. Overcome by numerical superiority.’ How many, pray, were there?”

“Two.”

“Well, I can say two hundred – for euphony. ‘Bound with a lasso to the back of a wild Tatar mare. Arrival in camp and sentence as a spy to the gallows. Deliverance by a happy chance. Hearty greeting from officers and a magnificent dinner given in my honor.’ Is it not so?”

But the correspondent’s imagination, running wild about the dinner, was stopped by the officers’ announcement that they had only one soup – “Schtschi” – and one wine – “Vodka” – which would not agree with him. For entertainment, the reporter proposes to arrange a masquerade spectacle, to which all agree and leave the stage.

A drum roll sounds. General Knatchukoff enters, fierce and wild as Attila, in a bearskin coat and with a whip in his hand, which obeys him as a good soldier obeys his sword. The general’s movements are impetuous-wild and menacing, and the continuously whistling and cracking whip attests to his disciplinary strictness. The general, having poured forth a whole sea of curses and oaths for an insufficiently honorable reception, sings a laudatory aria to the whip, in which he pours out his feelings of gratitude to his “unchanging friend,” inspiring all with love and fear for the “high and mighty commander.” Having enumerated the nationalities of his regiments, among which are Cossacks and Ostyaks, Druzes and Tunguses, Lapps and Finns, etc., the general solemnly declares that “each regiment knows the ropes with this instrument.” The aria is accompanied by the musical cracking of the whip. The subsequent scenes provide factual proof of the general’s song that “each regiment knows the ropes with the whip”: the general beats everyone who comes his way. Among the first to learn the ropes was the correspondent.

Forbes. (Enters and aside). Magnificent! A description of this Major Urza will be a lovely adornment to my correspondence!

General. Ha! A foreigner here! St. Nicholas! Thunder of Moscow! Who are you, dog? (seizes him by the collar).

Forbes. How dare you, old Tatar! I will complain to my government!

Gen. Go to the devil, you and your government both! Do you know who I am? Take him and give him twenty-five lashes! (Personally gives him a foretaste of the sweetness of the whip).

F. But forgive me… I… I…

Gen. Not a word! The whip first of all, then apology!

F. (Hands his papers with trembling hands). Would your excellency not deign to read – from headquarters…

Gen. From headquarters?! (Tears the paper, so it tears, and reads). Special correspondent… The devil take you all – your whole breed. Your papers are in order (salutes it). You may be free from the whip. But I write – yes, and know what to write. Otherwise – I’ll flog you!!!

Masked figures enter and the lieutenant, dressed as a Rumanian girl. The general recognizes in her his Fatinica, drives out all the others with his whip, and remains alone with her, where he demonstrates the ardor of his heart, concealed under the armor of disciplinary severity. While flirting with the false Fatinica, the general’s niece, Lidia Ivanovna, arrives in the camp. A full Russian winter sleigh appears on the stage, even with the unfamiliar Russian yoke: only by a misunderstanding it was attached not in place – in the middle of the shafts over the horse’s back. Two mounted Cossacks formed the escort. The Americans greeted this living Russian picture with frenzied applause. Whether they wished it or not, the general had to rejoice at his niece’s arrival and, together with Fatinica and the reporter, showed them into the camp barracks. Night came, that mother of all treachery. The Bulgarian sutler brought Bashibazouk soldiers, who captured the beauties together with the reporter, much to his pleasure, since it gave him new romantic material for his correspondence. Meanwhile the alarm signal sounded, Russian regiments advanced, and true hellish gunfire began against the Bashiubazouk soldiers, covering the stage with gunsmoke. In the midst of the fiercest battle, before the line, the general appeared and, in desperation waving his whip, cried out: “Stop, do not shoot! You will kill my Fatinica!”

Victory remained with the Russians, but the prisoners – with the Turks, who presented them to the Pasha in the fortress, to which the second act of the play transfers the audience. The magnificent harem of Pasha Izzet opens. The Pasha is a Europeanly educated man, liberal, progressive, and constantly occupied with reforms in his harem. Forbes, as a correspondent, is received by the Pasha in a friendly manner and introduced to all the delights of harem pleasures; champagne flows like a river: to mutual admirations and praises, embraces and kisses, with which the correspondent and the Pasha seal their friendship, there is no end. The correspondent promises to write a magnificent article about the Pasha, for which the latter provides more champagne, etc. In honor of his new friend the Pasha arranges a spectacle of black shadows, but amid the comic shadows the fierce figure of the Russian general suddenly appears and the crack of the whip is heard, followed by the invasion of the harem by a Russian detachment. The liberal Pasha had to jump around desperately to escape the Russian whip.

The third and last act takes place in Odessa, in the general’s house. The venerable general, even here, after the conclusion of the war, does not abandon his habits and constantly appears with his whip. The lieutenant, under the name of Fatinica’s brother, appears before the general, finds favor in his eyes, so that he changes his decision to give his niece to one of his friends, a Caucasian soldier, from whom a cannon ball had torn off both his arms during the battle, and marries her to the lieutenant with an appropriate promotion in rank. The general’s own heart wound seemed to be healing at the thought that the lieutenant would repay him for his niece with his sister Fatinica. But a treacherous reporter at once cuts the Gordian knot of the play, bringing the general a letter informing him that Fatinica has died. The iron general read the letter with tears, but then consoled himself with his niece’s happiness, who was at once married to the officer. The Russian “pope,” who performed the wedding, in the most ugly dress, not at all Russian, took part in the general celebration.

The sketch of this play presented above can give some idea of it. The numerous audience laughed continuously. The entire play is built on mockery of Russian barbarism and savagery, in which we Russians, it seems, far outdo the Turks, more susceptible than we to European civilization. This view, it must be admitted, exists not only on the theatrical comic stage: traces of it can be constantly noticed both in the press and in everyday life. And perhaps the play itself, which mocks us Russians, pleased the Americans so much just because it found a response in their views of us. In such an attitude toward us, the Americans are not guilty. They do not know us directly and do not have an organ for direct acquaintance with us. They look at us through spectacles, which are obligingly held up to us by the hostile German and English press, and to our shame are supported by the American newspaper correspondents described above.

2. Emigration

A garden of emigrants. – The great migration of peoples – An unprecedented influx of settlers into America. – The value of labor and money brought from Europe. – Russian settlers. – The Samar Germans and the sad tale of their travels.

On the shore of an ocean bay, washing the American metropolis, stands an enormous circular building, surrounded by high walls. Before the narrow gates into the spacious courtyard constantly throngs a multitude of people, presenting a unique spectacle in the world. This is the so-called emigrants’ garden (Castle Garden) – a place where settlers arrive from Europe and where they find their first shelter in the promised land of the New World. What a mixture of clothes, languages, and faces! Red-haired Scandinavians and dark Italians, dirty Polish Jews and tall Irishmen, phlegmatic Germans and fidgety Frenchmen – all crowd here together, writing their names in America’s book of life and looking about confusedly when an aerial train of the railway dashes almost over their heads. Shrewd Yankees hover about, trying as quickly as possible to squeeze extra tallers, rubles, or francs from inexperienced settlers. Here also constantly present are agents of political parties, collecting subordinate material for political agitations and thoroughly confusing poor emigrants with all sorts of baseless promises.

The past and current years in America have been among the most prosperous. Thanks to the large harvests of these years, the country’s industry has developed on a colossal scale, as if making up for the recent still grave crisis. The demand for labor proved to be huge, and it found a response in Europe, where at the same time systematic crop failures and grave political circumstances laid upon the working population an almost unbearable burden. The natural consequence was the intensification of emigration, and the past two years in this regard are unprecedented in the country’s history. Ocean steamships from Europe one after another bring whole thousands of settlers, as if all of Europe had decided to emigrate to America or a new era of the migration of peoples had come. In 1879, a total of 135,000 settlers arrived in America; in the past year, their number rose to 400,000, and for the current year, 500,000 are expected. The influx of emigration constantly fluctuates in its volume. The largest influx before this was in 1854, when more than 319,000 people arrived in America, and then gradually weakened until 1862, when only 76,000 arrived. From that year, emigration grew again, and in 1872 it reached 294,000. The following year, 1873, was the year of a terrible industrial crisis in the country, whose sad consequences had only just been erased, and therefore emigration weakened again, so that in 1877, the number of emigrants was only 54,000 – one of the smallest figures in the history of European emigration to the United States. In 1878, this figure rose to 75,000, and in 1879, as already stated above, the number of emigrants was 135,000. Given the direct dependence of emigration on crop failures and hunger, one could assume that the largest influx of settlers would be from Ireland, in which terrible famine raged in recent years. However, statistics show that the Irish element in emigration grew far out of proportion with other nationalities. Particularly noticeable is the influx from Germany and the Scandinavian peninsula. All this is predominantly young and healthy people who, relying on their strong hands and persistent labor, hope to acquire a good new farm in the new promised land. Emigration is constantly supported and increased by the fact that former settlers, having acquired a farm, call to America their relatives and friends, even sending them money for passage. The especially large influx of emigration this year is explained partly by the fact that the recent industrial crisis for a time stopped from emigrating many thousands of families, who now, having received favorable news from America, are hurrying to fulfill their long-cherished desire. Germans emigrating here openly complain of the unbearable condition in their dear “fatherland,” where Bismarck’s system of iron militarism stifles industry and free labor. Swedes complain of the scarcity and barrenness of the land, Irish of hunger and a poor system of land rental, Jews of government persecution and poor business, Italians of militarism and a heavy tax system, etc. In short, everywhere and always discontent, and in aging Europe it seems there is no such corner left where a man could be satisfied. Americans with outstretched arms receive these burdened, laboring, and discontent. The demand for labor at the present time is extraordinarily great. The labor office at the “emigrants’ garden” finds no difficulty in finding work for all those settlers who do not depart to the distant west. A remarkable feature of emigration in the past year is that among the settlers the age of maturity predominates, and there are relatively few children. A large proportion falls on young unmarried men, who will certainly all marry in America and thus become firmly attached to their new homeland.

Such emigration is extraordinarily advantageous for the country; it is living capital, which is even more valuable than money. Americans fully realize this. The governor of New York State presented to the legislative assembly the following evaluation of emigration: “The significance of this addition to our population, as a productive force, cannot be measured simply by quantity. A study, which I had the occasion to conduct several years ago, proved that whereas in our population men from fifteen to forty years of age account for only 21 1/2 percent, among settlers this percentage is always no less than 41 1/2. If the entire influx of emigration over the last thirty years equals 8,000,000, then this has given us such a labor force as our native population could give only with a size of more than 18,000,000 people. Moreover, these are mostly people of an age which coincides in Europe with military service obligations, that is, people with the highest capacity for physical labor. The chief sources of emigration have constantly been Germany and Ireland, which account for 2/3 of all settlers. In 1856, a calculation was made regarding the average amount of monetary reserves brought by emigrants, and as the lowest estimate, the sum of 68 dollars per head was found. This settlement is one of the most remarkable ever undertaken in history. It very rapidly increased our population, created great cities, established new states, gave employment to our railroads, expanded trade and industry, and took an active part in all great national events, for which our country was the theater. The advantages of such strong emigration spread throughout all northern parts of the republic. About 45 percent of it ordinarily settles in New York State during the first year after arrival, after which this proportion considerably decreases.” The Statistical Bureau in Washington, making a similar evaluation of emigration, calculated that it over a fifty-year period until 1871 increased the country’s capital by 6,243,880,800 dollars and in just 1870 by 285,000,000 dollars. But more valuable than the value of this simple physical and unrefined force of emigrants was the multitude of skilled craftsmen, rare talents, and even inventive geniuses that they represented. It is remarkable that it is ordinarily the most energetic and enterprising people who emigrate from Europe, which is, moreover, very understandable and natural. Such a long journey, undoubtedly, can only be undertaken by the most energetic natures, who at the same time can more successfully free themselves from the oppressive weight of a difficult social position. Weaker natures ordinarily even fear such an undertaking and do not have the strength to extricate themselves from their difficult situation. In recent times a particularly favorable aspect of emigration has become increasingly noticeable, namely, that settlers, barely stopping in New York, go straight to the distant west, where they quickly acquire land property and a farm. The distant west still and until now represents a rich desert with a sparse population. Land is cheap and requires only labor. How much room for emigration remains there can be judged by the fact that the single state of Texas can contain up to 50,000,000 population at average density, while now it still has less than two million.

Emigration in the past year alone has been marked by a special feature. In appearance it seems more advantageous than before. People look more educated and are dressed more respectably. But at the same time they are poorer in monetary terms, so that the average sum of money they bring can only be determined at 60 dollars per person. And yet, despite all this, emigration of the current year, even if we determine it at 450 thousand, will extract from Europe clean money totaling 27,000,000 dollars – as a gift to America. The poorest emigrants are considered to be Italians, who usually arrive here without a kopeck and live, as they do everywhere, through musical beggary with a miserable barrel organ; the most uneducated are Hungarian Slovaks, who have acquired the reputation here of the coarsest and most slovenly people, and the richest are considered to be North German and Russian settlers. Particularly good sums are brought by the latter – from the Mennonites, so that not infrequently the average figure among them is 1,000 dollars per head. Last autumn, twenty Mennonite families arrived from Russia and together brought a monetary reserve of 85,000 dollars, which for Russia represented a direct loss of 170,000 rubles at the exchange rate.

From the statistical reports printed weekly by the emigration commission, it can be seen that Russian settlers constantly arrive in America. Particularly many arrived this past spring. In some weeks the reports announced the arrival of Russian settlers up to 900 people. According to the customary specialization of the name “Russian,” it would naturally be understood that these are actually Russian people. So I at first thought, and with understandable joy hastened to the emigrants’ garden to see my fellow countrymen. But what was my disappointment and astonishment when instead of true Russian people I constantly encountered Poles and chiefly the esteemed peyos-wearers, Polish Jews. Poles, and especially Polish Jews, with their ugly peyos and dirty long-skirted caftans, for some reason consider it more advantageous for themselves to pass under the name of Russians, although most of the former do not know how to say a word in Russian. I have several acquaintances who are decidedly Poles, and yet boldly present themselves as purely Russian, and one of them even added to his surname, ending in ko, a Russifying syllable v. The matter is explained, however, by the fact that among Americans, for some reason, an unfavorable view of Poles has formed, as a degenerate and diminished nation, incapable of serious labor. Therefore, the Russian label gives them better chances of finding work. The masquerade of Jews under a Russian name is even more understandable. Americans generally do not like Jews very much, and Polish Jews are not even liked by their own brothers – American Jews, who disown them as if from some dangerous contagion. The very name “Polish Jew” or “polack” is considered by the latter a derogatory word, a synonym for slovenliness and baseness. A respectable American Jewish girl considers it shameful to marry a Polish Jew, even if he were a secret rich man. Clearly, under such circumstances, Polish Jews have little chance of good business, and so they grandly call themselves “pure Russian” people. Once a short typical little Jew came to the local Russian church and asked for relief from the “Russian charitable society.” Seeing that the petitioner was not Russian at all, the cash manager decided to refuse him relief, at the same time giving him the address of one of the rich Jewish charitable societies. – “I am not a Jew, by God, not a Jew!” the little Jew cried out. – “I am Russian! By God, I am Russian!” – “But you speak Russian poorly,” they remark to him. – “This means nothing! By God, not a Jew! I am a baptized Tatar – Peter Troitsky. By God, not a Jew!” – At this, all the muscles in the little Jew’s face worked desperately, and his hands actively flailed about, making the sign of the cross as proof that he was not a Jew, but Russian. The scene was so comically hilarious that it was undoubtedly worth more than a dollar, which was given to the little Jew. A couple of years ago these same “pure Russian” gentlemen founded a “Russian club” in New York. Americans, generally very interested in everything Russian, began to pay close attention to this club, and were not a little disappointed when they learned of the deception.

– “I am not a Jew, by God, not a Jew!” – the little Jew cried out. – “I am Russian! by God, I am Russian!”

– “But you speak Russian poorly,” they remark to him.

– “This means nothing! By God, not a Jew! I am a baptized Tatar – Peter Troitsky. By God, not a Jew!” – At this, all the muscles on the little Jew’s face worked desperately, and his hands actively flailed about, making the sign of the cross as proof that he was not a Jew, but Russian. The scene was so comically hilarious that it was undoubtedly worth more than a dollar, which was given to the little Jew. A couple of years ago these same “pure Russian” gentlemen founded a “Russian club” in New York. Americans, generally very interested in everything Russian, began to pay close attention to this club, and were not a little disappointed when they learned of the deception.

There are almost no true Russian settlers here. Rarely there are isolated cases of Russians appearing, and sometimes of a very strange nature. Recently, a simple Russian soldier woman arrived here on an English ship with three little ones from Arkhangelsk. The unfortunate adventuress came here in search of her husband, without a kopeck and with only a dozen broken English words. Her husband she did not find, and with her hungry crying little children on the very first day after arrival, she was forced to ask for charity on the street. The police arrested her and turned her over to the emigration commission for return to Russia. Americans do not like such settlers. They are not the sort that Mennonites with fat wallets.

2. Emigration (Cont.)

Fat wallets, however, are not the case for all Russian Germans arriving here, especially if these Germans do not come directly from Russia. Last year, a party of Samar Germans arrived here in such a wretched condition, which was not at all better than that of the Arkhangelsk adventuress. The party arrived by steamer from Brazil in the number of 85 people – a wretched remainder of a party that numbered 350 people when leaving Russia. The history of their travels is truly terrible. They were mostly settlers from the Samar colony of Graf and neighboring ones, where they engaged in agriculture and owned good farms. In 1877, according to their accounts, agents of the Brazilian government appeared among them and began to tell about the blessed country of the New World, where nature with a generous hand scatters its gifts and the earth brings rich harvests almost without cultivation. Brazil they depicted as a true paradise, where without great labor one could quickly become wealthy, and where life had many such charms, which Samara does not even know about, and they offered free choice of any and the best land. The unfortunate Germans fell to temptation and sent two men from their midst to investigate the fabulous country. The sent scouts made a quick trip to Brazil. Whether they themselves were deceived or found it advantageous for some reason to deceive their principals, but they gave a favorable report about their observations and, among other things, even assured that the Brazilian government would bear the expenses of their journey. Then the Germans, without much thought, decided to go to the promised land, and in autumn of that same year rose up in the number of eighty families, constituting 350 souls. From Bremen the party with bright hopes set out “to America.” Their journey was difficult and long. They arrived in Rio de Janeiro at the end of January 1878, having lost two elderly people and 32 children, who died during the journey from the deadly equatorial heat and sea sickness. Road expenses, the Brazilian government, of course, did not think of paying, and this immediately considerably emptied the German pockets. The next day after arriving in the harbor, the government sent them into the interior of the country by railroad and settled them in the vicinity of the town of Palmyra. Plenty of land was given to them, and at their personal choice. But there was nothing to choose. All the land was sandy and rocky and generally unsuitable for the sowing of wheat, to which they had become so accustomed in Samara. The government supplied them with indigenous seeds for sowing rice, coffee, tobacco, and cotton, but our Samars did not know how to begin with this. Taught by necessity, however, they somehow adapted and made plantings. But scarcely had the seeds sprouted and risen two inches when the heat scorched the sprouts and the labor was lost. Meanwhile, from the unbearable heats, illness began to develop among them, children and women died rapidly. At the same time, monetary reserves began to be quickly depleted for the majority, and some of the richer ones went to the shore and returned to Europe. Near Palmyra, the colonists lived for more than a year. Then the government chose another place for them – in the forest, where they could suffer less from the unfamiliar heat and again gave them seeds for sowing. The plantings, however, failed here too. After suffering here for about six months on meager government subsidy, the unfortunate colonists, whose number constantly diminished from sickness and heat, set out for the coastal town of Baranko. Here the government gave them work in paving streets, but the meager pay was insufficient for their subsistence. Six months they worked here, after which the government, – which apparently tried to do everything possible for them – took them back to Rio de Janeiro. For two weeks they lay there on the streets, hungry and ragged, under the rays of the scorching sun. To cap their suffering, the police arrested them for vagrancy and imprisoned them for two weeks, after which, contrary to their desire to return to Russia, they were sent to settle in an interior village a hundred versts from the capital. Five and a half months they led there a wretched, destitute existence, vainly attempting once more to make plantings, which constantly failed. At last, at their tearful requests, the Brazilian officials allowed them to return to Rio de Janeiro, from which the government sent them to the United States. They left Brazil on July 25, and arrived in New York on August 13.

It was pitiful to look at these unfortunate Samars when they sat in a little group in one corner of the emigrants’ garden. The terrible history of their sufferings was completely written on their exhausted faces and miserable appearance. In them it was completely impossible to recognize those clean, well-to-do Samar colonists who can constantly be seen in Samar cities in autumn when they bring golden wheat for sale. One had to see their joy when they learned that I was Russian and moreover from the neighboring Saratov province. How many questions poured in on me from all sides both about Samara and about the Volga River, which for them now appeared as something magically sweet, but – alas, unattainable. They are now setting out to Kansas, where they have some friends.

“Why are you not returning to Russia now?” I asked one of the party leaders, Conrad Bach, at the same time aware of the sharp delicacy of the question.

The Samar at first looked down dejectedly, then, quickly blinking his eyes, cried out with some desperate pathos:

“Der Himmel ist näher für uns, als das thöricht verlorne Russland! (Heaven is now closer for us than the Russia we left in our folly!).”

A certain strong note of despair and injured pride sounded in these words, and I did not ask further about it. At parting, the German’s eyes again quickly blinked, and he covered them with a dirty handkerchief. With a heavy feeling I left my fellow countrymen.

But who is at fault?…

3. A Land Flowing With Milk and Honey

Sons and stepsons. – The commercial Babylon. – Unparalleled development of trade. – Views of commercial men. – Land – true wealth. – Last year’s harvest. – Revolution in agriculture. – A sea of wheat. – The country’s finances. – Endless numbers. – The flow and production of gold. – King Croesus and the Yankee. – The genius self-seller. – The queen of drama.

Fate is not equally a mother to all. For her some are sons, others are stepsons. Of late she seems to have deliberately decided with one hand to mercilessly scourge our poor homeland, and with the other to generously scatter her caresses upon our trans-Atlantic friends. Never perhaps have two friends been in such different circumstances as these friends – Russians and Americans – are now. While our native land languishes under the weight of all sorts of evils and misfortunes, and the cry of hopeless circumstances echoes painfully in the Russian heart even beyond the ocean, Americans wallow in wealth and contentment spreads broadly throughout the country. This is fully reflected in the press. I always take up a Russian newspaper with pain in my heart. It is an unending cry of a land struck by Egyptian plagues. The American newspaper, on the other hand, is the exultant, self-satisfied voice of a people living in a land flowing with milk and honey. The numerical data in Russian newspapers show the quantity of beetles and locusts collected from the fields and millions of rubles requested by starving provinces from the government. American figures contain hundreds of millions of bushels of collected wheat and billions of dollars of trade turnover[1].

The sky has scattered its gifts with a generous hand for our trans-Atlantic friends in recent years, but in the past year it proved even more generous for them than in all the twenty years since the Civil War. Last year’s harvest is considered unprecedented. This directly reflected on the country’s trade, and the trading part of New York, or the so-called Down-town, presented a remarkable sight. This part of the city is naturally constantly bustling and bustling, but in the past year a kind of wild orgy of those maddened with delight of dollar worshippers took place there. Masses of hurried people stick their tongues out running along the sidewalks; streets are clogged beyond passage with monstrous wagons; the people’s noise, merging with the clatter and creak of trading convoys, stands like a roar above the city; on the shores by the wharves piles of export and import goods are heaped, and the entire surface of the surrounding waters is covered with a countless fleet of trading ships. This is a living picture of ancient Phoenician Tyre or flourishing Carthage, if only these trading giants of hoary antiquity can bear any comparison with present-day New York. Representatives of the wealthiest trading firms were gasping for breath from their worries, and newspaper reporters could not get from them any definite data whatsoever regarding the state of trade turnover.

“Could you not spare me ten minutes of your precious time – to say a few words concerning the autumn trade and general views on industry?” asked a Herald reporter, catching a representative of a wealthy firm at his most free moment.

“Oh, please!” said he, waving both his arms and legs. “You don’t need ten minutes at all! Trade – first rate! Never better! – and rushed off again to his business, leaving the reporter who had just taken out his notebook.

Other representatives of firms dealt with the persistent reporters in similar fashion, and briefly declared in one voice: “We are now at the peak of the hill of prosperity and, in all likelihood, will remain on it for a long time and into the future. Only one of them, as a rest, spared a few minutes for conversation with the reporter and made several statements, of interest for characterizing the present state of the country.”

“Our trade is now in such a flourishing state as it has never before reached during my lifetime,” said the respectable Yankee self-complacently, wiping sweat from his brow, streaming in rivulets on his gray beard. “This, of course, depends first of all on the harvest with which heaven has blessed us. Providence has scattered its gifts with a particularly generous hand for the south and west. I have happened to speak with hundreds of southerners, and all of them unanimously declared that from cotton this year they will realize more money than ever before. The harvest of everything is huge and prices are satisfactory. In Louisiana, sugar cane has yielded in great abundance, already ripens, and prices are half higher than last year’s. Rice is also excellent, prices are high and will certainly remain so. The wheat harvest in Texas is above average, and the cotton harvest promises to yield about a million and a half bales.”

“In your opinion, what is the cause of this rapid and unprecedented flow of prosperity in our country – after such a recent terrible crisis?”

“In my opinion, this depended on a sharp turn in our country’s industry, produced by this very crisis. After the end of the war, hundreds of thousands of unemployed people in search of work rushed north and flooded the northern cities. Thanks to such an influx of cheap labor, as well as a high protective tariff, our manufacturing industry at once grew to enormous dimensions – but to the detriment of our agricultural interests, so that soon we were forced to buy our own bread abroad. Lacking a real foundation, manufacturing industry could not long prosper, and indeed, in 1873, this terrible crash occurred. When this inevitable crisis broke out, and panic gripped the entire industrial world, the market was flooded with manufactured goods; there were no buyers, and prices collapsed into an abyss. Factories and mills suddenly stopped, laying off workers, and every day to thousands of idle hands new thousands were added. Not finding any more earnings in industrial cities, all this idle labor force then moved to the distant west. There all this working people took up the plow, and so, through several years, the result was an almost miraculous rebirth of the country. This immediately showed in what our true wealth consists. We are a more agricultural people than an industrial one. Last year’s harvest was so great that it was almost impossible to expect better, and yet by all signs, this year’s has surpassed it. Our prosperity has already begun to show itself in an increase in imports, which for the present time is an unusual phenomenon. Our export has also grown. Money flows to us in such a broad stream as Hudson pours its waters into the ocean,” concluded the self-satisfied merchant with a smile.

To give an idea of the sea of wheat produced in the past year by the United States, one example is sufficient. One state of Minnesota, which, moreover, year after year rises to the foremost wheat granary of the nation, produced last year on average about 40,000,000 bushels of wheat, and according to the sanguine calculation of hot speculators, this enormous figure rises to 53,000,000 bushels. In the year before last, this state produced 31,000,000 bushels, now 10, if not 20 million more. The reason for such a monstrous progression in production is explained by the fact that the enormous expanse of the state represents still unsettled virgin soil, and it is occupied each year by new settlers from European emigrants, year by year expanding the area of cultivated land. Thus, in the past year, 200,805 acres more were under cultivation than the previous year. The entire amount of state land bought and settled by emigrants in the past year was 1,696,896 acres. And further northwest of Minnesota there are still immeasurable expanses of fertile virgin land. In the current year, hundreds of thousands of emigrants are heading there, and within a year the wheat sea will spread even wider. To the special conveniences of this land belongs the fact that settlers do not remain in it cut off from the rest of the world by impassable roads. Railroads are built into this remote interior of the country almost ahead of emigration. At present, into the territory of Dakota, lying northwest of Minnesota and representing virgin soil capable of endless development, six lines of railroads are running, and all of them, except one, have been built within the last two years, and several miles were advanced forward even this past summer.

Such boundless wealth of fertile land threatens a revolution in America’s wheat production and will in time exert an overwhelming influence on the world’s grain market. The land in these new territories (west of the upper Mississippi River) is so fertile and cheap that it is being taken up not only by European emigrants but also by native American farmers, who abandon their old farms and resettle on the new land to take advantage of all the benefits of its cheapness and fertility. This does not mean that the old farms are exhausted and their cultivation is no longer as profitable as before; no, they still yield a good grain harvest; but for all that they cannot compare with the new lands, whose cheapness and fertility threaten the old farms with fatal competition. On the new land a single acre yields as much wheat as four acres in the old eastern states. Thanks to the immeasurable expanses of land, a new method of cultivation is beginning to be applied here.

Small-scale farming is giving way to large-scale, cooperative farming, with all the latter’s advantages in cheapness, speed, and perfection. Whole regiments of workers, in orderly ranks like an attacking army, carry out the field work there, and the wheat produced in this way is the cheapest in the world. Large-scale farming is practiced in the “far west.” A clear idea of it can be given by a description of one of the largest farms cultivated by the new method. This farm has 36,000 acres under the plow, of which 24,000 are sown with wheat and 12,000 with oats. It is a kind of boundless sea, shimmering with a golden wave. When harvest time came, a kind of enormous artillery with a numerous crew took the field. These were harvesting machines—125 of them. Each harvesting machine is worked by three horses or mules and operated by one worker. This harvesting artillery is divided into divisions, and each division is under the command of a special superintendent or officer. When at the command the artillery advanced to this unprecedented attack, the clatter and clang of the machines rang out like some magical melody across the boundless golden sea, and to a farmer’s ear there is nothing sweeter. Behind the artillery only bare earth remains. The workers are hired by contract for forty days at a wage of 1 dollar 75 cents a day, with board provided by the owner. They dine in a spacious dining hall together with the owner’s family. After the harvest, the grain is cleaned by threshing machines, again with the same military discipline. The expected yield on this farm equals 18 bushels of wheat and 90 bushels of oats per acre. Thus the wheat production of this single farm rises to 432,000 bushels, the transport of which requires 45 trains of 20 cars each.

The entire wheat harvest for the past year in the United States is estimated at 455,000,000 bushels. It is not without interest to compare it with the production of earlier years. In the previous year 422,122,000 bushels were harvested, which is 65 percent more than in 1870, 143 percent more than in 1860, and more than four times the production of 1850. The quantity left for domestic consumption rose from 100,931,000 bushels in 1850 to 169,000,000 in 1860, 224,000,000 in 1870, and 298,000,000 in 1879. The quantity of grain exported rose from 792,768 bushels in 1850 to 4,155,000 in 1860, 37,000,000 in 1870, and 124,000,000 in 1879, the export of the year before last almost doubling that of 1878. The increase in export is, relatively though not absolutely, far greater than in domestic consumption. Per-capita consumption does not increase especially noticeably. In 1850 it was 4.35 bushels per person, in 1860 5.37, in 1870 5.81, and in 1879 6.03. For all this enormous quantity of wheat, the Americans at the same time produce three times as much corn. It is interesting, moreover, that they consume four times as much of the latter as of wheat, showing that in taste they part ways with their Russian friends and are essentially a corn-eating people, if they will pardon the expression.

By now this golden sea of wheat has poured in countless streams toward the various central trading points and ports. New York, of course, stands at their head, and its wharves are heaped with grain. Countless elevators are crammed with wheat, and it flows in an endless stream from them into the bottomless bellies of ocean ships, vessels, and steamers. Last year a fleet of 2,500 vessels of every kind, laden with grain, set out from here to all the countries of the world. The largest number of these vessels falls to the English. Among the vessels of various nationalities there were several Russian barques. The whole quantity of grain they exported equals 125,000,000 bushels. In the grain trade New York now holds the foremost position in the world. It is followed by the city of Chicago, then Buffalo (the chief grain station on the route from Chicago to New York), Liverpool, London, and Odessa.

This past year, with respect to farm production, completed fifteen years of tremendous growth in the country’s productive forces. Over the period from 1865 to 1880 the production of wheat and barley tripled; that of maize, cotton, and tobacco more than doubled; oat production rose by almost 140,000,000 bushels, potatoes doubled, and the quantity of hay increased by more than a third. Stated in more precise figures, this growth appears in the following numbers for the two end years of the fifteen-year period. Wheat production rose from 148,553,000 bushels in 1865 to 455,000,000 last year; corn from 704,427,000 to 1,544,899,000; oats from 225,252,000 to 364,253,000; rye from 19,544,000 to 22,646,000; barley from 11,391,000 to 40,184,000; potatoes from 101,632,000 to 181,369,000; tobacco from 183,317,000 pounds to 384,059,000; cotton from 2,229,000 bales to 5,020,000; hay from 23,538,000 tons to 35,648,000. For this remarkable increase in the production of grain crops the country is chiefly indebted to the settlement and cultivation of the western and northwestern states. During the present generation the center of corn production has shifted from the south to the west, and that of wheat production from the middle states to the far west. In 1849, fifty-nine percent, and in 1859, fifty-two percent of the country’s corn was produced in the southern states. In 1877, 850 million bushels were already produced by the western states, while all the rest supplied only 494,558,000. The increase in tobacco occurred chiefly in the south, where its production rose by one hundred million pounds from 1870 to 1878. The cotton harvest over the same period increased from three to five and a quarter million bales. Exports rose rapidly in recent years and will surely continue to rise in the future. Thus the entire export of grain of all kinds in 1868 was only 390,000,000 bushels, while in 1878 it had risen to 189,000,000. In 1868 about three percent of the national production was exported, and in 1878 about eleven percent. In addition, over the last two years the export of animal products has increased tenfold, thus constituting an almost immeasurable source of national wealth.

[1] 1 dollar = 1 ruble 35 kopecks, at the rate of 2 rubles; 1 bushel = 1.38 quarters; 1 acre = 0.37 desyatina. All this will be mentioned more than once below. The article was written in the evil year 1880.

3. A Land Flowing With Milk and Honey (Cont.)

All this sea of grain, flowing out of the country in its primitive form, returns to the Yankee’s pocket as pure gold. This trade alone is sufficient to fill the country with precious metal; but it, moreover, produces it on a large scale, and this production is in the process of increase. During the last ten years, silver production has risen from 17,320,000 dollars to 45,846,100, and gold production from 33,750,000 to 44,880,223 dollars. Experts in the matter assert that during the next decade this production will increase at least four times. From 1870 to 1877, gold mining exceeded silver mining in the state; but since then silver has surpassed gold by almost five million dollars, partly due to the discovery of large silver deposits in Leadville, partly due to decreased gold production in Nevada. Of the precious metals mined, 4,000,000 is annually used for ornaments and arts. In the past year, to domestic production was added about 76,000,000 in imported gold, which together with gold production in the year before last (31,470,262) will constitute an increase of 107,470,262 dollars. If to this we add the amount of silver produced, valued at 37,032,857 dollars, then the entire increase in national wealth in pure coinage will be expressed by the figure of 142,903,119 dollars. However great this quantity is in itself, it is, in essence, insignificant in comparison with what is expected in the future. The great outflow of capital from the east into states lying beyond the Mississippi River will have as its consequence an extraordinary development of the mineral wealth of the west.

Vast riches, spreading across the country with particular force in the last few decades, have accumulated in the hands of individuals, and now America overflows with such wealthy men before whom the legendary rich men of antiquity—the famous King Croesus—would appear almost destitute. By his wealth he long ago entered into proverb, and historians with particular diligence endeavored to determine the magnitude of his fortune. But however much their imagination was fired, they cannot find it possible, given the economic condition of the ancient world, to assign any figure for all of Croesus’s wealth greater than 15–20 million gold rubles, or in American currency from 10 to 15,000,000 dollars. Meanwhile, at the present time in New York there are at least forty men who possess more than he did, and some ten such men whose wealth exceeds Croesus’s by five times. In this way, on the New York stock exchange, the proud king of antiquity would have been entirely overshadowed before the Yankees. The greatest rich man of Rome, in the time of Julius Caesar, was Mark Licinius Crassus, a shrewd speculator renowned for his avarice. His wealth was often calculated by historians, but it was never valued higher than 9–10,000,000 dollars. An Athenian or Roman who could reckon his wealth at approximately one million dollars was already considered an immensely wealthy man; but inhabitants of New York at the present time with a fortune of one million dollars are considered merely well-to-do people and are not ranked among the city’s rich. Such millionaires are so numerous here that they scarcely count when speaking of the city’s financial magnates. In ancient times there were no such fortunes as, for example, those of New York’s tycoons Vanderbilt and Astor, possessing nearly 100,000,000 dollars each; there were not even such fortunes as those counted by the tens not only here, but in Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Chicago, San Francisco and other cities of the country. In the course of the present generation the increase in wealth has been monstrous. Some of the largest fortunes have been formed in no more than 40 or 50 years. Half a century ago in New York there was only one man who possessed a fortune of 1,000,000—namely, Astor. Now whole hundreds of persons have far more, and they sooner consider themselves insufficient than wealthy. When in 1841 the banker Girard died, by the property he left behind he was considered the richest man on the entire continent; no one even approached him in monetary matters, and yet all his fortune in value did not exceed 9,000,000 dollars. People who do not yet consider themselves very old remember a time when 100,000 dollars was considered a good fortune, even in large cities, and 10,000 provided independent living in small towns. At the present time 100,000 is considered scarcely sufficient to surround a person with more or less decent comfort, and ten thousand is so trifling that it is shameful even to mention such a fortune. Only somewhere in a remote village would a Yankee girl with a dowry no larger than the latter sum be considered a beauty. It is quite probable that in the course of the next half-century private fortunes will increase in a far greater proportion than they have increased in the same period in the past. In the 30s and 40s of the next century, there will surely be not a few American citizens who will have fortunes of from 150 to 200,000,000 dollars, and at that will complain that they do not have more.

Having this time decided to tax the readers’ patience with figures, I shall carry my tyranny to the end and conclude the picture of the wealth of our trans-Atlantic friends with a general review of the country’s finances. This country, now awash in wealth, was recently on the edge of bankruptcy, namely in the early 1860s, when civil war exhausted all its resources and forced it to sink into billions in debt. According to the last official report, this unfortunate war cost the state 6,189,929,908 dollars. So dearly did the liberation of the Negroes cost the state! Had political passions not mixed in, this sum not only could have bought all the slaves at the highest price that greedy slaveholders could demand, but could have purchased all of Africa itself. It was almost impossible to suppose that the state could ever deal with this monstrous figure. And yet, except for the remaining national debt, this sum has now been cleared from the accounts, namely in the amount of 4,275,000,000 dollars. This constitutes, for the past nineteen years, an average of 225,000,000 in military expenses per year. Such enormous state expenditures led to a boundless issue of paper money and to mad speculative enterprises, which in their turn inevitably had to be followed by a devastating crisis, financial panic, and the poverty and ruin that accompanied it. On August 31, 1865, the entire national debt was 2,756,431,571 dollars with an annual interest of 150,977,696 dollars. Now, after the lapse of 15 years, the total remaining debt is 1,900,000,000 dollars, and the actual interest-bearing debt is 1,723,993,100 with an annual interest of 79,633,981 dollars. Fifteen years ago each inhabitant of the United States had a share of the national debt of 78 dollars 25 cents with an annual interest of 4 dollars 29 cents. No one believed that the country could ever shed this burden, and all thought that this debt, like in England, would be an eternal curse, passing from fathers to children and to future generations. And yet now each inhabitant has a share of the debt half what it was in 1865, and the annual interest per capita is no more than one-third of what it was fifteen years ago. A wonderful change has taken place in trade transactions since that time. For 25 years before the last five-year period, the excess of imports over exports is expressed in the figure of 1,500,000,000 dollars, that is, each year the country purchased from abroad 60,000,000 dollars more than it sold. During this quarter-century there were only three years when exports exceeded imports, but the average excess was no more than 9,000,000. In the last five years, however, the trade balance has finally tilted favorably for our friends. The excess of exports over imports was as follows: in 1876—79,643,481 dollars; 1877—151,152,094; 1878—257,814,234; 1879—264,661,666; for the first half of 1880—167,908,359 dollars. In total for five years 921,179,828, or an average annual trade balance in favor of the country of 185,000,000 dollars.

The balance of trade is in inverse relation to the balance of gold and silver. For 30 years prior to the last year, there was only one year when the country received more gold from abroad than it sent out. This was an exceptional year—at the beginning of the war, namely 1861, when the import of gold and silver exceeded the export by 16,548,531 dollars. In all other years, except the last, the excess in the export of precious metals fluctuated annually from 4 to 90,000,000 dollars, or on average about 40,000,000 per year. In 1880, in the last fiscal year, by contrast, the import of gold and silver exceeded the export by 75,891,391, which constitutes a gain in precious metals for the country of 80,592,832 dollars as compared to the previous year, or a gain of 115,000,000 dollars against the average annual balance of the past thirty years. If we consider that this gain coincided precisely with that year when the paper dollar finally equaled the gold dollar, then the significance of this gain is immeasurably more important than its entire figure. This is the beginning of a strong influx of gold and silver into the country after a prolonged outflow. This means that the Old World’s pockets have loosened, and its gold will flow irresistibly like a stream into the bottomless pocket of the Yankee.

“The stars shine brightest for the fortunate,” said some obscure poet. The truth of this maxim in our mercenary age will perhaps be better understood if instead of “fortunate” we say “wealthy,” and it has perhaps never been vindicated so completely as it has been in recent years for the Yankees awash in riches. Never before has the American theatrical horizon been lit by so many bright stars of the first magnitude as shine now. At the time when in Russia, according to newspaper accounts, famine has affected the stage so lamentably that opera goes with a bound throat and drama limps on crutches, American wealth has drawn from all corners of the world such a multitude of first-class luminaries that even the sky itself scarcely sustains them. Remarkable, indeed, is the attractive force of gold for free servants of the arts. They cling to it like flies to honey, and sometimes like moths to flame. To the latter can be ascribed none other than the very famous creator of the music of the future—Wagner. He pulled off a curious trick. Having heard that Yankees are great lovers of music, and even more possessors of gold, he, in a private letter to a Bostonian, proposed to Americans to purchase him from Europe in eternal possession. Namely, he made such a proposal: if Americans through a subscription should gather one million dollars and pay him, then he would agree to settle in America forever, where he would produce all his operas and devote his remaining life and all his future labors to the great republic. However enticing such a proposal from the great creator of the music of the future might be for ambitious Yankees, Yankees are first of all a practical people, and before entering into a final agreement, they weighed thoroughly the terms and advantage of the proposal and—to the great, surely, chagrin of the great self-seller—found the proposal not entirely favorable to themselves. They calculated that Wagner was already quite an elderly man, 67 years of age, and therefore, according to the ordinary course of nature, could not live, or at least could not maintain the full vigor of his creative genius, beyond 75 years. Thus, for one million dollars he could serve America for only eight years, so that each year of his presence in America for the Yankees would cost 125,000 dollars. By their mercenary reckoning, this would have been quite dear, and they—O barbarians!—rejected the magnanimous proposal of the selfless self-seller. After all, only one million, and besides, the self-seller might perhaps have exerted himself to live a bit longer.

Thus, to the creator of the music of the future was not granted to appear on the American horizon. Instead, all the more grandly swept across it the greatest dramatic luminary of Europe, the intrepid subduer of the diplomatic eagles of the iron chancellor, the wonderful embodiment of all seven liberal arts, the semi-divine Sarah Bernhardt. She arrived in New York at the end of October of last year, having taken a tearful farewell from her beloved France, and having endured a rough ocean crossing. The semi-divine Sarah suffered terribly from seasickness, could not eat at all, and subsisted only on the scent of bouquets that were presented to her each day by ship’s officers and passengers. The enthusiasm and kindness of the reception from the Yankees soon, however, rewarded her for the sufferings she had endured. She was received as a queen; nay, even as a goddess. Several steamships set out to meet her in the open ocean, and upon the very meeting of the ship with its precious cargo, speeches rained down from various delegations, to which Sarah barely managed to respond merci, merci, merci—charmingly displaying her pearly teeth. The Americans are an extremely impressionable people, and the comedy with Sarah Bernhardt was simply hilarious. The entire city for two weeks thought of nothing but Sarah. This was greatly furthered by a clever impresario who chose the semi-divine Sarah as an instrument of his speculation. Theaters in America are simple trading establishments, often run on shares, and therefore speculation on “the greatest stars” is quite the ordinary affair. The proprietor of many theaters here and in other cities—Abbey—decided to “make” money on Sarah and engaged her on extremely expensive terms. He engaged her for one hundred performances, with payment of one thousand dollars for each performance to herself personally, and one thousand dollars as well to her accompanying, self-chosen company, which amounts to a total of 200,000 dollars for the hundred performances, which were distributed between New York and other principal cities of the country. Having paid such an enormous sum, the impresario took every possible measure that the wise science of speculation had at its disposal to produce the greatest possible noise and fanfare for his expensive semi-goddess. Two months before Sarah’s arrival, he sent forth loud and eloquent advertisements, distributed photographic cards of the “queen of drama” through the streets, published an illustrated biography and translation of her repertoire dramas, distributed illustrated programs at every performance filled with anecdotes from Sarah’s life and facsimiles of several of her intimate letters, and wove various anecdotes from Sarah’s life into the performances themselves. All this was the reason that Sarah truly captured the hearts of the Yankees, and when she finally arrived, the Americans rushed to see her as if she were some miraculous rarity. Despite doubled prices, tickets were snapped up eagerly by the public, and in the hands of speculators rose to monstrous figures. The Americans admired the genius of her execution of subtle details in classical drama, but on the whole found her below what the advertisements had promised. But her wardrobe by its richness and variety dazzled the envious eyes of American ladies. To what degree great and valuable is her wardrobe can be understood from the fact that when transporting it through customs, it was necessary to pay 6,000 dollars in duties. Besides performances, Sarah organized special evenings in which she demonstrated her art to the astonished public in painting, sculpture, and modeling, and decided to mold with her own hands a bust of the famous American poet Longfellow, to the no small pleasure of the great old man, who perhaps on his side will perpetuate with a poem the already immortal Sarah.

American Agriculture

Europe and America. – The world’s grain bin. – Grain speculation. – Cost of production. – Transportation. – Agricultural machinery. – Grain and garden fruits. – Cattle raising and the meat trade. – Sheep raising. – Swine and their social position. – What we have to learn from the Americans.

America with its grain production has finally thrown Europe into confusion. The quarrelsome, militant old woman, who spent the last few decades on the madness of bloody orgies and lost her sanity in inventing improved instruments of self-destruction, now with horror begins to look at her young rival, who has beaten her swords into ploughshares and with the energy of fiery youth has devoted herself to the peaceful labor of husbandry. Already at the very brink of bankruptcy, old Europe has awakened and turned to her foundling, who has grown and developed into a blossoming beauty, asking her to set her gray head on the path of wisdom. When wheat from America flooded the world grain market, not only Russia—for whom study of grain production was, for which the study is, for which it was almost a Hamlet question—turned to studying American grain production, but also England, which until now had regarded its “colony” with truly lordly contempt. In the year before last, these two countries, differing in all things, as if by agreement, sent agents to the United States to investigate American grain production. In view of this, a brief sketch of American agricultural economy is not out of place.

The center of wheat production in the United States is located in the basin of the Missouri River and the upper Mississippi. This land was recently occupied by the red man, but now here grandly agriculture has unfolded and unparalleled agricultural industry is in full swing. Masses of emigrants occupy this land, penetrating farther and farther to the west. What attractive force this land has for them can be judged by their expression: “if hell lay between us and the west, we would step over it just to reach the promised land.” But emigrants, in essence, are not cultivators of the land, they are only scratchers of the soil. When the virgin land becomes exhausted and not an acre of rich prairie remains, succeeding generations will again turn to the east and take up rational husbandry of the old type. It is incredible, however, that such an active and enterprising people would limit themselves only to the surface of the land, when directly beneath it, in the basin of the Missouri River, with the city of Kansas at the center, lie enormous deposits of coal, far exceeding similar deposits in Pennsylvania and Maryland. Two great mountain ranges frame this territory: the Alleghenies, running parallel to the Atlantic coast, and the Rocky Mountains, stretching along the Pacific coast. A distance of 1,700 miles separates the bases of these mountain chains at the points where they cross the border line of Canada. To the south the distance narrows and descends to 750 miles. Except for a small strip, through which for a distance of two hundred miles the Red River flows toward Lake Winnipeg, all this space is watered by only one great river. It contains approximately eight hundred million (800,000,000) acres of land, so that this Mississippi valley is fourteen times larger than all of Great Britain.

The chief grain products here are wheat and maize. The latter is produced more in the southern part of the valley, and the former in the northern and north-western parts, with spring wheat produced in the north and winter wheat in the south, where the fields are not occupied by maize. Remarkable is the peculiarity in the harvest of these two products. The wheat harvest depends more on weather, while the maize harvest depends on cultivation. Besides, the period in which maize may be sown is prolonged, and the time in which it may be harvested without fear of material loss is measured in whole months up to winter. It is different with wheat. Sowing may be limited to only a few weeks in spring or fall, and harvest cannot last more than a few days. Since it depends less on cultivation than on climate and weather, it is for this reason mainly that it is chosen for sowing on new lands. It is the bread of the virgin prairies and newly plowed lands of the western states. For all its capriciousness, wheat always brings the highest prices of any grain, and transportation itself gives an enormous source for speculation. Immediately after threshing, the grain is carted to the station of the nearest railroad and stored in the local elevator. Here one can always find agents of large grain traders, and they are always ready to buy according to “exchange prices.” Prices are checked in newspapers, which in America, thanks to the widespread use of telegraph wires, always and everywhere provide news no later than the day before. Payment for the grain is made in cash, and it is lowered into the elevator for sorting, weighing and cleaning, and with the issuance of a receipt is placed at the disposal of the buyer or future owners of the receipt. When the cost of production and weight of wheat are determined, its price still depends very much on speculation. Speculation in wheat in America is easier and more tempting because of the known method of its transfer from hand to hand. Upon depositing wheat in some public warehouse or elevator and its inspection by a special official designated for “sorting” the grain, the latter distributes it into classes 1, 2 or 3—by weight in 60 pounds per bushel. Then the owner is issued a receipt for a certain quantity of bushels of wheat of a certain grade, and according to this receipt the wheat is issued. The receipt may pass through several hands (each new buyer giving only a small sum to secure the seller from loss), and when the wheat is issued, it will surely not contain a single grain of that which was originally deposited. Sometimes it happens that at the place of issue the wheat is cheaper than at the place of production.

Although in general it can be said that if the cost of production exceeds the price of the product, then production should cease, regarding America one must bear in mind that it has an annually increasing surplus in grain and meat, which it must sell at whatever price. Three-quarters of this surplus is sold annually to England. Other countries, except in years of particular famine, do not need American wheat and therefore impose heavy duties on its import. Therefore, whatever low prices may be in England, the greater part of the grain and meat exported from the United States will always be directed to its shores. And when a good harvest happens simultaneously in both the Old and New World, then prices can fall into the abyss. By round figures one may determine the cost of cultivation of an acre at 10 dollars, including expenditures for delivery of grain six miles to the local railroad, warehouse or elevator. But these figures do not determine the cost of production of a bushel of wheat; here the harvest, which depends on the year, has paramount importance. For a whole series of recent years, wheat harvest in the United States has yielded more than 12 bushels per acre. In 1879, an acre even yielded 13.1 bushels. It has been observed that the center of population and industrial labor in the United States constantly and rapidly moves westward; consequently, wheat production has a nomadic character and moves in the same direction. Farmers consider it more profitable, that is, cheaper, when conducted on virgin soil at some distance from centers of consumption than in depleted districts, from which they migrate, yielding place to another population needing the grain they produce.

Regarding transportation and freight, there is a significant difference between the cost of transportation from Chicago to New York by water or by railroad, the latter being exactly twice as expensive. Water routes are closed by ice from November to April. For ocean transportation, sailing vessels and steamers are used; but the difference in their cost over the last five years was so insignificant that there is no need to examine it.

Observations on the cost of wheat production in America are based mostly on calculations drawn from the practice of huge farms where land is worked with the best machines and under the most perfect economic management. Other figures for cost are taken from the practice of small farmers. But very little value is placed on the labor of the farmer himself and his family. Few have any idea of the stubborn and tireless work that falls to even well-to-do farmers in America. Except perhaps during harvest, no farmer spends as much time and labor in his daily work. The readiness with which farmers in America take to machines is simply astonishing. The skill and ease with which they work speaks well for the perfection of the machines, but even more for the shrewdness and intelligence of the farmer. In America, labor-saving machines, even on small farms, are an absolute necessity. Moreover, the purchase of machines is further encouraged by the fact that the farmer can always buy them on credit with installment payments. In their construction, the machines used on farms are very good, extremely light and handy. Sometimes there are complaints about the lack of durability of American agricultural implements, but this is more the fault of the inexperience of European farmers in handling them. American machines in their perfection are far superior to English ones. They are lighter, more elegant, and better.

When the natural fertility of virgin soil becomes exhausted or the productive power of the land declines and there arises the need to resort to crop rotation to restore its productivity, the cost of wheat production in these western prairies and in the basin of the great river will undoubtedly increase. That this exhaustion, with continuous wheat production accompanied by burning of straw, must eventually occur—this is certain. But it will not happen soon. The enormous plant deposits accumulated over centuries, and masses of all kinds of grass burned and rotting on the prairies, cannot be exhausted in a few years. Besides, when wheat begins to show weakness in growth, a simple change of crop to “Indian corn,” as it is called, appears to be sufficient to restore the fertility of the land. In northern latitudes, where Indian corn or maize cannot grow, a one-year crop of clover is sufficient for the same purpose. But the declining productivity of land in some eastern states and the necessity of fertilizing it in others clearly show that no matter how great the fertility of virgin land, it is still not inexhaustible.

Immediately after wheat in importance in American agriculture comes corn or the so-called Indian grain—maize. Corn slowly but steadily pushes wheat northward and now occupies the vast area from the Mexican Gulf to the shores of the Great Lakes. The cost of its production is determined at 5 1/2 dollars per acre, which ordinarily yields up to 40 bushels. Corn is a convenient grain for restoring the productive power of the land. The land rests, is cleaned, and becomes enriched by its cultivation. Besides, it is an extremely reliable grain. Wheat is capricious and its harvest constantly fluctuates. Of the last 18 harvests in the state of Ohio, only six gave complete yields; some suffered greatly from drought; but corn during all this time gave a satisfactory harvest, averaging 35 bushels per acre. The annual production of corn in recent times has increased in enormous progression. In 1868 it was sown on about 35,000,000 acres, and in 1878 already on 51,500,000, but its monetary value constantly declined. This increased surplus and cheapness made it the subject of important foreign trade, so that at least 6 percent of it goes abroad. Recently it has, as is known, attempted to penetrate even into Russia. In America it has much use. It serves first of all for fattening cattle and swine. A bushel of corn at 25 cents, given to swine, returns already 30 cents, if the fattened pig is sold even at so low a price as three cents per pound of live weight. Besides, there is great demand for it for human consumption. Americans love it and it is served at the table in all possible forms and ways. As an after-dinner dessert, Yankees eat boiled cobs, spreading them with butter and sprinkling them with pepper. A very large quantity of it is processed into spirits and exported abroad. Barley is little produced in America, and its grain is unclean, poor, and irregular; but oats, on the other hand, constantly increase in production. In 1874 it was produced 11,000,000 bushels, and in 1878 already more than 13,000,000.

A fairly important branch of agriculture is the potato, although in general its production does not increase particularly rapidly. In 1874, 1,333,333 bushels were produced, and in 1878 only 1,750,000. New York State supplies one-third of this quantity. Its quality in general is good, except in the southwestern states. The general yield is not particularly large, and is assessed at 88 bushels per acre, 60 pounds per bushel. In America there are two kinds of potatoes—the common variety known in Russia, and the sweet potato. The latter Americans love perhaps even more than the former, but for a European it is cloying, has the taste of ordinary potato stewed in molasses.

American farms produce an enormous quantity of fruits of all kinds, and in general each farm appears from the outside like a sort of garden. Each spring, on the territory from the Delaware Bay to the inter-oceanic strip of the northwest, more than 5,000,000 peach trees bloom. In the middle states and New England, hundreds of families derive considerable income from gathering and selling wild berries—strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, blueberries, huckleberries, and many others, growing abundantly in fields and forests and along the borders of farmers’ fields. These small fruits are mostly consumed by the native population. Palisades with pears and peaches are scattered everywhere. Even cemeteries are planted with pear and peach trees, where they serve for the free and costless use of Americans, who love to hold funeral feasts for their ancestors. Whole fields are sown with sunflowers, their stems often rising above 11 feet and the disks themselves being more than 13 inches in diameter. Grapes grow abundantly in California, though in quality they far fall short of our Crimean grapes. Wines made from them, and especially the “California champagne” so beloved here, according to the Americans, are no worse than French, but European wine connoisseurs merely smile at them. Watermelons and melons are produced in enormous quantities and in some states, especially Georgia, are of superior quality. Georgia watermelons have an oblong shape and are often so large that they are hard to lift. But the largest item of horticulture is apples. More than 2,000,000 acres of land are planted with apple trees, and over the last eight years apple growing has increased rapidly. Together with peaches, apples here are, as one might say, dirt cheap, and accessible to all classes of people. In New Jersey, Delaware and Maryland there are many such orchards with 10,000, 20,000 and 30,000 trees.

Another important branch of American agriculture is cattle raising. However, whoever has seen the magnificent bulls in England called American, and the massive beef carcasses unloaded at Liverpool from ocean steamers, will form an erroneous impression of American cattle. In America there is comparatively very little cattle of good breed. Of course, in Kentucky and surrounding states thousands of large and pure short-horned cattle graze, but in the eastern states the cattle are quite ordinary, descended from ordinary ancestors brought by the original settlers, and good breeds are rarely met. In the south and west, Texas and similar breeds predominate, descended undoubtedly from ancestors brought from Spain.

American Agriculture (Cont.)

In recent years, cattle raising has received enormous development on the plains of Texas and the far West. Texas has long been celebrated as the great kingdom of cattle, but now all that vast territory which was recently marked on maps as “the great American desert” is flooded with hundreds of thousands of cattle. An enormous quantity of the finest young bulls is driven north annually, where on the plains of Colorado and Wyoming they are kept as it were in traveling shops awaiting their call to market. Along the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains there graze many young cows where they are raised on delicious mountain grass. Texas presents a splendid place for breeding and increasing cattle, but it is remarkable that in Texas the cattle never achieve great size; but the same cattle, when moved to other regions, obtain considerable increase in volume. Great heats, periodic droughts, and lack of water, so that sometimes one must travel thirty to forty miles to reach it, serve probably as the reasons for this, as well as the fact that good breeds cannot exist and multiply in Texas. These vast plains in autumn present a sad picture. All is burned and bare, and for miles on end not a green leaf is visible. Short, withered grass appears brown and burned to the root; but this apparently worthless grass is in essence self-made hay. It grows quickly in spring and dries in the sun before ripening. If drought is followed by rains in June, the grass may live again, but it is then soon killed by frost, and in this state it is almost completely useless. There are sometimes early autumn severe snowstorms lasting several days, but after them again sets in splendid warm weather, often up to Christmas. Deep snows are rare. When heavy snow falls, the cattle suffer terribly from it, but it is soon ordinarily blown away by the wind from the plains, and herds easily find the grass. Herds are managed by young shepherds, and the skill with which they throw the lasso on wild calves while pursuing them on their lean ponies is astounding. Each cattle raiser has his own brand, entered in the government register, and counterfeiting it is strictly punished. The first shipments of cattle for the meat market are sent out early in summer, and the last at the end of November. By general agreement, in recent years the net income of cattle raisers on average has equaled 33 percent on capital. There is no doubt that this is one of the most profitable branches of American farm economy, but to ensure a large percentage, one must have large capital. For example, the owner of 10,000 head of cattle with 150 horses must have 7 or 8,000 dollars in cash for successful conduct of the occupation. Small herds require comparatively more. A herd of a thousand head requires for its maintenance almost as much as a herd of 5,000. A herd of 5,000 must have 100 horses for shepherds, whereas a herd of 10,000 head requires only 150. The expenses for maintaining a good herd during the year do not ordinarily exceed 1 1/2 dollars per head, and in some cases come down to 1 dollar. Within an area of one hundred square miles in Wyoming Territory, herds number from 1,000 to 35,000 head. Their average value is determined at 20 dollars per head. In this territory the losses of cattle from all causes are determined at only 2 [1]/3 percent per year. In Texas and other districts they are estimated at 5–10 percent. A herd of 10,000 head annually produces from 1,500 to 2,000 of the new generation. Four-year-old steers are sold for 25 and 30 dollars, while the cost of raising each does not exceed 10 dollars. Most cattle is sold at markets in Chicago, and some is sent directly to New York, where it is slaughtered and shipped to England. One must marvel at what vast distances these semi-wild Texas bulls travel. They traverse thousands of miles and during this journey often even increase in weight. Sometimes, however, they suffer greatly from droughts and lack of water, and sometimes whole herds perish after eating some sort of poisonous spring grass.

In enormous quantities, raw meat is sent from the Chicago slaughterhouses to New York and the eastern states. For this purpose, there are special meat trains with special meat arrangements, cooling apparatus, so that meat and various dairy products arrive from Chicago in New York in perfectly fresh condition, no matter what heats may rage. From New York the meat is sent to England on ships with cooling apparatus, and at Liverpool it is unloaded as fresh as it was at the place of preparation in Chicago. In England there are no such arrangements and the meat often spoils on the way from Liverpool to London. But this is already the fault of the Americans. “Why should we extend our care of the meat to the very mouth of our dear cousins,” answer the Americans to English complaints that in London the meat is not as fresh as in Liverpool.

On the western plains herds are kept more for meat. On eastern farms, by contrast, for dairy production. But dairy production is not particularly renowned in America. Besides, for some reason in recent years it has become particularly unprofitable, and many farms have reduced it to modest proportions. Until recently, the eastern states were the principal producers of butter and cheese. New York State led in this regard. But now the west begins to surpass in this matter and it supplies all the east with enormous quantities of cheese and butter. As for the quality of these products, much cannot be said. Recently efforts have been made to improve butter production, and apparently some results have been achieved, but even now it cannot equal European butter. Now, however, there is noticeable among the Americans a tendency generally for dairy production to use scientific economic guidance. Americans have greater success in cheese making, and until last year, when prices fell, its production was very profitable. But in general, if it must be said that American butter is poor, then it can be said of cheese that it is quite good, though again not of the first grade and cannot equal European. In some states attempts have been made to introduce production of various sorts of European cheeses, but these attempts have not yet grown to such proportions that anything definite and positive could be said about their results. American cheese is remarkably uniform—the same shape, the same color and quality. Americans consume little of it. Of the 300,000,000 pounds produced, more than 40 percent goes abroad. About 1,000,000,000 pounds of butter is produced, and it is almost entirely consumed by the Yankees themselves; no more than two percent goes abroad.

America is not renowned for horse raising. Horses on farms exist only in numbers needed for everyday farm work. They are light, swift, and are used for every purpose. A horse plows and carts grain to the railroad station, takes the farmer to market in town and his family to church on Sundays. The team, however, ordinarily consists of a pair of horses, like those of our Germans. A pair of horses is ordinarily sufficient for the plow. The ordinary price of a good farm horse is from 100 to 150 dollars, and young colts from 200 to 250 dollars.

Sheep raising in America is also insignificant. This is evident from the fact that the number of sheep is only slightly greater than the number of cattle. Large flocks of sheep are kept in the southwest solely for wool. Not only is the quantity of meat they supply insignificant, but the quality of the meat itself is not of high value, and besides, the cost of transporting such small animals is so great that it is scarcely compensated by this aspect of the trade. And regarding wool production, there are no grounds for supposing that America could develop it to great proportions in the next few years and begin to export wool. At present she herself imports a large quantity of wool from England and her colonies.

More than sheep raising, America can boast of its swine raising. The pig—the most fortunate citizen of the American republic—that is, among four-legged animals. It enjoys full freedom on farms, roots and sleeps wherever it wishes. Thanks to such liberty, it reaches considerable weight at a comparatively early age. The average live weight of a pig slaughtered in winter equals 280 pounds, in summer—240 English pounds. A deduction of 20 percent from the live weight ordinarily gives the weight of the pork carcass. Nowhere can one see such enormous herds of swine as in the corn states of America. Except perhaps in Indian territory you can see thousands of pigs, each finer than the last. The most common breed of pig is the Berkshire. Pigs of this breed reach maturity early and are distinguished by a large amount of pure meat in proportion to fat. Another widely distributed breed is the Poland China. These pigs grow fat extremely quickly and reach enormous weight. The speed with which pigs are slaughtered and prepared for the meat market in large American slaughterhouses is astonishing. Suffice it to say that a pig is seized by the hind leg, hoisted up, slaughtered, scalded, cleaned, drawn, beheaded, split in half, and sent to the cold storage—all this in some 10–15 minutes. Swine raising in America, for all its profitability, is sometimes not without loss. American pigs are subject to various diseases, and especially dreaded is the so-called “hog cholera.” No remedy against it is effective, and the cause of its appearance is completely incomprehensible to swine raisers. It is extremely contagious, and sometimes whole districts are completely cleared of swine. In some places it rages over the unfortunate animals with such force that farmers temporarily cease swine raising altogether.

Little can be said in praise of American poultry raising, except for turkeys, which are generally quite good and raised without great difficulty. But they, however, do not reach the weight of good European breeds and in form approach the wild breeds. Chickens in general are of poor breed. If of Texas cattle it is said that it consists only of “legs and horns,” then of American chickens it must be said that they consist of “legs and wings.” In the plucked state they with their pale-yellow skin present a far from appetizing picture. They are too light and active, and if there were not so much cheap grain for fattening them, they would scarcely be fit for a decent table. Nevertheless, Americans are great chicken raisers, and on every Sunday a chicken is an indispensable part of the table.

If now we summarize what has been set forth, it must be said that America with regard to natural resources is far from a paradise, though in the competition for agricultural supremacy it has considerable advantages presented by new, inexhaustible soil. Of particular importance in the development of the agricultural wealth of the United States are the railroads. The people spare no efforts to extend this right hand of civilization as far as possible. In America it is not the population that goes first, but the railroad follows it; but the latter goes ahead as a means for the former. In it there are few pleasant landscapes, but there is continuous, stubborn struggle with nature and there is the ability to conquer. America is rich in enterprise that stops before nothing, and in shrewdness that never gets stuck [2].

“In agricultural rivalry with America,” said recently the English “Times” on one occasion, “we need fear not her soil, not her climate or the extent of her lands, but the invincible energy, boundless self-confidence, and inexhaustible ingenuity of the citizens of the United States.”

If already the English—with their known stubborn persistence, slow and silent but true business sense, place such great weight in agricultural rivalry on the superiority of moral character of the Americans; what then remains for us Russians, with our apathy and lassitude, our bravery in words and cowardice in deeds, with our lack of healthy initiative and the dominion of traditional oppression? It remains, of course, not to lose heart, but to learn from our friends and to be inspired by their example.

[1] Where one sings, settle yourself peacefully there: / Evil people have no songs.

[2] In sketching American agriculture, the author drew on the report of English agents Pell and Reed, who by the mandate of the “Royal Commission on Agriculture” at the end of 1879 specifically engaged in investigating this question.

Tanner or the Fasting Doctor

The Fasting Doctor. – The interest aroused by him – A martyr to fame. – The end of the fast and a ceremonial feast. – Watermelon instead of pharmacy doses. – Alarm and perplexity. – History of the fast. – From his past life. – Prospects for the future.

At the very moment when our trans-Atlantic friends were drowning in grain wealth, among them there appeared a man who decided to astonish the world with an extraordinary feat of a forty-day fast. This was the famous Dr. Tanner. Being a specialist in animal chemistry, Dr. Tanner worked out a theory according to which man can live without food and water much longer than the limits ordinarily set by medicine and physiology. As a true American, he did not limit himself to words, but openly came forth with his theory and offered some learned society his person for the experiment of a forty-day fast, asking in return for only one thousand dollars. His theory, and especially this thousand dollars, raised a storm in the medical world, and from among his brothers in arms were found those who did not hesitate before anything just to undermine confidence in the fasting doctor and proclaimed his theory a great humbug, as Americans ordinarily call deception under a plausible pretext. The fasting doctor, of course, was offended and decided to confound his opponents—by submitting himself to a forty-day fast without any compensation whatsoever.

As the place for this unprecedented experiment, he chose a public hall and invited all physicians interested in the experiment to be present during his fasting and observe all the phases of his hunger strike. Most physicians even now treated the doctor with irony and called him almost mad; but others expressed their agreement to observe the fasting doctor and formed a circle which was to take turns watching the doctor’s fast. And so indeed on June 28, Tanner for the last time ate a beefsteak and began his fast. The physicians took all precautions possible to observe the actuality of the fasting. They searched all his clothing, shook out his bed, examined his room, so as not to give him the possibility of hiding any nourishing substance, and separated him from all the surrounding world. Newspapers and letters were handed to the doctor only after the most careful examination. A detailed account was kept in a book of all his movements and conditions. The doctor was already an elderly man, with considerable humor, and with a cheerful disposition devoted himself to the difficult undertaking. He was in good health, with a ruddy face, though already with gray hair. The first four days the doctor was cheerful and fresh, as if nothing had happened, and spoke lively and joked with his learned observers and visitors. But on the fifth and sixth day, hunger noticeably began to assert itself, and his bright eyes grew noticeably dimmed. The physicians who had sneered at him immediately proclaimed the experiment a failure and predicted that the fasting doctor would not live another two days if he did not abandon his “mad” experiment. A few days later, however, they were obliged to push back the day of the doctor’s death considerably. The fifth and sixth days were, according to the faster himself, a difficult crisis for him, after which light days should come again. And indeed, on the following days cheerfulness again returned to the doctor, fire lit up in his eyes, and even a ruddy color played on his cheeks, as though the faster had eaten an excellent beefsteak from Kentucky meat and washed it down with good port. And yet he had taken absolutely nothing into his mouth—not a crumb of bread and not a drop of water. This so astonished those who predicted his death that they positively did not know what to do. They even began to suspect the watching physicians themselves of conspiracy with the doctor and were not averse to accusing all of deception. One of the skeptical physicians, who had especially insisted on the inevitability of the doctor’s death on the 7th or 8th day, appearing in person in the hall of the hunger experiment, raised an actual storm, accusing all of deception. This so affected the nerves of the fasting doctor that afterward he wept like a child and declared that this shock had cost him a good ten days of fasting. Then the physicians insisted that he take some water, and he indeed took three ounces. This miraculously revived him, and he grew fresh and cheered again. Finally, when the 10th, 12th, 14th, and 15th days of the fast had passed, and Dr. Tanner still did not die, as the physicians had predicted, attention to him began to increase rapidly.

Especially remarkable in this fast was that the doctor had absolutely no rest, which is the chief condition for the success of such an experiment. He constantly received numerous visitors, conversed with them and the doctors, walked about, and already on the 14th day of the fast was running up the stairs to the upper gallery for a walk with such speed as only democratic politicians, by the remark of one reporter (the hall in which the doctor fasted belonged to the Democrats), run after rallies for whiskey.

Little by little, news of Dr. Tanner spread not only throughout all America but throughout Europe, exciting everywhere interest, disputes, and perplexity. Day after day, the newspapers printed the most detailed reports of all the movements and conditions of the faster, and the public read them eagerly, as in times of the most important political events. The interest naturally grew as the fast drew to a close, and his last days were days of a sort of feverish agony. The hall was simply besieged by visitors, and the entrance fee in the last days brought daily collections of about a thousand dollars. Surely the most brilliant medical practice would not have brought the doctor such a desirable income! And popularity, which the Americans so cherish, increased to such a degree that undoubtedly it became a matter of envy for the most prominent politicians. Daily, ladies from the highest circles showered the faster with bouquets, and in the streets during his usual walks the people greeted him with enthusiastic “hurrahs,” and blue-eyed ladies adorned his carriage with “roses and lilies” of their encouraging sympathy. Letters to him daily increased in number, so that the faster finally was unable to cope with them himself and in reading them made use of the services of the legion of physicians and reporters that surrounded him. Bets on the success of his undertaking were announced in multitude and for tens of thousands of dollars. Those interested in the bets constantly encouraged him with words of approval, promising to share the winnings in case of success. Speculators rushed upon the faster with their services, trying to profit from his popularity for their own purposes, and surrounded him with unprecedented comfort. The walls of the hall grew decorated with signs that read: “The magnificent piano, delighting the ears of the fasting doctor, was provided by the firm of Brook,” located there; “The best spring mattress in the world, on which the fasting doctor finds sweet repose, has been prepared” there; “The favorite wonderful rocking chair of the fasting doctor was provided” by such-and-such a firm, etc. Boys on the streets distributed whole piles of photographic cards showing the doctor in the different phases of his fast, and publishing firms announced in advance the “histories” of the fast they were preparing. In a word, the famous faster became the center around which feverishly moved a chaos of diverse interests—scientific, curious, monetary, and even sentimental. One lady sent him a tender love letter in which with charming words of a loving woman she encouraged him in the difficult undertaking and offered in return for success her hand and heart. Various societies deluged him with invitations to give lectures for hundreds of dollars an evening, etc., and so on.

Amid this dizzying whirlwind of different interests, the unfortunate fasting doctor himself languished like a mortal shadow, measuring the awful ordeal with a beclouded gaze in terms of days and hours. This experiment appeared physiological in its outward form, but the psychological element was scarcely less fascinating. In fact, to condemn oneself to a full forty days of the most monotonous and empty life possible, with constantly intensifying physical suffering hour after hour, with the alternative of death or universal humiliation and ridicule that would inevitably await him if the experiment failed—this certainly meant to accomplish a tremendous feat of will. Only a man of extraordinary strength of will could have resolved to attempt such a thing, and still more to carry it through to completion. The Americans value any kind of strength exceedingly highly, whether physical or psychological, and now they practically revered the will-power demonstrated by the doctor, and the numerous ovations given to him stemmed chiefly from this aspect of the experiment. Both the ovations and the doctor’s sufferings increased as the fast approached its end. The last three days were almost fatal for the doctor, and the physicians urgently demanded that he break his fast, but the fasting doctor insisted on his resolve—and he completed it triumphantly at twelve o’clock on Saturday, August 7th.

On the fortieth day of his fast, Doctor Tanner was positively the hero of the day. If the fast itself had been an interesting phenomenon, the moment of its termination became an even more interesting event. Everyone was interested in the question of how the doctor would begin eating after such a prolonged abstinence. Many looked upon this moment with dread as the most dangerous and critical one. Indeed, his stomach had become so exhausted that it would reject even water, which the doctor took in apothecary’s doses. Consultations among physicians regarding the preparation of appropriate food for their fasting patient had begun a week before the fast ended. Every precaution that medical wisdom could suggest was taken. Several recipes were prepared according to which the fasting doctor’s eating should begin. Meanwhile, from all sides, private offerings of various dishes poured in for the doctor, and on Saturday the enormous table in his hall was positively laden with all manner of delicacies. Juicy beefsteaks, magnificent fruits, whole dozens of different wines and among them a dozen bottles of the so-called Russian milk wine—were arranged in neat rows with floral decorations. The admission fee on the final day was set at one dollar, and despite this the hall was crowded with people, and masses from outside still pressed about, waiting for the fateful moment when the doctor would begin to eat. The doctor himself spent the last hours in an extremely excited and impatient state. He constantly took out and looked at his watch, as though counting even the seconds. At last, the fateful and long-desired moment arrived. At a factory in the opposite house, a machine announced with a whistle that twelve o’clock had come; workers came out on the roof and shouted: “Long live Doctor Tanner!”—and all the masses in the street took up the greeting. The hall resounded with enthusiastic shouts, and a pianist began playing a dining march: “Quickly, quickly to the table of grace!” The doctor, his face lighting up, descended from the upper gallery and sat down at the luxuriously appointed table. There were so many dishes on the table that one’s eyes would have reeled even for someone who had not fasted beforehand. Therefore the doctor, paying no attention to the table, took out his penknife and calmly began cutting a peach, which he had been holding in his hand for half an hour before the fast ended, constantly reciting—as he later stated—the prayer: “And lead us not into temptation.” The peach quickly vanished into the doctor’s empty stomach, and the hall resounded with furious cries of approval, which instantly spread through the street as well. The doctor cheerfully waved his handkerchief to the public and even more cheerfully said: “Well, come on, give me that Georgia watermelon over there!” Enthusiastic laughter and applause thundered through the hall. The physicians voiced their protest and offered the doctor their apothecary’s doses. “No, gentlemen, I have been under your despotic rule for forty days; now I wish to be free; give me the watermelon!” The hall once more trembled with delight, and the magnificent watermelon from the state of Georgia split under the knife of the faster. Then the doctor drank milk. The next day he ate beefsteak. The physicians were horrified and bewildered, while the faster simply listened and ate. “You’ve even swallowed a beefsteak!”—remarked one medical student in reverent horror. “Yes, sir! Look here, and you stay far away from me, or I’ll swallow you too!”—joked the fasting doctor. So the faster successfully crossed this dreadful Rubicon dividing the fast from eating. In the following days the faster continued eating until his jaws were exhausted, and he noticed only that every muscle worked in him during this process. “Eating is now my main occupation!”—he said cheerfully, consuming one beefsteak after another.

Never before has medical science encountered such a mysterious phenomenon as this fast of Doctor Tanner. All its vicissitudes, with such incredible force, destroyed all the predictions and theories of the physicians, that among them there was genuine upheaval, and the question arose in society regarding the scientific validity of modern medicine. Hitherto, medicine had commonly asserted that a man without food could live no longer than ten to twelve days. Stories are told of longer periods of life without food, but all these cases were doubted, as they occurred without any regular observation. From experiments by various scientists on animals, it was evident that those animals live longer without food that have greater reserves in their fatty tissues. The first signs of dying from hunger consist of a lowering of temperature. Doctor Tanner proved completely unsuited to this observation. His temperature during all forty days of the fast underwent only the most insignificant fluctuations, and his fatty reserves were not large. The doctor’s ordinary weight was 184 pounds, but when he began his fast, his weight was only 157 [1] pounds. Clearly, he began his experiment at one of the most unfavorable moments. In animals subjected to experiments of starvation, prolonged fasting produced mental stupefaction. The physicians predicted such an unpleasant prospect for the fasting doctor as well, but their predictions were completely belied. The doctor remained clear-headed throughout, and even in the last days of his fast his cheerful humor constantly amused his numerous visitors. On the twenty-seventh day of the fast there began to be noticed a weakening of memory, but this stemmed more from external irritability and weakness than from exhaustion of the brain. A well-known materialist here said on this matter: “This fast has done more to shake my faith in materialism than all I have known hitherto. We materialists think that the soul is simply a function of the brain, and that with every thought a certain brain cell is destroyed. If the brain becomes exhausted, then its function—thought—becomes exhausted and weakened. Now, however, I see that Doctor Tanner has exhausted his brain almost impossibly through the terrible depletion of phosphorus in it, and yet his thought remains constantly clear and active. I cannot reconcile this with my conviction.” Another remarkable feature of the fast was the effect of water on the doctor. When he took water, his pulse would strengthen, color would begin to play in his face, and he would feel a general invigoration and strengthening. His tissues absorbed water like a sponge.

[1] Where one sings, settle yourself peacefully there: / Evil people have no songs.

Tanner or the Fasting Doctor (Cont.)

The fast began on June 28th. Under this date, in a book designated for recording the physicians’ observations on the vicissitudes of the fast, the following entry is made: “Doctor Henry Tanner, 49 years of age, appeared in Clarendon Hall to undertake a forty-day fast. He says that today he has not eaten solid food, but at breakfast he drank a cup of milk, and the same amount of milk he consumed at lunch a quarter before noon. His weight with clothing is 157½ pounds; temperature 99 degrees (Fahrenheit); pulse varied from 21 to 24 per quarter minute, average pulse 88 per minute; number of breaths 18 per minute. The doctor was stripped and carefully searched. His clothing was carefully examined, and no food of any kind was found in it.” For the first and second days the doctor drank several ounces of water. But when suspicions were heard to be voiced, that he was taking food with the water, he resolved to refuse water and indeed held to his decision for a long time. Abstinence from water lasted until the fifteenth day. His sufferings from thirst were terrible, but he endured them with unparalleled self-denial. He rapidly lost weight, became restless, nervous, and agitated, and showed signs of an imminent crisis. Forced by his own weakness, on the fifteenth day he again permitted himself to take water and drank one ounce. Beyond that he saw no possibility of maintaining the experiment without water and therefore resolved to limit his fast to abstinence from food only, and began to drink water at will. Water acted wonderfully on him; he began to appear more vigorous and fresh, and daily began to take drives in a carriage through the park, naturally accompanied by physicians and reporters. On the twenty-fifth day he caught a cold and to the sufferings of the fast there was nearly added fever. But the doctor cured himself with hot water. In the last three days of the fast, particularly troublesome to the faster was severe vomiting; the stomach rejected mineral water, which the doctor was taking on the advice of physicians. Mineral water came to him in abundance from all directions. But one pitcher of water sent from Philadelphia aroused the faster’s suspicion, as after it the vomiting intensified. He found it poisoned and expressed the conjecture that it had been sent to him by some participant in an expensive bet, the winning of which was conditional on the failure of the experiment. On the fortieth day before the beginning of the dinner celebration, the doctor weighed 121½ pounds. The loss of weight throughout the entire fast was 36 pounds. The total amount of water he had drunk was 667½ ounces, or 44.5 pounds. His highest pulse was 116, his lowest pulse 66. His highest Fahrenheit temperature was 100⁴⁄₅, his lowest temperature 97⁴⁄₅. His breathing varied from 13 to 18 per minute. The dynamometer showed variously from 196 to 158 pounds for the right hand and 194–158 for the left. The external senses retained their unchanging sharpness and freshness. On one of the last days the doctor surprised his companions when on a walk in Central Park he noticed a rat in the grass and drew his companions’ attention to it, remarking at the same time: “You said my eyes had weakened!”

The respected faster was born in England and arrived in America as a boy of sixteen. At twenty-three he married an intelligent and energetic girl and led a meager life, working as a laborer in a carriage firm. His wife, being the more energetic half of this union, made him open a fruit shop for her, and then, not satisfied with the income from this business, drove him to study medicine. She herself, along with him, entered the eclectic medical institute in Cincinnati, and both successfully completed their studies. Afterward they practiced medicine for about three years in various places in Ohio and at the same time in one city operated Russian-Turkish baths with various scientific improvements and innovations. The doctor was not naturally endowed with practical tact and was constantly devoted to various theories and fantasies, much to the great vexation of his thoroughly practical wife. This was probably the reason they divorced several years ago. His wife afterward declared that she had no peace because of her husband’s various theories. When she began to feel unwell, he apparently nearly starved her to death by applying his theory of treating through food abstinence. After the divorce, the doctor’s wife continued medical practice as before, while the doctor gave himself over entirely to his passion for theories. No longer having his wife available for him to attempt his forty-day fast experiment on, the doctor resolved to use his own person for this purpose, and indeed he first undertook such a fast brilliantly in his office under the observation of his colleague and brother-in-arms. At that time he apparently sustained a forty-two-day fast. The doctor who observed him during this first fast, Doctor Moyer, expresses confidence that Tanner honestly refrained from food during those forty-two days. In his opinion, the faster is an honest enthusiast, extremely zealous, perhaps somewhat touched, but not in the least a deceiver; he suffers from an excessive passion for acquiring fame, possesses a strong will and a phlegmatic temperament, which gives him the ability to willfully arrest the activity of his organic functions. Among other things, during the present fast too, physicians noticed an interesting trait in him—that he could fall asleep at will, and such ability is possessed, as is known, by very rare people, and among others was distinguished by Napoleon I. During the present fast his divorced wife followed his experiment with interest and in advance expressed confidence that he would complete it successfully. She is extremely confident in his energy and endurance in the sphere of theory, but considers him completely incapable of practical life. The doctor’s aged father is still living. For a long time they kept the terrible experiment of his beloved son hidden from the old man, fearing to disturb his elderly nerves. But the old man proved a true father to his son. Learning of the fast, he said: “Well, if my Henry has said he will fast, then he will certainly fast. He has never broken his word.”

After completing his first fast, the doctor attempted to use the rumor about him to acquire popularity and the practical advantages connected with it. But then he did not succeed. His first experiment was met with doubt and even mockery from the public and his colleagues. This time, however, his passion for fame found complete satisfaction. He is now the most famous doctor in America, and fame here is money.

The Passion for Competitions

The Knights of the Turtle and the voracious general. – Wrestlers and walkers. – The combination of pleasure with utility. – The summer peripatetic school of philosophy. – The king of inventors and a new luminary for our planet. – A romance in Edison’s life.

While the fasting doctor was astounding the world with his absolute starvation and struggling with his stomach against the laws of nature, at another place a respected general was violating all the laws of nature through immoderate gluttony. Among all sorts of curious and strange clubs in New York, there is also a club of so-called “Knights of the Turtle.” Their principal goal is to perfect the art of preparing turtle soups. Turtle is in great use in America, and restaurants on Broadway as an attraction and advertisement frequently display at their doors enormous live turtles, which move their legs and heads for the amusement of passersby. The named club leads all others in the turtle question and considers this to be their glory and pride. Recently there was the club’s annual celebration, and the magnificent dinner consisted mainly of turtle soups and champagne. The chairman of the club announced a prize that day for whoever ate the most turtle soup. The competition was, naturally, fierce; club members ate soup, as one might say, until they bled. Upon conclusion of the dinner, when the “knights” lit their cigars, the president solemnly announced that the prize belonged to General Barnard, who had eaten the most. The valiant general had consumed ninety-nine (99) bowls of soup, thirty-three (33) eggs, and drunk eighteen (18) glasses of vodka (brandy). Not all generals can boast of such deeds.

It is difficult to point to any people who love competitions of all kinds as much as the Americans do. In this regard, one might say they far surpass even the English, those well-known lovers of sport. Newspapers daily announce the most whimsical competitions, which can only make one throw up one’s hands at their childish naivety, and meanwhile Americans—from gray-haired Yankees to blooming young ladies—go by the thousands to watch them, and the press devotes entire columns to detailed, even tediously detailed descriptions of them. Needless to say what an important event is such a fact as, for example, the recent competition between Americans and Irish in marksmanship. Americans followed it with almost the same suspended breath as Russians followed the siege of Plevna; in any case, the newspapers transmitted the vicissitudes of the competition with such details as reports from before Plevna could never compare to; entire columns were devoted to telegraph correspondences from the scene of action in Ireland, and meanwhile every word over the ocean cable costs 75 cents, or by our rate, 1½ rubles. They are particularly fond of rowing races. The colleges annually hold competitions, and one must see the interest with which society follows them. The entire honor of the college depends on the success of its rowing competition. The college that wins the rowing competition is surrounded for a whole year by a certain special halo, and remarkably, society usually considers it to be the best in academic respects, and fathers strive to place their children in this college as a special honor. Indeed, the colleges themselves are very jealous in maintaining their honor and make admission of pupils contingent on a certain measure of their physical strength, a certain standard of chest width and thickness of the upper arm. If a pupil falls even one inch short of the established measure in chest and arms, then even if he be seven times a genius—he will not be admitted to the celebrated college. Wrestling competitions are also much loved—like the ancient gladiatorial ones, only healthy fists serve instead of swords. Wrestling is usually extremely fierce, as tens of thousands of dollars in bets often hang behind it; the wrestlers beat each other with brutal ferocity; a European’s heart sinks from horror, while blue-eyed American girls only wave their handkerchiefs with innocent jubilation and their cheeks burn with the fire of enjoyment. Very often one of the wrestlers, and sometimes both of them, are sent from the arena directly to the hospital, but in compensation their heads are abundantly crowned with victory wreaths from merciful ladies. A curious example of the Americans’ love for such entertainment, especially if a large dollar prize hangs behind it, was recently provided by a fortunate couple, the male half of which was blessed by fate with healthy fists. From South America there arrived here a celebrated fighter, possessed of “the healthiest fists in the entire southern hemisphere” of the earth and offered his services to lovers of this entertainment. A lover, naturally, was soon found, and they announced a victory bet of 15,000 dollars. An announcement found a monetary competitor, but there was no fighter yet. Then the tender half of the fortunate couple said to her sturdy half: “Dear Chali (a diminutive term of endearment for Charles), here is a good opportunity for you to make money: go and defeat him!” The sturdy half shrank a bit from the prospect, but what is stronger than love and money?—and Chali went into the arena. When on the arena he encountered before him the monstrous fists of his opponent, the courage of the poor fellow was ready to abandon him, and he would have done well to withdraw from the fight. Suddenly, at the most critical moment, a needed voice rang out from the balcony: “Be brave, dear Chali, and you will be victorious!” He raised his eyes and saw his tender half, who in her left hand held a victorious wreath for him, and in her right a tablet with a large inscription: “Fifteen thousand dollars!” This sight restored his courage; he rushed into battle, and half an hour later his opponent was lying on the floor, helplessly waving his healthiest-in-the-southern-hemisphere fists. Such is the power of woman and dollars.

In such a fist-fighting competition, one can certainly find some interesting features, but I once happened to attend a pedestrian competition: it is difficult to imagine anything more boring, and yet the Americans simply went mad with delight and jubilation. The competition had been announced with grand advertisements, and Americans by the thousands poured into an enormous hall to witness it and follow all its vicissitudes. “Were you at the pedestrian competition?” my American doctor acquaintance asks me. “Not yet, doctor.” “But how can that be?” the respected Aesculapius nearly exploded. “Why, this is the greatest competition in the world. Only in America will you see it. In your Russia nothing like it. Certainly, certainly go!” “I will, I will, doctor,” I said, pacifying the indignant Aesculapius. “Well, how did you like the pedestrian competition?” suddenly asks me a familiar Methodist pastor. “Forgive me, respected father, I have not yet been to the competition!” “You still haven’t been? My lord, you should be ashamed to say that. What a display of patience, of endurance! I simply order you to go. Otherwise you will never see anything like it!” the pastor boiled over. “Well, how is it you are not ashamed that you have not yet invited me to the pedestrian competition!” pretty lips said to me reproachfully. Here it was not so easy to get away as before, and I set out for this greatest competition in the world. An enormous hall, capable of holding up to 15,000 people, was filled with spectators. An orchestra played the favorite national songs ceaselessly; the people shouted and raved; a large gallery was filled with newspaper reporters; above, large moving figures showed the number of miles covered, and along a large circular line, like shadows, walked the unfortunate competitors—pedestrians. The competition was set for seven days, and this was already the fifth day. With almost no sleep and rest, the competitors walked this line day after day, spurred on by interested parties who had wagered tens of thousands of dollars. Some of the pedestrians seemed so exhausted that I was seized with the fear of being witness to their inhuman death. But the Americans only rejoiced and marveled; ladies waved their handkerchiefs and distorted their pretty mouths with cries, threw flowers, which the triumphant sufferers could not even muster strength to pick up. And the sufferers again strained their strength and quickened their barely-moving feet. There were seven competitors in all, and three of them daily covered almost a hundred miles. The victor turned out to be a young black man, who covered 602 miles in a week. As soon as the competition was announced finished, the poor fellow fell and instantly fell asleep, despite the enthusiastic roar of the ten-thousand crowd that acclaimed him as victor. It is fortunate that such murderous victory is not poorly rewarded. The black man received 17,000 dollars for this victory.

In this way and in many other ways our trans-Atlantic friends amuse themselves. Besides the “Knights of the Turtle” described above, in New York there are many other such knights, who on their annual holidays usually entertain the public with feats of buffoonery and comedy. Remarkably, the attitude of the press toward these comic festivals is notable. It does not scold them at all, much less hurl thunderbolts and lightning at the knights; on the contrary, it actively participates in them, and in the best newspapers you can usually read humorous descriptions of such buffoonish celebrations. This does not mean, however, that our friends are wholly pervaded by buffoonery. There is in them extraordinary liveliness and humor, which with cheerfulness quite naturally pass into careless childishness and buffoonery. In other cases they know how to “seriously” enjoy themselves, combining utility with pleasure. An example of such a combination of utility with pleasure can be the “philosophical school on the estate.” The Americans, as is known, are not particularly great lovers of philosophical abstract speculation. Pure profit is immeasurably more important to them than the boldest and most fruitful philosophical conclusions. There are, however, exceptions among them—people devoted with their whole soul to the interests of philosophical knowledge. Not being particularly original in their thinking, they, as true Americans, are original in the forms of expression of their love for philosophy. One of them, a wealthy American named Alcott, conceived a passionate desire to establish in America such a philosophical school as would be a complete reproduction of the ancient philosophical schools, where Socrates, Platos, and other luminaries of the ancient world philosophized. No sooner said than done. In the neighboring state of Massachusetts, distinguished for the most romantic beauties of nature, there is an insignificant little place called Concord. Its surroundings are so picturesque and healthy that every summer it is usually occupied by thousands of summer residents from all sides. Alcott decided to establish his philosophical school here. Last year he erected a magnificent building for an academy, invited professors, and opened lectures. At first the summer residents were shy of the academy, but gradually they began to develop a taste for it. Now the fame of the academy has spread throughout the entire country, and some come from thousands of miles to attend the lectures. And so the philosophical academy is now in full operation. Besides the regular professors, a multitude of amateur lecturers have come to deliver lectures, vying with one another to entertain the summer residents with the fruits of their philosophical speculation. Ladies, naturally, do not lag behind the gentlemen, and some of them also give lectures. During intermissions an orchestra plays music, and nearby there is “refreshment.” After the lectures the pupils and teachers scatter through the magnificent park and engage in private conversations on philosophical subjects. The noise of the forests and the splash of the surrounding waters lend a romantic character to these philosophical pleasures. The academy’s founder himself, already an eighty-year-old man, jumps about like a child with delight, seeing the realization of his long-cherished dream. The lecture course is two months long, limited also by the summer season.

Competitions among Americans often contribute to scientific and technical discoveries. This was confirmed by the example of the great American inventor Edison. As is known, before the great genius of this “king of inventors,” nature obediently opens its hidden treasures. Only in the matter of electric lighting did it prefer our Yablochkov, who reaped rich laurels. But those laurels turned the head of the “king of inventors” and gave him no peace. He withdrew to his laboratory and swore an oath: either never to come out of it, or to come out with such an electric lamp as would astound the world. For eighteen months Edison worked intensively on experiments in this field; there was no word or sign of him, and everyone had even begun to forget about the great inventor, when suddenly on Sunday, December 21 of last year, the cry rang through the city: a new great invention of the great man! The “Herald” appended to its Sunday issue a special sheet in which the electric lamp invented by Edison was described in detail, documentarily, with engravings and polytypies, as he had promised. The leading article loudly trumpeted that the great problem of how to cheaply, pleasantly, and safely light streets, churches, theaters, and homes had at last been genially solved. The news was so unexpected that the unprepared public could not form any more or less definite conception of its subject, and it produced a great impression only in the stock-exchange world, where shares of gas companies immediately plummeted into the abyss, from which shrewd people did not fail to extract considerable percentages. On the second and third days there were no explanations whatever of the new invention, and doubt began to creep into the soul: is this lamp not one of the numerous hoaxes that shrewd Yankees frequently launch for pure sport? But then reporters, these faithful servants of the newspapers and the public, helped clarify the matter. They scattered throughout the city and desperately knocked on the doors of the prominent physicists and technicians here, demanding admission for a voluntary examination. Woe to scientists here! They must expect every hour that a reporter will burst through their door and ask: what do you think about such-and-such a question? The well-known Professor Draper, to such a question from a reporter, only smiled in reply that, of course, Edison is a great man, but about his new invention, prior to its practical application, he could say nothing, and tried to quickly show the troublesome questioner out. Another professor, the celebrated technologist here Morton, known for his physical research, even warned the reporters in advance and sent his opinion to one of the newspapers, in which he protested against the proclamation of Edison’s experiments in the field of electric lighting as “miraculous success,” as “anyone familiar with the matter can predict with confidence his failure.”

Be that as it may, the representatives of science refused to give any positive explanation of the discovery that occupied everyone. Then the reporters began to besiege Edison’s laboratory itself, demanding further explanation from him. One of them relates the following about his visit to Edison’s “coal palace.”

After the usual knock on the door, the “king of inventors” himself met the reporter in his office—a man of small stature, squat gentleman with soiled hands—and kindly led him into his laboratory, from which the new sun for our planet was to emerge. “There is the lamp that has caused you so much trouble,” Edison said with a smile, pointing to his invention, and began to explain its features and secret. This lamp is a model of simplicity and economy. The light in the lamp is produced by means of a horseshoe-shaped piece of charred paper, about two and a half inches long and the thickness of a thread. This horseshoe is placed in a small glass bulb, from which air is drawn out as much as is possible with the means of science available, so that perhaps only one millionth part of it remains.

The inventor showed the practical application of his invention as well. He stood right under an ordinary gas chandelier, on which two of his lamps were burning. He took off one of them, and it turned out to be a simple glass bulb. He put it back on the socket, and immediately the brilliant horseshoe shone forth with a golden light, illuminating the bulb. Turning a screw in the lamp, Edison reduced the light to the degree of a spark, then turned it off completely, as one turns off gas, and then turned it on again, whereupon a magnificent flame appeared once more. From this one could see that the electric light in his laboratory obeyed his will, just as the gas light obeys the hands of those accustomed to handling it.

The Passion for Competitions (Cont.)

“I can say,” the great inventor said with evident self-satisfaction, “that electric light is completely perfected, and all the problems which have troubled me during the last eighteen months are resolved. I hope to light every house here. When I succeed in placing several lamps in the street, I will leave them burning day and night for at least two weeks to thoroughly test my coal. I am confident that it will not melt—I have convinced myself of this through experiments in my laboratory, conducted for entire weeks—but I want the public to be convinced of it as well, and to be convinced by their own experiment. I think that my charred paper is the only substance capable of fully glowing and at the same time so fireproof that while conducting electric current, it will not be destroyed. The emptiness in the bulb, of course, presents nothing for combustion, but the intense heat produced by electricity would destroy any substance except charred paper. There is absolutely nothing here to melt: it is simple, pure coal, and our century has yet to know such a machine that could produce sufficient electricity to destroy it.”

The name of the “king of inventors” after eighteen months of silence about him is again on everyone’s lips. In Russia also he is often mentioned, but hardly one-tenth of the interesting, one might say anecdotal events of his life are known. In one Russian book I once read that Edison is a gloomy bachelor. This is a complete falsehood. The “king of inventors” is a good family man and has three children. His marriage has such a romantic character that it can be recounted here.

Back in 1873, Edison, already a famous inventor, was entirely occupied with coal, batteries, chemical processes, and it seemed that there was no force that could break through the shell of his exterior to reach his heart. But such a force was found; its name was love. The matter was thus. In 1873, Edison was extremely occupied with an experiment on improving the automatic system of the telegraph. Among the people invited to work on the various machines relating to this, there was one extremely shy girl, who devoted herself entirely to her work and never raised her eyes to the budding genius. Once Edison stood and watched as she worked with her plump little fingers. The girl, according to custom, did not raise her eyes, but her nervous finger movements, however, made it clear that she was in a terribly confused state. Finally, she could not bear it, lowered her hands to her lap, and looked hopelessly into Edison’s face. A smile flashed on his face, and with some awkwardness he suddenly addressed her:

–What do you think of me, Miss Mary? Do I please you?

– Why do you, Mr. Edison, confuse me? I…that is… I…

– Do not hurry to answer me. It is of no great importance, unless you wish to marry me.

The girl was inclined to laugh, but Edison continued:

– I am speaking seriously; however, do not hurry to answer. Think about it carefully, talk it over with your mother, and tell me as soon as it is convenient for you… Well, at least on Tuesday. Will that be convenient for you? I mean Tuesday of next week. Yes?

Edison’s workshop at that time was located in New York, and one of his friends, who worked in the main office of the Western Telegraph Company in New York, returning home on the last train, saw light in Edison’s private laboratory and ran up the stairs to rouse his friend from his usual state of semi-oblivion over some complex point of telegraph science.

– Hey, Tom! the visitor called out cheerfully. What are you doing here at such a late hour? Let’s go home!

– What time is it? – asked Edison, sleepily rubbing his eyes and stretching, like a lion suddenly awakened.

– It is nearly midnight. Let’s go.

– Really? – asked Edison in surprise – So I need to go home. After all, I got married today!

Despite such apparent inattention to an important day in his life, Edison is, one can say, an exemplary family man, and his family, now consisting of three little ones, is one of the happiest.

On the Ocean Shore

Summer retreats of Yankees. – On the ocean shore. – Wonders of construction. – The centennial tower and the iron restaurant. – A Cuban and a Haitian. – Sea bathing. – Public amusements. – A black man’s head instead of a target. – A night on the island. – A night excursion over the ocean.

There are sometimes moments in human life when existence itself becomes an unbearable burden. Such a moment in the capital of the New World is the entire summer. The heat is infernal; the sun from above and the red-hot pavement from below seem to pierce you through with flame, and the very leaves of the chestnut trees, with which the sidewalks are abundantly planted, instead of coolness waft a suffocating heat. Fortunately, grandfather ocean lies right next door, and so everyone who has any possibility at all of tearing themselves away for a moment from the murderous machine of “money-making” rushes out of the city to summer retreats, scattered in multitude over the islands along the ocean shore. The most popular and beloved summer retreat at present is Coney Island, and its description can serve as an interesting picture of the summer life of Americans.

On one of the hottest days, when the thermometer boldly threatened to cross over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, I, fearing to be roasted alive, set out for Coney Island. Three-story masses of floating palace-steamships one after another departed from the dock on the Hudson River, carrying masses of tormented, perspiring people. In the Hudson River, not only in the vicinity of New York, but for fifty miles above, the water is salty from the constant ocean tides, and therefore on the very step aboard the steamship one feels the cooling breath of the sea breeze. The magnificent floating palace “Leonora” began its journey. From the front platform of the upper deck an enchanting view opened up of the entire panorama of the Hudson estuary. On the right side, on an elevated shore, rise the spires of the capital of the neighboring state of New Jersey; on the left, pressed against the shore, cluster the beautiful and chocolate-colored masses of New York; in the distance the gates to the ocean are visible, and below swirls a thick mass of all sorts of vessels and steamships, which somehow miraculously escape the grandly-moving palace. On deck everyone breathes in the fresh sea air with redoubled effort, and the inevitable orchestra boldly struck up a popular song: “Oh, Emma, what a dilemma you have put me in!” Meanwhile the steamer had already entered New York Bay, passed by the gloomy little island where General Hancock dwelt awaiting relocation to the White House—if only the Democrats could manage to support him—and now it is at the gates leading to the open ocean. An ocean ship from Hamburg slowly made its way toward the entrance to the New World, as though exhausted from a two-week unbroken journey, and masses of European emigrants gazed in amazement at the American floating palace. Nearby, a huge bark moved smoothly by its sails, overflowing with people. The people were in terrible excitement, pressed toward the bow, and continuous desperate “hurrah!” rang out over the ocean. Taking binoculars, I saw before the bark two heads on the water surface, struggling intensely with the wave, and I guessed what was going on. This was a swimmers’ competition, which, as I learned later, was for a prize of 2,000 dollars and they had to swim twenty-five miles. On the bark there were more than a thousand people with an admission fee of five dollars, and with an obligation to drink entire barrels of beer, carefully stocked by the organizers of the competition. And the palace continues to move further into the ocean—and now ahead of it no land is visible: one boundless expanse of water, on which white sails of lone ships occasionally appear and black streaks of seagulls are carried in the blue air. A wondrous sight! But the steamer, as though suddenly recollecting itself and taking fright at this boundless distance, turns to the left, and soon the famous Coney Island opens before you.

If one looks at the shore line of the island from a distance, one can doubt one’s own sense of sight. On the gleaming white sand, as if by magic, rise magnificent palaces with towers, sparkling roofs, terraces, columns, and all sorts of irregularities and ornaments. One can think this is a deceptive mirage, a magical fata morgana, rather than reality. And yet this is real American reality, though not without a mixture of magic. Only about five years ago this island was a sandy desert in which rabbits lived peacefully and hopped about, and on the shores here and there huddled the wretched hovels of fishermen. Its location, however, was so advantageous as a forward post on the path from Europe to America that the government of the New York state decided to build a tower to commemorate the centennial anniversary of independence, celebrated in 1876. And so from that time all eyes turned to the island, it began to become more fashionable, and magnificent summer hotels grew out of the sand like mushrooms after rain. At present, already 20,000,000 dollars have been spent on coastal construction, and each year they expand and are further beautified. The constructions stretch along the shore for about ten miles and provide accommodations for tens of thousands of permanent summer residents, while casual visitors number in the hundreds of thousands daily. On Sundays nearly half the city moves to the island—to rest from a week’s labor. As I approached the island, the sandy shore had blackened from the masses of people moving along the shore line between rows of palaces and the ocean splash.

The steamer stopped at the so-called “Iron Pier.” This is the first marvel. The pier extends into the open ocean for 150 fathoms, and is entirely built of iron and is supported over the water by tubular iron columns. It consists of three stories. The upper serves as a place for promenade: here a large orchestra plays and in all directions opens a wonderful view of both the ocean and the line of palaces. You go down to the middle floor, and there is arranged a rich restaurant with thousands of tables and place settings. The lower floor is occupied by bathing rooms and right under the pier itself is a place for bathing. Upon examination of this marvel of architectural art a foreigner cannot help but be amazed at the demonic inventiveness of the American mind. Only a demon with the help of the dollar could have invented and created such a magical water palace. The entire structure is extremely tall, and even the strongest wave of the ocean does not reach even the first floor and only angrily roars among the iron columns.

Upon leaving the “water palace” onto the sandy shore, the first thing that draws special attention is the tower, a monument to the centennial anniversary. In its structure it resembles the “Iron Pier,” only it goes not into the ocean but to the sky. It is built of iron and represents a huge latticed transparent column. The Americans assert that this is the highest building in the world made by human hands. If one subtracts a portion of this measurement for the sake of American braggadocio, from which they are far from free, the tower would still be a very grand building. Two elevators are constantly working, raising enthusiasts to the very top platform of the tower. The beauty of the panorama that opens out from there far surpasses the fifteen-cent fee for the ascent. At the height one’s breath is taken away on the tower, and you do not immediately dare to look down; and there the two-legged worm crawls and creeps over the sand, and you even become frightened lest the ocean sweep away this tiny rational worm with its wave. The perspective of the ocean stretches away into infinite distance, where white sails appear like clouds. The magical distance of the ocean enchants you, and you cannot tear your eyes from it. The thought soars into this distance and you seem to see the shores of your native continent—but a bell, announcing the arrival of a new elevator, brings you from oblivion, and you hurry to look about in all directions for your fifteen kopecks. The western side of the perspective, revealing a magnificent view of the capital of the New World with the neighboring cities surrounding it—New Jersey, Brooklyn, Hoboken, Williamsburg, and others—completes the charm of the picture, and you descend with completely satisfied feelings. For those who love heights there is another means nearby—to vanish completely into the blue heights. On a rope 1,000 feet long is attached a huge air balloon, which by a certain mechanism is alternately drawn toward the earth and then again released into the heavenly heights. For a few cents you can also experience this pleasure of ballooning, and lovers are usually so numerous that the balloon rises toward the sky always overflowing with human cargo. I did not have the courage to venture on such a flight, especially since I had previously read in the newspapers a very unpleasant incident from the history of ballooning. In Cincinnati, a similar aerostat on a rope had been set up, and thousands of lovers had successfully made aerial excursions in it. One fine day a pair of enamored country lovers, who had come to the city to purchase wedding supplies, wanted to experience the sensation of love in the blue sky. With merry laughter they sat down in the balloon’s car; the machine thundered and the balloon rapidly soared into the enchanting blue of the heavens. Suddenly something cracked, the rope fell, and the balloon, already on the wings of wild freedom, soared into boundless heights—never to return. A cry of despair was heard from the unfortunate passengers, but there was no possibility of helping them; soon the balloon disappeared from sight—and I did not afterward read of the tragic conclusion of this dreadful excursion.

Instead of the risky air flight I preferred to go to the “Eastern” restaurant and ordered myself a beefsteak and porter. There I met two of my West Indian friends—a Frenchman from the island of Haiti and a Spaniard from the island of Cuba. The talkative Haitian, who even on this remote island had preserved all the boisterousness of Parisian blood, according to custom and for the hundredth time was asking the same questions about St. Petersburg, its customs and pleasures, assured me that everyone there speaks French and is extremely fond of Frenchmen in general, and finally, at the conclusion of his endless chatter, swore by the independence and glory of his republic that he would certainly visit our Northern Palmyra. – “You are most welcome!” – I answered him and was greatly relieved when he quickly turned around, bowed and rushed off somewhere—probably seeking a new victim for his chatter. Looking after this fluttering citizen of the great Haitian republic, I made clear to myself why on the island of Haiti, which constitutes an independent state, almost every year there are about two revolutions, and its citizens now chase out the president and put an emperor on the throne, then overthrow the emperor and again restore the president—until the next change of scenery. The Cuban is quite a different sort. He is a young man with long black mustaches and curly hair; his eyes burn with tropical fire, but he is extremely calm and even somewhat melancholic.

– Well, how are things, Señor Roncillo?

– So-so, – he answers reluctantly.

– And how is General Garcia?

– A fool he is, not a general! – the Cuban suddenly flared up, and his eyes gleamed with the fire of indignant despair. – They told him a thousand times that it was too early to begin, that not everything was prepared yet, that he would certainly fall into the trap like a rat. No, he would not listen, he wanted sooner to become president of the Cuban republic, and now he presides in a Spanish prison, if he is not already swinging on the gallows. I was just at his family, but there, naturally, there are tears, and I soon left…

The Cuban twisted his black mustaches and angrily tapped his cane on the table, calling for a glass of cheerful sherry to dispel his sadness. He speaks of the well-known leader of the Cuban insurgents, who last spring departed from New York to Cuba to raise an uprising against the Spanish government and after several unsuccessful skirmishes with Spanish troops was captured with his main detachment. – As a true Cuban, he is keenly interested in the fate of his homeland and constantly dreams of the island’s liberation from Spanish rule. The son of a wealthy planter on Cuba, he had been preparing in medical college for the profession of physician; but when ten years ago an uprising broke out on Cuba, he along with a dozen of his companions abandoned the college and rushed onto the battlefield. For three years he, hungry and half-naked, lived in the mountains and forests, fighting the Spanish. But when at last the uprising began to lose all chances of success, and its participants faced inevitable capture, he along with several of his companions in a simple small boat rushed into the open ocean, and after three days of sailing successfully reached the island of Haiti, from which he then moved to New York, where he is now engaged in the preparation of Havana cigars.

Meanwhile, in the opposite pavilion, the orchestra struck up a Turkish march extraordinarily beloved by the Americans. Its wildly sensual tones stirred the masses, who swayed and rushed toward the benches and chairs in front of the pavilion. Behind the pavilion, Grandfather Ocean tirelessly continued playing his monotonous wild song on the sandy harp. And this noisy splash of mighty waters had a more captivating power for me than even the refined melodies of art. I walked along the sandy shore, as the ocean waves in measured rows kept surging and surging onto the sand, and some were eager to grab your legs if you were not sufficiently careful. Nearby, just above the water, stood a station of the “sea railroad” running along the coast before the front of the buildings. For five cents I bought a ticket, and the train rushed along the very shore. It was a wonderful ride. Looking from the carriage window and seeing before you only the boundless expanse of water, you even forget that you are moving along the land, and it seems to you that some monstrous force with terrible speed is carrying you into the unreturnable distance of the ocean. After several minutes the train stops, and you see before you another part of the island. Here are the same palaces with towers and terraces, but this part has more facilities for sea bathing. And indeed, the entire shore is covered with bathers in their strange fantastic costumes. Men and women bathe together, and from the water comes the sound of various voices—now the shrill cries of timid maidens, now the booming laughter of gentlemen. Opposite the bathing area stands a magnificent terrace for spectators, and under the terrace are thousands of dressing rooms for bathing. The ticket for bathing and costume costs 25 cents. It is hard to imagine anything more pleasant than ocean bathing after the suffocating heat. You swim on the waves easily and freely, and in the enjoyment of healthy coolness you completely forget the agony just endured from the scorching heat. And the waves, one after another, carry you along, and some will actually throw you onto the soft sand. The waves come unevenly, and you cannot keep up with them unless you carefully watch the series of water ridges advancing from afar. Among a series of waves that merely wash your knees, suddenly appears such a wave that unexpectedly covers you entirely. Such waves are sometimes dangerous. The Austrian general consul was recently severely injured. At his summer cottage he sat on a low rocky shore of the ocean “fishing” for fish, enjoying mostly the melodious splash of the waves. His German soul was completely absorbed in contemplating the beauties of nature, when suddenly an enormous wave unexpectedly rushed in, caught the consul, and hurled him down onto the rocky ground, breaking his knee. To prevent cases of being swept away by a wave, the bathing place here is surrounded by a line of lifeboats. Recently rumors circulated that sharks had begun to appear here with a great appetite for human flesh, and among the bathing enthusiasts there was considerable panic; but these rumors proved to be unfounded and were spread by rival speculators who wanted to undermine this bathing establishment.

On the Ocean Shore. (Cont.)

After bathing one feels refreshed, and a glass of sherry is not out of place, and then you will have energy enough to examine the varied attractions here. You will see a carousel off to one side, and a capering “Punch,” and self-moving swings. There, under a fantastic rotunda on a pedestal, stands a colossal cow with golden horns. People crowd around it, and young women constantly kneel down before it. From a distance you might think that the Yankees are worshipping Apis, but coming closer you learn that the cow is actually an enormous milk reservoir, and the young women are milking milk from artificial teats for those who wish. Nearby is an American folk museum, with an admission fee of 10 cents. I have more than once been to cheap museums in America intended for the common people, and I was always especially struck by how the first thing you always see is a large wax group of the “fathers of the republic” deliberating during the signing of the “Declaration of Independence.” Perhaps this was why the names of these great and courageous patriots of the country, or, as the people usually call them, the “signers” (signers), are memorized by every street urchin. And here too stood silently these great signers of the charter of freedom, which from that time has become the goddess of the country. Among the mechanical automata I noted there the figure of Dr. Tanner. The mechanical double of the fasting doctor precisely depicts his living original on the fortieth day of his fast. Pale and emaciated, he lies on a couch and weakly fans himself with a Chinese fan. Then there are numerous curiosities which, however, can be seen in any similar museum. More curious than other things seemed to me a notebook in which visitors are invited to write their names and also give their opinion of the museum’s merits. Knowing from experience the ticklish vanity of the Yankees, I could not resist, for fun, touching this weak string and wrote that the museum had “many curious things never seen by me in my native Russia.” Without doubt, the Yankee will more than once smile smugly reading this opinion. Next to the museum various other purveyors of popular amusements have set up. For five cents you can give a heavy hammer blow to an anvil, and it will show the force of your strike. Here too is rifle shooting at a target, and to the side a Native American Indian stands and offers for a cent the chance to test your accuracy with a Native bow, and he himself, by way of attraction, constantly pierces with an arrow the figure of a hated “white man” serving as the target. Further, an entire row of figures depicting various nationalities, and you can, depending on your antipathy, knock the head off a Chinese man, a Turk, a German, etc., and for every accurate hit receive a ticket for a free bottle of beer at a neighboring restaurant.

Americans are extraordinarily fond of all kinds of exercises where one can show strength or dexterity. In one place there was particularly lively ball-throwing at a target. Expecting to find something especially interesting there, I came closer, but at first glance there was nothing special. A stout Yankee in a straw hat with very broad brim stood shouting, “Three balls for five cents! A cigar for an accurate hit!” and fellow Yankees kept taking balls and throwing them at a target. The target was a Negro’s head sticking out through white cloth. Thinking it was a mechanical head, I was already about to leave when I suddenly noticed with astonishment that after one particularly accurate hit the eyes of the head blinked strongly and the lips showed a row of white teeth. I looked more closely and could not believe my eyes. It was the unfortunate head of a living Negro! I went around back and saw that behind the cloth a small chair was arranged, on which the unfortunate Negro sat and thrust his head out through the hole in the cloth to his shame and suffering. Never before had I witnessed such humiliation of human dignity. And this in the celebrated land of freedom, in the land of the Declaration of Human Rights! O Freedom! Bitter irony—yours is the true name! And the Yankee keeps shouting, his cruel, inhuman fellow countrymen keep throwing balls at the unfortunate head, and the wretched head only keeps blinking and spitting tobacco juice. Revolting spectacle!

Soon, however, night fell and doubtless put an end to the shame and suffering of the unfortunate “colored gentleman,” but of course only until tomorrow. On the deep dark sky stars began to sparkle, and from the mysterious depths of the ocean emerged the fiery orb of the moon. The shore was enveloped in night’s darkness—but only for a few moments. As soon as the moon rose above the water, immediately the entire shore was illuminated by the light of electric suns and gas stars. Day broke again, but a fantastic day—with an entire constellation of suns, and before them the moon paled and the stars in the sky went out. Three suns blazed directly over the bathing place, and under their magical rays continued to swarm, shout, and splash fantastic figures of male and female bathing enthusiasts.

The ocean train transported me again to the iron pier and the centennial tower. The tower rose as a column of fire toward the sky, while the iron pier vanished in the ocean like a blazing broom. The paddle steamer, decorated with multicolored lights, gave its whistle to depart, and I hurried to take my place. The steamer rushed into the dark depths of the ocean, while behind us the entire shore merged into a solid blazing glow. On deck, meanwhile, among the mass of cheerful passengers, songs were heard. On the left side the Yankees grouped together and struck up their song about the “deep blue sea”; while on the right a group of Frenchmen pressed to the rail and sang some native song, which elicited applause from the public. The Yankees took offense and started competing, choosing a more energetic melody. Then the Frenchmen rose from their seats and, forming a circle, thundered out the Marseillaise, whose courageous melody fortunately coincided with strong and resonant voices and completely drowned out the Yankee’s bleating chorus. In opposition to the Marseillaise the Yankees once more struck up the most national of American hymns, “Yankee Doodle rode into town on a little pony”; but the Frenchmen had completely won the public’s attention, and the Yankee chorus retreated, to the great pleasure of the Frenchmen, who could not refrain from shouting “Vive la republique francaise!” Then the victors fell into complete rapture and for the whole journey entertained the public with selected songs from their native repertoire. And in the sky again the stars shone brightly and the magnificent golden moon floated serenely, and in the distance the lights on the waterfront of the sleeping capital were already visible.

* * *

The Presidential Campaign of 1880

1. Opening of the Campaign

From canal tow to the presidency. – Private candidates. – The presidential boom. – The American Pythia. – The Republican convention in Chicago. – Grant’s desperate struggle and defeat. – The “dark horse” and the soaring eagle.

Thirty years ago on one of the canals that form their water system in the vicinity of the Great Lakes, among the motley mass of workers engaged in timber rafting and ship towing, one could see a small fifteen-year-old boy who worked on the tow line as a horse driver. The boy was distinguished by an intelligent, open, and energetic face, and was the favorite of the adult workers. His labor was not easy, but he went about it cheerfully each day, and was infinitely happy when at the end of the week he received his usual wages of a few dollars. Thirty years have passed since then, and many of the adult workers are now old men, but still work on the canal as they did thirty years ago. But what became of the little tow-worker? Oh, he experienced many changes during this time, and last year was popularly elected president of the greatest republic in the world. But is he equally happy now as he was then on the canal? – This can only be learned from President Garfield himself, who thanks to the presidency is now helplessly struggling against death…

The political movement which, for better or worse, elevated the canal tow-worker to the presidency is called the presidential campaign, and an account of it can serve as an interesting characterization of the political customs of our trans-Atlantic friends. The first signs of it appeared at the beginning of the presidential year. Each of the major political parties (there are two—the Republican and the Democratic) had to put forward its candidate for popular election. The parties, in turn, are divided into various factions, and here the first struggle began among the factions. Each of them, in accordance with their private interests, tried to put forward their own candidate as the best representative of their interests. The struggle between these private candidates presents a lively picture. Politicians resort to all sorts of means, merely to elevate and popularize their candidate and to denigrate their opponent. They hold open noisy demonstrations and secret meetings; conduct open and underground agitation; publish pamphlets and tributes; put their candidate on the theatrical stage, showing the flaws of others and the virtues of their own. On shop signs you constantly see candidates depicted in one position or another, depending on the political views of the owner; on speculation announcements, theater posters, and wrapping paper you will encounter invitations to vote for this and not that candidate. In short, wherever you turn, you will meet candidates everywhere and in everything. The loudest demonstrations, however, play the main role in the agitation. A person in general, and an American in particular, is so constituted that he pays the most attention to where there is the most noise and commotion—there, supposedly, is greater power. Taking advantage of this weakness, the parties truly “make noise,” producing what is called a “boom.” In the newspapers you constantly read that in such-and-such a state there is a “boom” for such-and-such a candidate, and in another for another. This characteristic name for a noisy demonstration in a presidential campaign is borrowed from the commercial bazaar world. A foreigner, upon arriving, for example, in New York, will encounter a boom within the first few days. Arriving one of the first days of my stay here at the dining room for breakfast, I was struck by a terrible cry that was carried through several voices along an ordinarily quiet street. I rushed to the window and saw five or six men who, like madmen, ran along the street, running from one doorway to another and from one sidewalk to another, and frantically shouted some incomprehensible words.

“What is this? What is this?” I asked my companions almost in fright; but they, accustomed to this phenomenon, only laughed at my confusion and did not explain what was the matter. Then I turned to the landlady, an American old-timer, asking her for clarification; but she too answered me indefinitely that it was crazy people shouting.

“How crazy? What are they shouting? What words are they shouting?” I asked with impatience and annoyance.

“We know that they are shouting, but what they are shouting, no one in the world knows,” the American old-timer finally answered.

Seeing my serious confusion, my American companions explained to me that these people were simply producing a “boom” or noise. Whoever is interested in their cry and asks what is the matter, they will say that in such-and-such an oyster house the freshest oysters in the world have been received, or that three of the world’s greatest luminaries in women’s skirts have been engaged at such-and-such a theater, and meanwhile thrust a card in your hand. Exactly such a boom the parties produce for their candidates.

The most grandiose boom in the Republican party, about which alone we will now speak, was produced by the supporters of General Grant. The agitation for him began as soon as he set foot on American soil after his around-the-world journey. About 80,000 people gathered to receive him. Then followed a series of brilliant demonstrations arranged in all the cities to which the general traveled. Grant’s boom thundered throughout the country and clearly demonstrated, if not power, then the sophistication of political tactics among the general’s friends. The great newspaper “Times,” second in its influence in America, became the spokesman for Grantism, as the Grant movement began to be called, which threatened to drown out all other movements in the Republican party. The reason for Grantism’s success is explained both by the influence of his friends and especially by the political and social state of the country. Recently in the political and social life of our trans-Atlantic friends, symptoms have appeared that give cause for concern to friends of the republic. In governmental spheres bureaucracy develops to terrible proportions, with office-seeking and bribery, and in the economy dangerous conditions are rapidly being prepared for a clash between labor and capital. As a result of all this, people to whom the interests of the republic are dear, seeing no other way out from the threatening dangers, begin to lose faith in healthy public sense and see salvation only in such a “strong man” who could manage to suppress the dangerous symptoms. Their gaze fell upon General Grant, who during the war showed himself to be an energetic fighter for the unity of the union, and during his two-term presidency—as an energetic ruler.

But as everywhere, so in politics—what is health to one is death to another. What the Grantites considered the salvation of the republic, their opponents proclaimed to be the greatest calamity, inevitably leading to the ruin of the republic. When the views of the Grantites became more or less clear, their opponents saw in them nothing less than usurpationist aspirations, directed toward a great political upheaval, like that which the late Napoleon III once amazed the world with. This thought flashed through the country like lightning and found expression even in the “Herald,” the largest and most widely distributed American newspaper. The newspaper published a series of articles that seriously attacked both the general and his party for the Caesarism with which they threatened the country. What especially disturbed the politicians of the anti-Grant camp was that Grant was seeking the presidency for a “third term,” something that had never happened in all the existence of the republic and which the great liberator of the country, Washington, having himself declined the presidency for a third term, had cautioned against. If General Grant is now seeking the presidency for a third term—contrary to the republican traditions of the country and the testament of its liberator and founder of the republic—then clearly, argued the anti-Grantites, usurpation and Caesarism lie behind this. Thus the Grant party encountered a serious opponent, relying on the living republican feeling of the people and acting in the name of this feeling. The press came out against Grant, the humorous and satirical newspapers depicted him only in a crown, and on the stages of public theaters there appeared comic operettas depicting General Grant’s ascension to the imperial throne under the name Ulysses I. At a colossal ball at which 15,000 people participated, amid the height of dancing and pleasures, a rider suddenly appeared from a side door with a crown on his head, followed by a whole mass of courtiers with banners, trumpets, timpani, and shouts of “Long live the Emperor.” The face of the rider depicted General Grant with remarkable accuracy, while the banners displayed coats of arms with the name Ulysses I. This joke at the expense of the Grant party had great success and popularity.

The friends of the American emperor, however, did not lose heart and set off for the Republican convention in Chicago with full confidence.

In the central part of New York, where the fashionable element begins to predominate over the industrial, two main and richest streets of the city—Broadway and Fifth Avenue—meet at an acute angle, forming a thin arrow pointed toward the shady square, a favorite place for evening strolls of city dwellers. The arrow commands the entire vast square, usually crowded with people, and all the populous space formed by the joined streets up to their division. Such a busy and conspicuous place could not remain without special use. One clever Yankee set up over the arrow something like a magic lantern, which by means of machinery, magnifying glasses, and electric light shows every evening enormous pictures visible from the entire square and the space adjacent to it. The pictures change every five or six minutes, or in general enough time to read the text on them. The text instructs you where you can eat the freshest oysters in the world, obtain the cheapest yet most elegant costume, rent the most comfortable apartment in the world, marry the most beautiful yet also most modest woman in the world, etc. In short, here you see an extraordinarily original application of the magic lantern to the field of speculators’ announcements. The pictures only serve as bait. This form of advertisement enjoys great popularity here, and the fortunate inventor of the lantern is simply overwhelmed with orders and collects large profits. But at the same time he is an ardent politician, and from time to time his magic lantern communicates important political bulletins before anyone else. During presidential elections the lantern plays a leading role, and before it, on the square and on all free places, innumerable masses of people gather, waiting for important news from the lantern. With such masses of people engaged in politics, the square was crowded in the first days of June 1880. At that time in the city of Chicago was taking place the convention of the Republican party to nominate the Republican candidate for the presidency, and in New York everyone eagerly awaited news from there. When on the 7th the lantern began showing figures representing the count of votes for one or another candidate, then depending on the way they leaned, the square was filled now with triumphant hurrahs, now with angry hissing, and the crowd of many thousands of passionately arguing politicians presented an interesting spectacle in the darkness, with only the glimmering of stars in the dark sky. Those of the politicians who for some reason could not come to the square sent boys who, like imps, scurried through the crowds and, having learned the reading from the American Pythia, shot off like arrows to their mysterious senders. Thus did politicians agonize from a thousand miles away from the place of the actual event; what was happening in Chicago at the convention itself—this is hard to describe.

The Republican convention in Chicago will remain a memorable event in the history of the American people forever. It clearly revealed sides of their political life that had not been noticed before. From the external side it attracted attention already in that the strongest candidate there was General Grant, whose selection for a “third term” simply drove out of their minds a good half of the Republican party, who saw in this a glaring violation and insult to republican traditions, a manifest Caesarism and usurpation. As a result, the struggle between Grant’s supporters and opponents was expected to be fierce, and to observe its ups and downs more than 100,000 people gathered in Chicago. Already crowded as it was, the city in the first days of June presented a veritable sea of people, and all the more turbulent because in each of them political blood was simmering and boiling. The parties conducted their final booms for their candidates even before the sessions began, arranged noisy processions through the city with banners and music, and resourceful commissioners with unmistakable courtesy met delegates at the railroad stations and offered free lodgings in hotels—of course at the expense of unknown strangers.

Each state sent its delegates to the national Republican convention under the leadership of skilled politicians. There were 756 delegates in all, of which 379 were necessary for election. Several candidates appeared, but the main ones were three: General Grant, who had the strongest party behind him; Senator Blaine, a skilled politician; and Secretary of State Sherman, who openly used his important financial position to promote his candidacy. There were several other candidates as well, but quite insignificant, supported only by their respective states. The center of struggle should have been among the three main candidates. And the struggle began. The Grantites represented the strongest party, but not all in their ranks were equally devoted to Grant, and many of them were inclined to prefer the golden calf to even the most valiant general. Opponents, of course, understood this and opened a real auction. The colored delegates, who in general stand behind Grant as their liberator from slavery, proved to be the most pliable, and many of them went for such a price as they had not been sold for even during slavery. Toward other, less mercenary delegates, the contending sides used different means; agitation in the hall, which held more than ten thousand people, often reached such a degree that the entire assembly seemed seized by the madness of shouting and cries, and it was hard to think that any of the delegates remained without deafness and torn lungs. Each party was afraid to proceed directly to balloting, and so for six whole days they engaged in preliminary struggle, wrenching votes from each other.

At last the voting began and the result was the following table:

Grant received… 304

Blaine “… 284

Sherman” … 96

Washburne received… 32

Edmunds “… 40

Windom”… 10

This result showed that Grant had after all a majority of votes, but however not such as could secure him an unquestionable victory. The supporters of the other candidates were all against the “third term,” and therefore in case of a union of forces on some single candidate they could easily beat the Grantites. But in any case, the first vote gave no one the necessary number of votes for election—379. Therefore a second ballot was proceeded to. The result turned out to be the same. During the preliminary bitter struggle the parties had become so shuffled that one could not have hoped for a better shuffling of delegates. During the second ballot only very insignificant changes occurred in the distribution of votes, and notably, one vote was cast for General Garfield, about whom there had been no mention in the first ballot. No one paid attention to this vote, but it was destined to become fateful for the convention. Since the necessary number of votes for election was again not received, a third ballot was proceeded to—and again with the same result. And so the whole day passed, twenty ballots were taken, and the twentieth in general differed not at all from the first in the distribution of votes. Sweat poured in streams from the delegates and thousands of spectators crowded in the stuffy hall; many of them were ready to vote for the first available candidate just to finish with this matter as quickly as possible; but others declared they were ready to vote all summer long, as long as they held the battlefield for their candidate. The session ended at 11 o’clock at night, the parties left with a sense of annoyance and uncertainty; only the Grantites showed some cheerfulness: the twentieth ballot gave Grant 308 votes, 4 more than the first. Garfield with his one vote now appeared, now disappeared again.

1. Opening of the Campaign (Cont.)

Given the unshakeable steadfastness of the supporters of the major candidates, it was natural to expect that victory would remain with one of them, since the supporters of minor candidates would necessarily have to cast their votes for one or another of the major ones. In reality, however, political tactics, based on the inflaming of passions, has worked out for such cases a completely different outcome. The President of the United States, in a governmental relation, possesses very insignificant rights; he simply embodies only the executive power in relation to the determinations of Congress. But he has very great significance in an administrative relation; under his direct supervision lies an extensive area of state administration, with an entire army of officials or bureaucrats. In this connection of bureaucrats with the president lies the whole secret and the fierce struggle over candidates, and the valiant steadfastness of their supporters. Practice has worked out such a form of election of delegates to the convention that mostly either officials or those still hoping for good positions end up among them. It is they who make noise at the convention, in every way trying to defend their candidate—in the full assurance that their zeal will be rewarded according to their deserts in case of success. This bureaucratic approach to presidential elections has recently developed to terrible extent and threatens serious danger to the country, introducing corruption and decay into republican rule of the state. It also explains the unexpected outcome that conventions are beginning more and more to astonish the country with. Parties struggle to the last extremity, but when they see finally that it is impossible to maintain their candidate, to secure for him the necessary number of votes, they transfer their votes not to the side of the strongest candidate, to give him superiority—no, but to some completely insignificant candidate who had not even been counted before. The sole consideration guiding them in this is that to give their votes to the strongest candidate simply means voluntarily yielding all positions with their fat salaries to his supporters, leaving nothing for themselves. In bolstering a minor candidate there remains, in case of his election, hope that he, having no special cronies, will distribute positions impartially, equally for all parties. It is clear that instead of prominent and popular candidates, with such a state of affairs, only “dark horses” (dark horse), as these unexpectedly emerging candidates are called, can come out of conventions.

Twenty ballots on June 7th did not settle the matter. The next day, with new hopes and fears, the tedious voting machine was set in motion anew. The parties stood like stone pillars. One after another the ballots produced the same results. The thirty-third ballot was almost identical to yesterday’s first. It seemed that there would be no end to this Sisyphean labor. But the patience of its participants finally snapped. At the thirty-fourth ballot the small parties broke ranks and inclined toward the “dark horse.” Garfield instead of his usual one vote suddenly received 17. This should immediately have caused demoralization in the convention, but it found a counterbalance in that Grant at the same time also won a few more votes and received 312. The thirty-fifth ballot, however, completely shattered the ranks of the supporters of the major candidates. Garfield received 50 votes on this ballot, and the fate of the convention was decided. Everyone immediately saw where the center of gravity lay, and the thirty-sixth ballot was the last. It abundantly endowed the “dark horse” with votes. Here is the table that this last ballot presented:

Garfield………………… 399 Blaine……………………… 42

Grant 306 Sherman 3

The craftiest Senator Blaine and the ambitious Secretary Sherman suffered the greatest defeat. Grant’s column remained unshaken and honorably came out of this infernal struggle. Grant himself received the first news of the convention’s result at a telegraph station. Having received this discouraging table, the famous general looked at it intently, nodded his head, and saying “all right” (well, okay), went home. All three of these candidates immediately left the political stage, and in their place the figure of the former canal tow-worker majestically stepped forward; he became the leader of the Republican half of the people. Evidently he was brought forward unexpectedly and came out of the Republican conclave as a “dark horse”; but even such a choice coincided with the political sense of the people, and on the very day of Garfield’s election, many saw how a bald eagle majestically hovered and circled above the modest house of the present president.

The Democrats

The gloomy island and its happy inhabitant. – The Democratic convention. – The Democrats and their political program. – Candidates and Tilden’s cunning. – The Democratic chosen one and his state formula. – The dark horse and the gray soldier.

The large island on which the capital of the New World with its one-and-a-half million population is located is washed by two broad currents formed by the Hudson and the East River, which separate New York from a whole constellation of other cities. Encircling the city, both rivers before they empty into the ocean converge into one magnificent circular expanse of water—more than ten square versts—bearing the name of New York Bay. It is hard to imagine anything more picturesque than this bay. Its granite embankment, with the adjoining park, in summer heat serves as one of the favorite places for walks. Here you can rest in the shade of chestnuts and in the cool healthy breath of the bay from the suffocating heat of the city atmosphere. The panorama of the bay is enchanting. Its mirror-like surface is traversed in all directions by countless ships and steamers, forming as it were a living bridge between cities, and in the distance one sees the narrow gates leading to the ocean, through which ocean giants—steamships—enter and exit. In the middle of the bay’s expanse, but closer to the ocean outlet than to the city, is located a small island. It is covered with dense foliage, through which barely pierce into the light gloomy buildings of heavy construction. But bolder than the houses, the steel muzzles of guns peer out from the green foliage. This is the chief New York fort and at the same time the chief headquarters of the commander of local troops, Major General Hancock. In a happy country enjoying actual, not armed, peace, the seat of the god of war does not serve as a place of worship, and therefore the island, amid the life boiling around it, looks as if abandoned like an orphan. Its inhabitants are as dull as their guns, and carry out their official duties with the same mechanicalness as the guns when, on major historical holidays, they belch hundreds of evenly calculated shots at the bay. On Thursday, June 24, 1880, something extraordinary suddenly happened. The previously abandoned orphan island suddenly became a magnet, drawing countless steamships that usually passed by it with cold indifference. On the island everything came to life. The gloomy buildings adorned themselves with multicolored flags, the shores were besieged by masses of visitors, the groves rang with triumphant cries, and the steel guns seemed to intensify their firing even without charges. The reason for such magical change in the life of the gloomy island was that its chief inhabitant, General Hancock, was on this day appointed by the Democratic convention as a candidate for the presidency. Here, in this seat of the god of war, the Democratic party found itself a leader who was to lead it against the hated Republicans with their General Garfield, and—to be victorious at the November elections.

The Democratic convention, at which the honorable ticket to the presidency fell to the happy inhabitant of the gloomy island, took place on the twenty-second to twenty-fourth days of June in the city of Cincinnati, or the so-called American Paris, though by its dusty suffocating atmosphere it would be more appropriately called the American Saratov. The Democratic party had not had such an important convention for a long time. The convention had to decide an almost Shakespearean question: to be or not to be? Since the Civil War the Democratic party had not had a single president. The White House was constantly occupied by Republicans with their chosen ones. At the elections two years before, specifically in 1876, fortune smiled on the Democrats, and their chosen one Tilden was already about to set foot across the sacred threshold of the White House, when suddenly the Republicans, through cunning political manipulation, took several votes away from him and by a majority of one vote pulled the presidency to their side and installed their candidate Hayes in the White House. The blow was heavy for the Democrats who had already thought they had won, and Tilden himself took to his bed. Time, however, healed both the party and its candidate, and now they came forth on the political arena with new strength and new determination. Now they had at all costs to defeat their opponents, to avenge their past defeats, and to uphold the honor of their banner. Otherwise the party faced political death.

To win, one must be strong and have at the head a leader who, embodying the principles of the party, could unite in one harmonious force all the diverse factions of the party and, before the mighty influence of his banner, force the opponent’s banner to bow. In the elections two years before, the party, among other things, lost because its leader could not attract to himself certain factions that did not see in him a full expression of democratic principles. What are these principles? – To answer this question, one must look back a bit. Before the war for the abolition of slavery there were two parties—the Democrats and the Whigs, the former being adherents of decentralization and expansion of the rights of local states, and the latter supporters of the principle of centralization and zealous guardians of the unity of the union. Just before the war, when agitation began for the abolition of slavery, a new party was formed, which, supporting the principles of the Whigs, took upon itself mainly the task of liberating the slaves. It began to be called the Republican party and soon merged with the Whigs, absorbing their very name. The South was completely Democratic, the North Republican. When the Republican North began insistently demanding the abolition of slavery and was ready to rely on state law in its demands, the Democratic South, which was affected by this demand and did not wish to part with the profitable slavery, put forward against the Northerners its principle of local independence and was ready to completely separate from the union. The collision of these opposing principles led to civil war, which ended in the defeat of the Democrats and the liberation of the slaves. Thus, during the war the Democrats showed themselves to be slaveholders, and the Republicans as liberators of the slaves. When, after the abolition of slavery, the Democrats could no longer rely on the slaveholding principle, they remained with their political principle of local independence, and it is usually written in the largest letters on their banner. At the same time, in social respects the Democrats made a sharp turn in their direction. Despising and oppressing their former slaves—the Negroes, at the same time they begin to play demagogic roles with respect to the white lower population; from ardent slaveholders they changed into no less ardent demagogues, just as some of our serf-owners rushed into something akin to nihilism when they saw that the good old times had passed into oblivion. In particular, the principles of the Democratic party, as determined at the convention, consist in the following: “Opposition to centralization and that dangerous spirit which is increasing in siting governmental power in one department and thus creating actual despotism, under any form of government; separation of church and state; local self-government; subordination of military power to civil power and the right of free voting.” Further the Democratic party declares that it is “the friend of labor and the working class and considers it its duty to protect and defend them against the claims of capitalists and the wealthy.” It demands the repeal of the Burlingame Treaty with China, by which the American government gave full freedom to the Chinese to immigrate to America with the obligation to protect them. The Democratic party demands “a complete prohibition of Chinese immigration to America, except for travel, education, and foreign commerce—with careful oversight of them.” Thus do the Democrats themselves define their principles. The Republicans do not see them this way. According to their opinion, the principal principles of the party should not be read in the lines but between them; and there between the lines they read such horrors that hair stands on end. If the Democratic party actually adhered to the principles attributed to it, then the first year of the transition of rule into Democratic hands would be the last year of the existence of the entire state. In reality the Democrats do not go beyond their declared principles, and even in the listed points there is much that is simply said for a fine phrase. At least in local rule, the Democrats in reality show themselves far from being as “friendly to labor and the working class” as is said in their political program. Not to speak of the southern states, where the black working population is simply oppressed by them no worse than in the times of slavery, so that last year tens of thousands of Negro families fled these persecutions to the North; in the middle and northern states their protection of the working class declares itself only in demagogic flattery during elections, and the elections usually turn to such persons who have nothing to do with labor, for example, their favorite Tilden—a railroad lawyer, an obscure capitalist, and an ambitious politician. In the composition of the party, besides southern former slaveholders, there is little of purely American population; on the other hand, the emigrant population—especially the Irish—are almost exclusively Democrats. Being politically underdeveloped, this population serves as an obedient instrument in the hands of demagogue politicians. In numerical terms the parties are almost equal, and the advantage in elections is given to them only by that class of so-called “independent” population which, not belonging to any party, at elections casts its vote for one side or the other, depending on the candidate put forward by that side.

The convention in Cincinnati had to elect a candidate who would be the most capable bearer of the banner of the Democratic party. The Democrats set off for the convention in triumph. When the Republican convention in Chicago proclaimed their standard-bearer to be the “dark horse”—General Garfield, the jubilation in the Democratic camp had no end. They openly proclaimed this Republican choice to be a synonym for the party’s defeat. You need only choose one of the numerous political leaders of the party and its name is—certain victory, as the most ardent Democrats expressed it. And they were right in some respect. At a time when the Republican party, spoiled by long and almost unrestrained rule in the country, allowed office-seeking and intrigue to develop in its midst, making it almost impossible for truly popular party leaders to attain the presidency, the Democrats, taught by the experience of constant defeats, on the contrary, developed a more healthy political sense and began to rely on their best and most popular leaders. In their camp this time there appeared a whole good dozen of statesmen, each of whom could with dignity assume the presidential candidacy. Each of them, of course, was supported by his own special faction, but it is remarkable that among these factions there was none of the bitter struggle for which the Republican convention was famous. Each of these factions was willingly ready to sacrifice its votes in favor of any candidate toward whom the majority leaned. The strongest candidate, of course, was the Democratic veteran Tilden, who in 1876 was so unexpectedly thrust away from the threshold of the White House by an unknown upstart Hayes. His “boom” was almost as grandiose as Grant’s boom in the Republican party. Before the convention, the Democrats talked of nothing but Tilden, and he indeed emerged as a giant in comparison with the Republican “dark horse.” The first-ranking New York state at its local Democratic convention unanimously voted for Tilden, and his appointment seemed certain to everyone. But just before the convention, when the pastor was about to read the prayer at the opening of the session, a strange unexpectedness suddenly occurred: Tilden sent a letter to the convention in which he declined the presidency. This letter came like a bolt from the blue for the zealous Tildenites, their ranks became confused, and they did not know what to do. But what are tears for some are laughter for others. While the Tildenites were seriously confused and did not know what to do, Tilden’s opponents only smirked at the “clever sage” and saw in the letter only a political trick—to gain greater popularity for himself. The letter was indeed composed in such a clever manner that the refusal was connected by a solid bridge with consent and resembled that formal refusal with which our Moscow tsars and patriarchs paved their way to the throne. The trick, however, failed and, on the contrary, spoiled everything. The ardent supporters of Tilden remained in confusion and indecision, while the less ardent calmly transferred to the side of other candidates. Therefore, when voting began, Tilden suddenly found himself almost at the tail of the table. At the first ballot of 738 delegates, only 38 voted for Tilden. The lion’s share went to General Hancock; he immediately received 171 votes, the largest number of votes among all nineteen candidates who appeared in the first table. The first ballot was so significant that it immediately decided everything. Everyone saw where the center of gravity lay, and the second ballot almost unanimously proclaimed Hancock the Democratic candidate for the presidency. The second ballot gave Hancock 705 votes and Tilden only 1 vote… Does fortune often laugh so sarcastically? The chosen one proved to be very popular. When his name was announced, the entire ten-thousand-person assembly present at the voting seemed seized by the mania of shouting, and the entire enormous hall seemed as if one monstrous mouth, from which a deafening hurrah thundered and shook the walls. The orchestra struck up the national anthem, but not a single note could be heard from it, no more than the squeaking of a mosquito in the roar of a hurricane. Only by the frantic movement of the bows could one judge the joyous rapture of the performers. News of the convention’s result spread throughout the state with lightning speed, and everywhere where there is Democratic blood, it produced rapture and jubilation.

The happy general, who had thus stirred the entire Democratic world, is indeed a very likable and worthy man. He is one of the first-class American generals and occupies almost the immediately following position after Grant. By his origin he belongs to an ancient honorable family that acquired itself a name during the struggle for liberation. The general’s great-grandfather was one of the active collaborators of the great Washington. The general himself rendered very important services to the state by his military abilities during the civil war, when he together with Grant fought for the unity of the Union against the Southerners. In all his life he appears to be one of the most honest patriots of the country and justly deserves the designation given him—“knight without fear and without reproach.” His reputation is so pure and irreproachable that the Republicans could put forward against his person nothing more reproachful than that he commanded a detachment at the execution of a woman condemned by court to be shot.

But for all his honesty and likability, General Hancock is nothing more nor less than a “son of the god of war”; he was never a statesman, and his “formula” in this respect cannot compare with the formula of General Garfield, who showed himself precisely in important state activity, which is what the country, not condemned by fate to the horrors of war, most needs. The Democrats made a curious turn of face here. Against Grant’s candidacy they had, among other things, put forward as a chief argument that the country did not need a “gray soldier,” that it needed only a statesman; now they themselves elected as their candidate precisely a “gray soldier of the grays,” without a shred of state experience. Thus the country faced a choice between the “gray soldier” of the Democrats and the “dark horse” of the Republicans. The first had in his favor personal irreproachability and honesty, the second state experience and a sympathetic fate. The choice was evidently not easy.

The Greenbackers and the Ladies

Minor political parties. – The Greenbackers or paper-money men. – Paper money. – The Greenbackers’ convention. – Union with socialists. – Political ladies and the story of their unsuccessful ventures. – The woman question among our trans-Atlantic friends. – Opponents and defenders of women’s right to vote.

Besides the parties which by their significance in the country have sure or probable chances of electing a president from their midst, in America there are also parties which have no chance whatsoever of such honor. And yet at elections these parties seethe and agitate no less than the major ones. They too conduct agitation, gather at local and national conventions, and appoint their candidates for the presidency. Among them the first place is held by the party of the so-called Greenbackers. The main principle of the party is determined by its name from “green back”—green back, as the common people call paper money, from the green color of their reverse side. These Greenbackers harbor a tender passion for paper money, are discontented with its current limited circulation in the country, and demand its unlimited issue with the goal of lowering the price of the paper dollar compared to the gold one. Strange people! What honest liberals in Russia are hysterically mourning, these American nihilists consider their ideal and in every way strive for its realization. The matter is explained, however, very simply and moreover not to the credit of the economic foresight of our newspaper wailers about the fall of the paper ruble. The Greenbackers are for the most part small farmers who live by the fruit of their labor in tilling the soil. As producers, they naturally strive for as high a rise as possible in the price of the products of their labor, and consider unlimited circulation of paper money the chief means for this. This is undoubtedly advantageous for them. The fall of paper money bears heavily only on non-producers and those in particular accustomed to refined comfort requiring satisfaction from the higher products of foreign industry; for producers, and those in their needs limited to the products of their own labor, it manifests itself only as an accumulation in their hands of a mass of money signs which for their everyday economy have very great, positively enriching significance.

If the party had remained true to its fundamental principle, it would have been the most modest and harmless of parties, and moreover more economic than political. But unrelenting fate, which constantly worked against it and finally dealt it the cruelest blow of complete equalization of paper money with gold, plunged it into the abyss of anarchy and almost threw it into the friendly embrace of socialism. At least, this is how the party declared itself recently, and under its banner began to gather all sorts of discontented. When the time came to appoint candidates for the presidency and the major parties were composing their conventions, the Greenbackers did not lag behind others and convened their own convention for the same purpose. Their convention took place on June 10 in Chicago, and its session presents a decent picture of the life and customs of American nihilists.

The Greenback convention took place right after the Republican convention and in the same expansive hall of the “exhibition building” in Chicago. But what a difference there was between these two conventions. While during the Republican meeting the entire enormous hall was so packed that it was suffocating, and was still besieged from outside by tens of thousands of people trying to catch even the slightest echoes of the proceedings, now in this same hall sat only Greenbacks: emptiness reigned in the galleries and in the rows of numerous seats. Now this hall presented, in the words of a local newspaper, the biblical cave of Adullam, for into that cave, according to Scripture, everyone who was in distress fled, everyone who was in debt, and everyone who was discontented. There were indeed representatives of all these classes, but the diversity of convention members turned to chaos when pure local socialists were admitted to the meeting and when they solemnly entered the hall with their banner proclaiming “freedom, equality, and brotherhood.” And there, finally, sat they, the tall, sinewy ladies, representatives of the women’s suffrage party, discontented with the rule of the bearded sex and demanding the right to vote for the fair sex. Such variety of representatives of discontent in all its forms was the reason the meeting promised to be extraordinarily turbulent. Fortunately, the convention found a remarkable suppressor of chaos in the famous agitator Denis Kerner. This man had just been released from prison, where he had been incarcerated for stirring up working-class sentiment in California against the Chinese and capitalists. Himself wild and restless, now at his convention he appeared as a keeper of order. Upon taking his position, he removed his jacket, as was customary, rolled up his sleeves, and shouted so threateningly at those who displayed excessive zeal in demonstrating their oratorical skills that the chairman seriously warned convention members to be more careful about the safety of their faces. Soon, however, it was found necessary to reinforce the keeper of order with several assistants, and alongside each assistant a policeman was stationed with strict orders to arrest anyone who dared to address the assembly without the chairman’s permission. The convention finally settled down and began to discuss its business, fully enjoying “freedom of speech.” The discussion was certainly conducted on a broad scale, as is fitting for a gathering where everyone is dissatisfied with something. As representatives of freedom, convention members first of all expressed their contempt for those politicians who desired a “strong government” and sought to achieve it in the person of General Grant. But here they followed with nihilist logic and formulated demands that Congress take over all railways and waterways, abolish private land ownership, regulate industrial institutions, and seize into its governmental hands many other things, about which even the most fervent advocate of the most “strong government” and most despotic governmental oversight did not dare to dream. Then the socialists put forward their resolution, stating that “light, earth, air, and water are free gifts of nature,” and anyone who dares to seize them as his own property is the worst enemy of humanity, a robber, a predator. For the Greenbacks, who constituted the majority in the convention and owned property in the form of agricultural farms, such a resolution from their political friends was worse than a bear’s help, but for the sake of solidarity they passed it in silence, knowing that the resolution would never affect them. In this manner the convention decided all state and public questions, and thanks to the mixed character of the assembly, a resolution satisfying some ran counter to the interests of others.

The resolution against the Chinese was apparently quite unanimous, formulated as follows: “Since slavery is simply cheap labor, and cheap labor is simply slavery, and since the migration of Chinese to America necessarily contributes to lowering the value of labor, therefore without fail measures must be taken to abolish the Burlingame Treaty,” which obliged the United States to give protection to Chinese migrants. But even this resolution, put forward by deputies of the landless working population, was not particularly pleasing to the Greenbacks, who as landowners found it not disadvantageous to have the cheapest possible labor on their farms. But it was the poor ladies who fared worst at the convention. When one of them merely began to request the respectable assembly’s support for the cause of women’s suffrage, the relentless and brutally forthright agitator Denis Kerner interrupted her with a remark that his wife had instructed him before leaving for the convention to have nothing to do with the women’s suffrage question, or else when he returned home she would greet him with an iron poker instead of a spousal kiss. The poor lady was quite confused by such a remark from the all-powerful manager of the convention and answered the troublesome agitator only with the modest remark that she was very pleased by Kerner’s admission as to who was the true head in his family. Kerner was terribly angry at this remark, but was appeased and satisfied when the entire assembly sided with “his wife’s instruction” and postponed the question of women’s voting rights to the side. After prolonged discussion and debate on various radical questions, the convention finally resolved to nominate for the presidency its candidate, a certain Weaver, who, along with candidates from the Republican and Democratic parties, was to undergo popular voting in the coming November. But of course, the Greenback candidate was only the burlesque hero of a trivial episode in the nation’s political life, and no one paid attention to him. The Republican and Democratic candidates were even the subject of speculation, and the likely election of one of them as president gave occasion for some political speculators to offer bets in the tens of thousands of dollars; about the Greenback candidate there was not even a mention.

The convention ended in a brilliant triumph, and Chicago’s whiskey and beer sellers will not forget such a glorious and profitable time for them. Kerner went home with the bright hope that his wife would greet him not with a poker but with a tender kiss. Meanwhile, the poor ladies went home with bowed heads, cursing in their hearts the entire race of gentlemen, these tyrants and worst enemies of the fair sex. Americans are indeed very inattentive, if not cruel, to their fair half. For a long time, the poor ladies have been seeking equality with them, asking and begging to extend voting rights to the fair sex in elections, but the tyrants refuse to listen and only spitefully mock them. But American ladies are not such as to retreat from their cause, and steadfastly move toward their goal. In New York there exists a special society for women’s suffrage, which constantly carries on propaganda for its cause: it publishes a journal, sends delegates to major political rallies, and so on. Those poor ladies who sat at the Greenback convention and with whom the disagreeable Kerner treated so indelicately were delegates from this society. This was not the first time they had attended a convention; they had been to both Republican and Democratic conventions, everywhere advocating for their sacred cause. The history of their adventures at these conventions is very instructive. At one solemn gathering of the society of women voters, the female delegates made interesting reports on the results of their mission. The large hall was filled with the fair sex, with the leaders of the society occupying seats on the front platform. These were all tall, thin figures with energetic faces on which determination to overthrow the tyranny of men was clearly inscribed. Japanese fans moved impetuously in their hands, evidently producing little cooling effect on faces flushed with indignation. The meeting opened with a hymn on the theme of “betrayal and love,” and then the chairwoman presented to the assembly a group of ladies who were to recount their activities in support of the sacred women’s cause at various political conventions. First came Miss Anna Shest. She is a remarkable example of an American lady. She is so tall that she seems to be on stilts, and at the same time so thin that for proportionality only half her height would suffice. Her garish dress, with its variety of colors rivaling tropical birds, fit snugly around the neck in English fashion, adorned with a heavy gold medallion. On her head beside a massive chignon was pinned a fashionable new hat, whose main ornament was an owl’s head with its terrible fiery eyes and hooked beak. The intelligent, energetic face of the politician shone with a gentle smile that cleverly concealed some features in which shameless boors would not mind recognizing signs of fading. On the whole the lady was still in her prime, and only perhaps the very worst enemies of the fair sex, with their characteristic impudence, would have called her an old maid. Bowing to the assembly, which greeted her with animated applause, Miss Shest opened her speech with a general overview of the state of the women’s question and then proceeded to relate the adventures she and other female delegates had encountered at political conventions. The society for women’s suffrage sent eight delegates to the Republican convention in Chicago. Upon arriving there, the delegates, in Miss Shest’s words, were struck by the “crude saturnalia of men.” When they arrived, the whole city presented an unprecedented gathering of men in whom political passions had stifled all noble impulses of the heart. All hotels were occupied by them, and the poor ladies had not even a place to lay their heads. Finally, a place was found somehow; but when they then went to the cashier’s office for tickets to enter the hall of the assembly, suddenly – oh horror! – it turned out that the audacious men had monopolized all 10,000 tickets, leaving them not a single one. In such bitter circumstances, the delegates turned to the leader of the Grant party, asking for his help in admitting them to the convention. But his head was spinning from the political struggle, and with truly masculine audacity he answered them: “Ah, please, ask someone else!” The ladies turned to the leader of the Sherman party, but he too answered: “Excuse me, please ask someone else!” The ladies turned to a third, but heard from him again: “Ask someone else.” But what is this finally? the delegates exclaimed in noble indignation, and became so angry that they abandoned the Republican convention, leaving it to crude men alone, without a drop of the civilizing and softening feminine influence. With better hope they set off to the convention of the respectable Greenbacks. There was plenty of space now and they were assigned entire rows of seats. But there the troublesome agitator Denis Kerner destroyed all their hopes, sacrificing their sacred cause to his conjugal love. In the latter half of June there took place a Democratic convention in Cincinnati. The female delegates set out to try their luck. There too there was plenty of space for them, and they were respectfully shown into the assembly hall by courteous Democrats. There they followed the proceedings with interest and joyfully received the nomination for the presidential candidacy of General Hancock, this “knight without fear and reproach.” After the nomination of the candidate, they happily wanted to come forward with their own cause, but the Democrats suddenly declared their convention closed. The poor ladies were left out of it entirely – even at the convention of noble Democrats. This sad story of the respected politician was full of humor and involuntarily aroused sympathy. The other ladies spoke in similar fashion, and each one had plenty to say against the “tyrannical sex.” Finally, the chairwoman herself gave a brilliant speech in favor of women’s suffrage and concluded it by inviting people to subscribe to the journal published by the society. “After all, it’s only a dollar,” she said, “and yet the journal is splendid!”

The Greenbackers and the Ladies (Cont.)

Yes, though America is renowned for its freedom, women in it are still far from complete equality with bearded gentlemen. The most significant civic right – the right to vote in elections – is almost completely inaccessible to women and only takes timid steps in a few of the most progressive states. Besides practical opponents, women’s voting rights also encounter theoretical opponents who, through writing, on the basis of philosophical and political reasoning, deny their legal capacity in this respect. In one of the issues of the “North American Review,” a certain Parkman published an article of this kind, in which through philosophical reasoning he arrives at a denial of women’s rights to vote. In his opinion, the right to vote is fundamentally rooted in the ability to defend the subject of voting with arms in hand. Popular rule is essentially based on the truth that the majority can always use arms to force the minority that disagrees with it to submit. From this it is obvious that only those who can fight can participate in voting. Assigning women, of course, to those incapable of fighting, Parkman paints a horrible picture of what would follow from an election in which a majority of women triumphed over a minority of men. Men would take up arms and with two or three unloaded cannons would send the triumphant women fleeing, pursuing them all the way to their bedrooms, and in such outrageously unlawful fashion would seize control of the government. – The article, as one might expect, met with refutation. First of all, says a defender of the fair sex on this matter, an exception must be made to the general principle that women cannot fight. Parkman is obviously an unmarried man and therefore poorly acquainted with the opposite sex. Has he never heard of the king of the Dahomey Amazons? Or has he never brought an uninvited guest into his house and not been met with the stern, merciless gaze of his wife, poorly concealing a terrible poker in the folds of her dress?[1] Or has he not fallen into the hands of his mother-in-law and not tried to contradict her in her religious subtleties? A woman, according to the philosopher, is a tender, fearful creature; perhaps this is so, but she is nonetheless the main culprit in the premature formation of bald spots characteristic of married gentlemen. The philosopher Parkman apparently does not associate the concept of fighting and victory with cannons and bayonets. But there are other ways of fighting. Is not the tongue of a wicked woman more terrible than a two-edged sword, and is not a stubborn wife stronger than a loaded cannon? And beauty, and a woman’s tenderness, and love – what can withstand this weapon that woman possesses? And here is an illustration. Elections in one liberal state that permitted women to vote were held at full speed. The struggle between parties was one of life and death. The leader of the Democratic party was a young handsome man whose fiery speeches and devilish energy terrified Republicans. After one significant victory, the happy Democrat rushed joyfully to his “sweetheart” to share his triumph with her. He arrives and with delight tells of his victory, but to his surprise, the sweetheart, as he speaks, puffs out her pretty little lips more and more. “What is it with you, my sweetheart?” finally asks the astonished and confused victor, “do you desire something from me? Ask for anything: I will do everything for you!” – The sweetheart flashed with cunning eyes. “Well, well, ask: I will do everything!” confirms the Democrat. “My dear, I desire only one thing: vote for our Republican candidate!” How the invincible Democrat was struck by thunder, but cunning Delilah had shorn Samson of his hair and – the Democratic party had lost its strong leader. – From all this it is clear that the thoughtful opponent of women’s voting rights still has much to learn both about the ways of fighting and about the strength of women. First of all, he must marry without delay. This will be the best practical refutation of his theory that a woman, being a weak creature, cannot force men to fulfill her will.

[1] Poker—a short fireplace poker, a terrible weapon in the hands of fair ladies.

On the Field of Battle

The presidential campaign and the instruments of struggle. – The Democratic Square. – Indignant Bourbons. – The Republican fortress. – The torchlight procession of Africa. – The position of the colored race in politics. – Crude violence. – Fluctuating chances. – The merits of the Republican party toward the nation. – A picture of prosperity.

After the nomination of candidates, the political movement known characteristically as the “presidential campaign” appeared in all its scope. This is indeed a campaign and is conducted according to all the rules of developed strategy. The parties stand opposed to one another like two hostile camps with their leaders at the head and wage a fierce struggle, employing all means, both permitted and forbidden, simply to capture prisoners from the opposing camp and triumphantly announce that, they say, “our regiment has grown.” As instruments of struggle there first appear entire campaign literature. A whole mass of brochures appears, with one’s own candidate depicted as the embodiment of all seven virtues, while the other is portrayed as such a monster of vice that the genius of the dark realm would shudder before him. Sensational pamphlets and brochures rain down from all sides, and politicians-turned-composers compose special battle hymns, which are sung and performed by orchestras at rallies. Portraits of candidates in the millions are distributed throughout the country and given out as advertisements, and above all the main streets are hung enormous banners on which appear the figures, names, and various sayings of the campaign heroes. In the “headquarters” the doors are constantly open for rallies and amateur orators, and grand processions with torches and banners take place through the streets. Speculators open special shops for the presidential campaign and loudly announce the richest assortment of “campaign instruments” – banners, flags, torches, portraits, and special campaign costumes – “brilliant and impressive, and yet the cheapest in the world.” The parties are even divided spatially, and regarding various squares in New York one can say with certainty which is Republican and which is Democratic.

In the very center of the city lies a fairly expansive “Union Square.” In the middle of the square a powerful fountain springs up, at the corners stand bronze statues of the “fathers” of the republic, and along the sides run the wealthiest streets of the city, led by Broadway, or New York’s Nevsky. Here is the main seat of the state’s democracy. Hotels, restaurants, and public halls here are in the exclusive possession of Democrats, and across all the exits from streets onto the square are stretched banners with portraits of their candidate General Hancock. Their rallies take place here and here too is the main mechanism directing the entire presidential campaign of the Democratic party. In a large hotel, Democrats occupied eighteen rooms in which telegraph machines constantly worked, continuously checking the pulse of the nation in all its parts and directions. Passing once in the evening through the square, I was struck by a strange sight. One house presented an entirely solid mass of light and across its wall ran and twisted the gigantic shadow of a human figure. Coming closer, I made out the portraits of the Democratic candidates (for president and vice-president), and understood what was happening. This was a Democratic rally. To attract attention to it, the Democrats covered the entire front of the house with cloth, behind which they lit many candles and lamps that merged for the outside viewer into one continuous mass of fire, so that the entire house was like one enormous lantern. The shadow running across it was nothing other than the shadow of the orators who in turn occupied the podium, artificially enlarged to gigantic proportions. As the fateful November drew closer, this monstrous lantern was lit more and more frequently and the shadows danced more and more energetically upon it. The dancing of shadows, however, does not always mean an actual rally. Sometimes, coming to the hall following the shadow, you find only some buffoon who for hire or of his own inclination performs oratorical gestures completely before empty chairs, merely letting it be known that “the campaign is not standing still, agitation is not sleeping.” Meeting halls are scattered throughout the city, and it is interesting to attend them to see with what energy politician-orators fight for their candidates and what exquisite epithets they bestow on hated opponents. At these private rallies, ordinary orators develop and regurgitate for the common people what was said by the main leaders of the party at some general rally, and therefore these latter meetings are of more interest to the observer of political life.

Not far from the square stands a spacious building of the “Academy of Music,” as Americans call their opera house. In the early days of August of last year, the “Academy” was the site of enthusiastic celebrations: the “Bourbons,” as Republicans for some reason call their opponents, held a solemn rally for the final ratification of the “Cincinnati ticket” or General Hancock as the Democratic candidate for the presidency. The hero of the evening was the famous Democratic veteran Tilden. Democrats to this day maintain that they won in the presidential campaign two elections ago and that their candidate Tilden is the lawfully elected president of the United States, while President Hayes was an impostor installed in the White House through base deception by the Republican party. Tilden himself fully shared this opinion, considered himself the lawful president of the nation, as he directly stated in his speech at this rally. In the event of the election of the Democratic candidate Hancock as president, Tilden, according to rumor, intended to arrange an original demonstration: he would go together with the newly elected president to Washington and in the capacity of the actual president would hand over the White House to him as its lawful owner and master. If this is not an invention by Republicans mocking the old man, this would be a characteristic fact testifying to how inflamed is the rivalry between the parties and how much the presidency matters to Tilden, for the sake of securing which, according to the admission of the Democrats themselves, he spent from his immense wealth some twenty-five million dollars. After making enough noise and celebrating, the Democrats did not fail to solemnly compose and present to Republicans a bitter pill in the form of the following resolution, interesting in terms of characterizing the political relations between the main parties. “The Democratic party at its solemn rally determined: that the Republican party, through its long abuse of power; through its political dissolution and official corruption; through its special legislation in the interests of enormous monopolies; through the squandering of public money in the form of subsidies to giant corporations; through the criminal distribution of 296,000,000 acres of public land, constituting nearly a quarter of all public holdings and covering twice the area currently under cultivation in all states and territories; through its ruinous and suicidal policy regarding the nation’s commerce; through its malicious stirring up of passions and hatred born of the past civil war; through its constant and growing efforts to concentrate power granted to individual states in the hands of the federal government, thus encouraging the “third term” faction and its leaders in their plot to seize absolute power; in short, the Republican party through its abuses in all branches of government – has lost the confidence of the people, and therefore must hand over its power to the Democratic party, as the true representative of the people’s will.” Such, in the opinion of the Democrats, is that party which for the last twenty years has held the nation’s government in its hands. An assessment, it must be said, not flattering to the ruling party. How, even under such a government, does the sky not fall and do the foundations of the earth not tremble?

While the Democrats pronounced a death sentence on their opponents, these latter in their turn abandoned themselves to celebrations on another square in the city, Madison Square. There, at the junction of Broadway with the most fashionable street of the capital, Fifth Avenue, lies the most extensive and wealthy hotel in the city, the “Fifth Avenue.” This hotel represents a veritable fortress of Republicanism. Its extensive corridors are constantly filled with Republican politicians. Here Republican telegraph machines worked, eavesdropping on echoes of the raging campaign; here took place consultations of the party leaders, from here agitation was conducted throughout the nation, and here Republicans gave a solemn reception to their chosen one, General Garfield. The reception was brilliant, speeches were delivered by select orators, and General Garfield himself gave several brilliant speeches. One of his speeches concerned the political position of the “colored race” or simply Negroes. Negroes, as freed from slavery by Republicans, remain faithful to the Republican party; they always vote for the candidate of their liberators. As their numbers are quite large, they constitute an extraordinarily strong pillar of support for the Republican party. Perhaps the Republican party even owes its long dominance in the nation to this black legion. Democrats understand this, and therefore despise and oppress Negroes with all their hearts, and call Republicans themselves “black monkeys” because of the color of their allies. Republicans for their part do everything to maintain their influence over the black race, and for this sometimes even sacrifice justice. Some time ago in New York, a Negro was sentenced to hanging for the murder of a woman committed with the purpose of robbery. The Republican government of the state was ready to pardon the criminal, but public opinion expressed itself against the pardon with such energy that the government did not dare to act against it, and the Negro was hanged. Subsequently, a young Italian was also sentenced to hanging by the court for the murder of his wife, whom he caught with her lover. Here public opinion sided with the criminal, and a petition for his pardon was signed by tens of thousands of city residents. American law is extremely severe with murderers and always demands death for death – the excuse of “abnormal state of mental functions” is not permitted. But in this case justice required showing mercy to the young man, who had the misfortune to marry a dissolute woman, whose conduct drove him to crime. The Italian consul interceded for the condemned man, and the press loudly spoke out in favor of his pardon. But it was all in vain, and – the Italian was also hanged. The reasoning by which the Republican government was guided in this stubbornness consisted solely in the fact that, by not pardoning the Negro, it could not now pardon the Italian: otherwise what would his allies, the Negroes, say? Thus the poor Italian fell victim to political intrigue.

In the evening of the same day, the dark-skinned sons of Africa arranged a magnificent torchlight procession in honor of General Garfield. Despite their status as American citizens, Negroes in their outward behavior and in their development have not gone far from their African brothers. Some naïve wildness shines through entirely from under their American clothes. One had to see with what naïve importance they now marched through the streets, carrying burning torches and singing warlike Negro songs. The curious “campaign uniform” in which they were all now dressed seemed to fill them with immeasurable pride, and they marched with unfeigned seriousness to a military beat, widely grinning their African faces when street boys cried out to them – “bravo.”

“You constantly assert that Negroes are incapable of free political life and that they are simply a flock of sheep driven by the Republican whip,” I said to my friend, a zealous Yankee Democrat. “Look at what an organized force they present, with what proud self-awareness they glorify their candidate. And the acquisition of these uniforms and the organization of the procession costs something… And where there is expense for a definite purpose, there, consequently, is an idea, a common enthusiasm.”

The Democrat grimaced somewhat angrily and nervously.

“If you are not joking, then you are cruelly mistaken,” he said. “This procession more than anything shows that they are a senseless flock of sheep, and confirms the truth that slaves forcibly freed remain slaves even in freedom. Do not think that the organization of this procession belongs to their own initiative. Not at all. These are soulless puppets manipulated by Republican intrigue. The uniforms, torches, musicians – all of this was given to them by Republicans. To them belongs only this stupid braggadocio: and it is naturally explained by the fact that the participants in the procession are paid two dollars a day by Republicans. The black race is a curse on our nation, and it will lie upon us as long as Negroes serve as a dead instrument in the hands of the Republican party.”

“Just as the Irish serve in the hands of the Democratic party,” I wanted to remark to the Democrat, but refrained from such impertinence.

At the present time, however, Negroes no longer constitute such a reliable legion for the Republican party as formerly, and some of them proudly call themselves Democrats.

“You black monkey – Negro!” once cursed a restaurant patron at a colored waiter who had short-changed him by a few cents.

“I am not a Negro!” exclaimed the colored gentleman in fury.

“Who then are you, black dog?”

–I–am a Democrat! he cried out even more energetically, and the terrible whites of his eyes flashed on his black face.

Regarding the “black beasts,” Democrats do not show much courtesy, and readily turn them into Democrats. Once there occurred a characteristic case that greatly alarmed the entire Republican world. In the southern state of Alabama, voting was taking place. The numerous colored population there, of course, stood for the Republican candidate. But the Democrats managed to quickly turn them to their side. Under the pretext that the Negroes were “intimidating” white voters and thereby forcing them against their will to vote for the Republican candidate, the Democrats (in one district) put out white militia to protect the latter. Relying on it, they immediately turned the black into white. During the actual balloting, suddenly someone turned off the gas jet, and darkness reigned. The leader of the colored population, who was observing the balloting, with horror rushed to the table, trying to seize the ballot box, but in vain – his hands swept across the surface of the table: the box had vanished without a trace. While in the terrible confusion they managed to light the fire again, the box appeared once more, but now filled with Democratic ballots. The majority, of course, turned out to be for the Democrats, and they triumphantly burst into their battle hymn: “For Hancock ring the bell!” – and drowned out the cry of the “colored leader,” raining down upon the Democrats all the curses that exist in human speech, both African and American.

Thus proceeded the presidential campaign. Politicians already tried in advance to weigh the relative chances of the candidates. Most of them, of course, depending on which party they belonged to, ardently proclaimed the victory of their candidate and the certain defeat of the opponent. Politicians from the Republican club of “railway employees” displayed a curious picture at their doors. Two trains racing at terrible speed are rushing toward the magnificent building, above which is written: “White House.” One train is already braking on the rails before the very door of the house, and from the car General Garfield, self-satisfied, peers out with his vice-president Arthur. The other, on the contrary, has jumped off the rails and bounces over rough terrain, and from the car twisted in horror and despair are the figures of the Democratic candidates Hancock and English. Democratic politicians, of course, had different sorts of pictures in their clubs. But there are also “independent politicians” who judge impartially.

Under the first impression of the nomination by Democrats of General Hancock as the presidential candidate, public opinion regarded this “knight without fear and reproach” with such sympathy that, apparently, the chances strongly and irrevocably inclined in his favor. There was no end to the celebrations in the Democratic camp, numerous bets in the tens of thousands of dollars were announced – that Hancock would be elected president, and there grew in society the thought that it was time to change the government, take it from the hands of Republicans and hand it over to Democrats. But gradually his chances wavered. The fact was that the Democratic party, fully confident of its success, began to abandon itself more to celebrations than to work, and important omissions were made in the organization of the campaign. Meanwhile, the Republicans with increased energy began and conducted the campaign and succeeded in the first months of the campaign in turning the chances in their favor. And the thought of the necessity of changing the government began to fade and weaken. At the present time, the nation has reached an unprecedented degree of prosperity, and the people do not like to change a government under which they are flourishing.

On the Field of Battle (Cont.)

The nation is indeed indebted to Republican rule for much. After the civil war ended, it found itself in a terribly impoverished condition. Finances were completely exhausted and paper money was not worth even half its nominal value; now, however, through skillful operations, it has been fully equaled with gold, and there even exists a surplus of gold coins of 130 million dollars. “We jumped at once from extreme poverty to great abundance,” said the Secretary of State Sherman at one large rally. Our exports in the last fiscal year reached an enormous sum of 835,000,000 dollars, 320,000,000 more than in 1875. Our imports in the last fiscal year were 668,000,000, 135,000,000 more than in 1875, which together for our foreign trade constitutes 1,500,000,000 dollars in the last year. Every nation brings us tribute with its products. Our manufactured goods have grown in all sectors, so that we export enormous quantities of them to satisfy the needs of other nations. We now feed Europe not only with grain but with meat, butter, lard, fruits, and other products. In the great branches of industry – agriculture, manufacture, and mining – we now stand at the head of nations. With a surplus of money, precious as gold, with a surplus of work for all who wish to labor, with cheap capital, we now have the richest harvests that Providence has ever blessed the earth with. We have 450,000,000 bushels of wheat per year and 1,800,000,000 bushels of corn per year. Democrats assert that we owe all this prosperity to Providence, not to Republican rule. It is true that Providence blessed us with rich harvests, but these harvests came only after the government brought the nation’s finances in order, gave the nation sound money, expanded industry, giving the people the opportunity to actively participate in the blessings of Providence. It is beyond doubt that we owe none of this prosperity to the Democratic party.

In the Democratic Camp

In the boarding houses. – The Democratic attack. – A hellish cannonade of rockets and speeches. – The relation of the parties. – The extremes of Republicans. – Seventy thousand, perhaps fewer, in the ranks of the fiery army. – Disputes about numbers. – The cost of the procession.

Modest people and especially single individuals earning 100–200 dollars a month live here mostly in boarding houses. These are houses where individual rooms with a common table are rented out. Life in them is comparatively inexpensive, but at the same time has much interesting variety. Here at the table merge into one family, usually of 10–15 people, individuals of all nations, ranks, professions, characters, and beliefs. With such variety, everyone has something to say, and therefore noisy chatter is the most characteristic feature of this table gathering. In one such house lived the author of these lines, on 17th Street, just a hundred fathoms from the Democratic Union Square. The gathering here is as diverse as one could imagine. There lives a German actress who knows how to exchange the traditional Russian Easter greeting, and a city schoolteacher who has no clear idea which part of the world Russia is in, a Cuban insurgent making Havana cigars, and a Prussian German who curses Bismarck; a humorous Scotsman who mercilessly mangles the English language, and a pure London Englishman who pronounces the name of Her Majesty the English Empress with reverence; an aspiring and therefore constantly failing lawyer and an experienced engineer who had a finger torn off by a machine; a mocking Republican and a constantly heated Democrat, and so on. On one autumn evening, this company was sitting in the dining room and with general chatter was smoothing over a just completed dinner. It was 7 o’clock in the evening and stars were already twinkling in the sky. “B-boom!” – suddenly a cannon boomed, and the dining room windows trembled feverishly.

“What is that?” asked the Scotsman.

“Why, the Democrats have loaded Hancock into a cannon and fired him at the moon: he will be elected president there,” said the Republican with a sly look, winking at the Democrat.

“No, sir, excuse me,” replied the Democrat, “this is the first signal for whipping Republicans out of the White House! And here are the other signals for the same thing: look, look at the sky?” – added the Democrat with visible self-satisfaction.

The entire company rushed to the windows, and some went out onto the street entrance. The sky presented an interesting sight. In all directions, high, very high above, fiery arcs of rockets rose up, which with a hissing whistle cut through the air and seemed to burst with a crack right beneath the stars and scatter in a rain of multicolored fire. The entire Union Square is surrounded by Democratic halls, and from all of them now, as well as from the square itself, rockets were being launched with reckless extravagance. The whistle, crack, and flash of rockets, with the intermediate boom of a cannon placed in the square, killed the quiet of the pleasant evening. With such a cannonade the Democrats opened their attack on the hated Republicans, on that memorable day, September 23rd.

An old misfortune of the Democratic party has been that division which has constantly existed in it since the past war. Demagogic politicians, disagreeing with one another more over personal accounts than over principle, little by little formed separate factions which came to feud with one another more than with their common opponent – the Republican party. This division expressed itself even spatially. Each faction created for itself a special “hall” in which its members gathered for meetings and by which the factions themselves came to be named. Thus, at the present time, the most well-known factions are “Tammany Hall” and “Irving Hall.” Until recently they were bitter enemies, and the Democratic party owed its defeat in the elections two elections ago mainly to this circumstance. In the past year, the nomination of General Hancock as the presidential candidate contributed somewhat to a reconciliation between these factions, and they indeed unanimously declared themselves supporters of this candidate; but at the same time the spark of old enmity continued to smolder, and in September of last year it nearly burst forth again into open enmity.

At this time, discussions were taking place regarding the selection of a new mayor for New York. The governance of the city is in the hands of Democrats, and in these discussions, rivalry arose between the factions; each wished to select a mayor from its own ranks. The rivalry threatened to tear the recently established truce. Fortunately, among the members of the factions there were found people who sacrificed their personal interests for the common interests of the party and succeeded in bringing the warring factions to finally conclude a formal treaty of alliance, signed by their representatives. This event was very important for the Democratic party, and the Democrats decided to celebrate it in grand style. The cannon fire and rockets were the beginning of this celebration.

Rockets continued with hiss and crack to cut through the dark-blue gloom of the night atmosphere, and the cannon periodically boomed, shaking the windows of houses, when I set out for the site of action – Union Square. The square was already swarming with people, in dense masses occupying the sidewalks and following the fiery arcs. The statues of the “fathers” of the republic standing at the corners of the square were decorated with multicolored lights and flags. Only one statue stood as if forgotten, an orphan: on it not a light, not a scrap of cloth, and it bashfully hid from curious eyes in the night darkness. This was the statue of Lincoln: Democrats do not love it. On all the free spaces in the square stood platforms, decorated again with flags, electric suns, and policemen with their inseparable batons. From these platforms, according to the program, Democratic orators were to open a cannonade of speeches. One platform stood out with particularly lavish decorations, was, so to speak, the moon among the stars, a chair among stools. It was designated for Hancock himself, from which he was to review the fiery army of Democrats. To the great sorrow of the Democrats, their leader had caught a vicious cold just before the celebration, and the doctors advised him not to go into the open air.

Exactly at 8 o’clock, when rockets had sufficiently prepared the ground for the general assault, the orators came out and opened a hellish cannonade of speeches, which thundered from all the platforms and together with the rockets burst in the night darkness. In New York, I for the first time became acquainted with public speaking in the open air, and it must be said that it is difficult to point to a more wretched position of a human being than when he is addressing a huge crowd under the open sky. First of all, this crowd, consisting, of course, not only of Democrats but also of Republicans who came to watch the celebration of their opponents, was insufficiently attentive and paid more attention to the hiss of rockets than to the crack of the orators. Then it was also insufficiently respectful. I was unpleasantly struck by a case where at one platform the rough mocking echoes of several voices from the crowd answered all the vocal transitions and exclamations of the orator. This case explained to me why Democrats, in decorating their platforms with lights and flags, found it necessary to decorate them also with whole patrols of policemen, who stood at the sides of the orators. Finally, the lack of resonance made futile all the efforts of the orators to make themselves heard by a more or less significant number of people. American orators generally distinguish themselves with strong voices, and I have nowhere encountered such thunderous loud-mouths as here. Often in a huge hall, an orator in passionate passages roars like an enraged buffalo – to the deafening of unprepared listeners. The development of such iron lungs here is undoubtedly influenced by the long-established practice of public speaking, upon whose efforts a great deal depends in the nation’s political life. And now under the open sky, the orators thundered with incredible force, but despite all this, the dull murmur of the many-thousand crowd and the hiss of rockets deprived the speeches of the clarity of sound, and therefore for the majority they were merely strange cries, disappearing without a trace into the air. However, there is no need to regret such a fate. Holiday speeches usually have little sense, and consist exclusively of bombastic phrases designed for momentary effect like rockets, and therefore burst in the air as noiselessly as rockets. Among the din of these speeches, only was heard that the Democratic party is the true people’s party, that Republicans hold power through deception and bribery, that now it is time for Democrats to take power in their hands, and so on. To become better acquainted with the principles and aspirations of the Democratic party, one should turn to such speeches as are given at quieter moments, when the head is not overcome by the excitement of passion. I will present here some of the grounds on which Democrats especially do not love Republicans and wish to take power from them.

After the war, the Republican party, as victor, completely seized power into its hands and, relying on it, began to treat the opposing party on the basis of the principle vae victis – woe to the vanquished. The South, for its separatist aspirations, had to endure many troubles; Republicans were generous in applying various extraordinary measures to it – to the direct detriment of the rights guaranteed by the Constitution. In one case, the victorious North decided to employ military measures to eradicate among Southerners the remnants of sedition, and to this end General Hancock was given dictatorial powers. But the valiant general, able to be at the same time a true son of his republic, was not carried away by such omnipotence and upon taking up the post of dictator announced that he would completely subordinate his dictatorship to the Constitution of the nation, and indeed, instead of extraordinary repressive measures, began to restore in the troubled South a sense of legality and order, establishing there civic peace and confidence in the law. This was truly a valiant civic act of General Hancock, and it is mainly on this act that Democratic sympathies toward him are based; he owes his nomination to the presidency as a Democratic candidate chiefly to this act. Confidence and fidelity to the Union in the South were soon restored after the war, but Republicans continue to suspect a smoldering spark of separatism there. They are particularly disturbed by the fact that the South represents a too cohesive Democratic organization. In this organization they see sedition. “Solid South,” as they call the South because of such its Democratic cohesion, serves for them as a constant bugbear of “the bloody shirt.” In reality, however, the “cohesion of the South” depends not at all on separatist aspirations, but is produced by the Republicans themselves. First of all, according to the explanation of one Democrat, the cohesion of the South was caused by those oppressions to which Republicans were generous in relation to the South, which for its own defense against such oppression had of necessity to cohere into one united force. But now this cohesion is maintained by the order of things established there by the Republicans, who freed the Negroes from slavery and gave them the right to vote equal to that of their former masters. “You, gentlemen of the North,” wrote recently the Democratic senator from the South, Stewart, “overlook an important fact regarding Southern politics. You forget that in the Southern states, nine-tenths of the Republican party consist of the colored race. This race was only recently freed from slavery. It has not had sufficient time to rise in education to the level of the great duties placed upon it. To give power and control of public institutions in the South now to Republicans is to give it to the most ignorant and uneducated classes, or, what is worse, to unscrupulous and unprincipled demagogues who, for their own purposes, deceive and incite them. These black voters are what force the South to be cohesive. If the right to vote had been withheld from them until they had risen sufficiently in education to understand their duty, the cohesive South would have long since dispersed. But I ask the candid men of the North to say whether it would be wise and advantageous for the intelligence, progress, and property of the South to entrust all these precious interests to the governance of the ignorant and propertyless classes, who for the most part do not own property, are incapable of understanding the significance of legislation, or even do not know how to read the ballots they put in the voting urn.” – In this defense, the Democrats undoubtedly have a considerable share of truth on their side. They also have a share of truth in their offensive arguments. They accuse Republicans of despotic tendencies, and in this they are partly right. The distinguishing principle of the Republican party has always been the strengthening of centralization in the governance of the nation, and to this end it has used every opportunity to curtail the independence of individual states. Thanks to its prolonged dominance in the nation, it has of late so persistently pursued this principle that it does not stop even at violating popular traditions, as, for example, in the recent agitation for Grant for a “third” presidential term, which directly contradicted the great testament of the republic’s founder Washington. Finally, prolonged undivided dominance in the nation has led to the fact that among the nation there has developed to terrifying proportions bureaucracy and the so-called “machine politics,” by which bureaucrats begin to operate the state, without paying special attention to the actual demands of the people. All of this together has produced in the nation a desire for “a change in government,” which Democrats now ceaselessly trumpet, and the word “change” in the mouths of oratorical Democrats undergoes the most frequent and merciless torment. On the other hand, Republicans have their solid reasons not to hand over power to Democrats, and insistently point out to the people the prosperity that the nation has achieved under their governance. In this, undoubtedly, lies their main strength now, all the more so because the Democrats, despite all their oratorical efforts, have so far found nothing to oppose to this Republican argument except references to Providence.

In the Democratic Camp (Cont.)

Meanwhile, as the endless crackling of rockets and speeches continued, evening had already advanced to nine o’clock, and from Broadway the first column of the fiery army appeared on the square. The people rushed out to greet it, and such a crush ensued as only the iron-bodied Americans could easily endure. The first column represented a brilliant detachment of the “red boys,” as the Democrats called themselves in contrast to the Republican “blue boys.” On their red uniforms shone the letter H (Hancock), and on their banner the inscription: “Gibraltar Democrats.” Then followed one after another countless detachments and legions of all manner of names and colors. The Democrats had organized their procession very cleverly. Each detachment represented not only a difference in uniform, but also a difference in class, trade, nation, and so forth. There swayed a tall Irish legion, after it came a German legion, then a French, an Italian, and finally an Indian legion in its national costume and with tomahawks in hand. Following the national legions came the trade legions. Foremost among them marched the legion of blacksmiths, dragging along a portable smithy, in which hammers rang on the anvil by the light of Bengal fire. Then moved the legion of sailors, pulling a ship on ropes with striking inscriptions; next came the fire department legion with a fire engine, butchers with enormous oxen, tailors with huge scissors, and so on, and finally, an entire detachment of ladies with an enormous fiery ball, on which were inscribed the words: “Women’s Suffrage.” The procession was endless. Starting at nine o’clock, the procession moved continuously until two in the morning and could not conclude. A circular space through the city designated for the procession was about ten versts, and the procession could not fit within it. The leading column, having made its way around this space, returned again to the place of its departure, while there still thousands had not moved from their places, waiting their turn. By average calculation, the procession consisted of at least 30,000 people. But hostile parties ordinarily have unequal arithmetic. The Democratic newspapers declared that the fiery army consisted of 70,000 people, while the Republican counted only 20,000. What is more, in the following days, letters from zealous Republicans appeared in Republican newspapers, who claimed they had expressly counted the torch-bearers and insisted there were not even twenty thousand, but only some 13,500 people. Such is the degree to which warring parties value the size of their legions. Despite their considerable numbers, the Democratic legions lacked the orderliness of organization, and some detachments simply represented a disorderly crowd. Americans value military bearing and organizational orderliness extremely highly, and now, instead of greetings, many legions met with general hissing. For three whole days afterward, newspapers occupied themselves with disputes regarding this procession, and the general impression remained that the procession had not succeeded and, in any case, had not produced the impression on which the Democrats had counted. Meanwhile, curious irregularities of not entirely respectable character had come to light in the organization. Thus, one club, for outfitting its legion, had appropriated 1,000 dollars and entrusted its organization to one of its members, a general, as an experienced man in this regard. But this general, apparently, had served in the quartermaster corps and with the appropriated sum had managed an organization that, by the most generous calculation, was worth no more than 200 dollars. On the other hand, other Democrats did not spare their own dollars in order not to lose face. One merchant donated 6,000 dollars for the organization of a legion in his name, and it was the finest ornament of the procession.

How much did all this comedy cost?—the curious reader will ask. By average calculation—100,000 dollars. Yes, one hundred thousand dollars, or in our rubles, 200,000 rubles!! And all this in one evening went up in smoke and soot into the air,—by morning of these hundred thousand not even the visible traces remained! But this procession greatly provoked the Republicans: they resolved at all costs to surpass the Democrats and appropriated twice as much money for their procession. Homo, tuum nomen stultitia est![1]

[1] Man, your name is folly! (Lat.)—Ed.

The Oddities of the Presidential Campaign

The Republican Demonstration.—The Reception of Grant.—The Legion of Millionaires.—Pocket Politicians.—The Panic of Officials.—Methods of Struggle.—The Despicable Metal in the Campaign.—The Antichrist Number.—The Chinese Letter.—Fishing in Muddy Water.

Man proposes, but fate disposes. In order to suppress and overshadow the grandiose demonstration of the Democrats, the Republicans intended to get by with 200,000 dollars, but ended up having to spend exactly half a million! Yes, literally half a million dollars, or in our terms, one million rubles. But in return, the Democrats were indeed dealt a crushing defeat. According to long-time residents, this was the most grandiose demonstration that the capital of the New World had ever witnessed. It was arranged in honor of General Grant, whose arrival had blessed New York, and irrefutably made known the popularity that the “silent soldier,” the contender for the “third term” of the presidency and the future emperor of America, enjoyed among Republicans. On Madison Square, a magnificent platform was erected for him, from which he was to review the fiery army of Republicans passing before him. The army consisted of 55,000 men in brilliant and richest uniforms. Like fiery lava, it moved for six hours before the clear eyes of the “silent soldier,” keeping military step, to the roar of music and cheers, to the crack and whistle of rockets. A remarkable feature of this procession was that it consisted of the richest and highest classes of the city. Here were legions: the “invincible knights” of the Philadelphia Republican club, who came specially from Philadelphia in the number of a thousand men to participate in the procession; a legion of lawyers, a legion of bankers, a legion of students, Grant’s legion, and so forth. The legion of bankers most interested me. It was, in every sense, a legion of millionaires, for there was not a single knight in it who, in the American expression, did not “have” a million dollars. It moved among the first in the fiery army and was sharply distinguished by the fact that it had no uniforms, but rather simple black jackets and tall silk hats, with canes “on the shoulder.” The author himself happened to be an unwilling knight of this legion, thanks to a clever trick performed by his quick-witted Yankee companion. I wanted to see General Grant, but the masses of people had formed such an impenetrable wall that it was impossible to reach him. Then the Yankee came to my rescue in a way completely unexpected to me. Rank after rank of uniformed legions passed before us, and then appeared the ununiformed legion of millionaires. Before us, all the legions made a stop in order to dress their ranks and march more smartly before Grant, whose headquarters were about fifty sazhens from there. As soon as the millionaires’ legion drew level with us, my companion, without saying a word, seized me by the hand and forcibly drew me into one of the rear ranks, himself taking a place in the front. I guessed what was happening and suppressed an involuntary confusion. “Keep time!”—cried the leader, noticing some disorder, and the author of these lines, together with American bankers, shouldering their canes, began keeping military step on the spot, left-right, left-right. Soon the music struck up, the command “forward!” rang out, and the legion of millionaires, along with the penniless author, moved before the clear eyes of the future American emperor, waving their hats and crying “hurrah!” to the courteous bow of the hero of the celebration. General Grant—a healthy, fresh man of middle age, was dressed in simple black clothing and with a beaming face continually removed and replaced his hat, greeting the passing legions. Remarkable was the endurance of American millionaires. From the starting point of the procession they had to march about six versts through the city to reach Grant’s headquarters, and all of this at a steady military pace, otherwise the masses would have greeted them with shameful hissing, which boastful and ambitious Americans fear worse than fire. But even more remarkable was the endurance of the hero of the celebration himself. The procession began passing before him at ten in the evening, and to the last legions his weary hand waved his hat already at four in the morning. The “invincible knights” from Philadelphia, having passed before the general at midnight, boarded a train and by 2[1]1/2 in the morning were already home—two hundred versts from New York, while the last New York legions continued for another hour and a half heading toward Grant’s headquarters. The east was already whitening, and half a million dollars were still smoking in the dying torches, and only an hour after sunrise did the fresh breeze disperse the smoke and soot—the sole remnant of the aforementioned half million dollars.

During the procession, more than five hundred thousand residents poured into the streets, by general calculation. This immense sea of onlookers provided ample opportunity for the activity of the party of pocket politicians. There are scarcely any cities in the world, besides London, where pocket politics has reached such a high degree of development, such perfection of organization and boldness, as in New York. When you go out onto the street in broad daylight here, you are constantly advised to button your jacket so that the watch chain is completely invisible. Otherwise, they say you’ll wish you could forget their names. Here, by the lowest calculation, there exist twenty-five thousand professional pocket thieves, not counting the multitude of casual knights of the same order. They have a strict organization, have their own executive committee, which runs the whole machinery of pocket politics and directs the entire campaign—the relieving of other people’s pockets. In this case, the committee sent out a division of pocket knights for the pocket attack, and the result of their valorous exploits were entire newspaper columns, presenting an endless list of vanished watches, earrings, money, handkerchiefs, and so on. The police, to the extent their forces allowed, repulsed the attack and captured about a hundred prisoners, one of whom turned out to be a very important prisoner. Upon his person was found an entire stack of official correspondence of the respectable order, which gave the police an Ariadne’s thread into the very depths of the organization. But the legion nevertheless brilliantly fulfilled its task, and the total acquisition of the pocket order for that evening was estimated at fifty thousand dollars. The court chronicle was also enriched with cases of all kinds. Americans, despite all their liveliness, are distinguished by a remarkable love of order and conduct themselves quietly even at such gatherings where nothing but wild chaos could prevail among us. But at a gathering of half a million street onlookers even here there could not avoid various cases of disruption and subsequent arrests. Thus, right at General Grant’s headquarters, an irrepressibly zealous Democrat stationed himself and made greetings to all the passing legions—by sticking his tongue out and shouting various anti-Republican speeches. When the police invited him to conduct himself more decently, he answered that he was an American citizen and could do whatever he wished; and when the policeman raised his pacifying club, the citizen not only did not fear it, but knocked the hat off the policeman and threw it with his foot into the ranks of the legions, for which he suffered a month’s imprisonment in jail. One cab driver fired a revolver during the procession. When asked why he had a revolver with him, the driver answered that he was transporting sausages and had taken the revolver to protect them from hungry Republicans. The court sentenced him to a fine of 1 dollar for firing and 10 dollars for carrying a weapon. To carry a weapon here, one must obtain permission for it, as we in Russia have had to do in recent times; for unauthorized carrying of a revolver a fine of 10 dollars is prescribed. There were several other cases of this sort, but quite insignificant, not disturbing the general impression of decorum with which the half-million crowd conducted itself.

Where do these enormous sums of money come from, which are so generously transformed into the smoke and soot of processions? Usually they are composed of voluntary contributions from members of various political clubs. When there are private processions of individual clubs—and they happen every day—the club appropriates money for torches, uniforms, and rockets. But at such grand and luxurious processions as the Grant procession was, ordinary club resources proved insufficient, and then the politicians resort to such methods of raising money that a naive foreigner can only gasp. The country is in the hands of the Republicans, and all the numerous government positions are filled with Republican officials, of whom there are about 100,000. This entire enormous army lives solely on government salaries and by the mercy of the Republican government. As soon as the Republican party loses its power and is seized by the Democrats, this entire army will have to clear all desks and all positions, which will then be occupied by hungry Democrats. Thus, for the entire official army, the presidential campaign is not a mere pastime, but a struggle for their own survival, and it works with all its strength in favor of the ruling party. The government, for its part, knowing the complete dependence of officials on its existence, offers them subscription sheets for “voluntary” contributions to the expenses of conducting the campaign, and deducts the subscribed sum from their salaries. Last year, when the presidential campaign reached unprecedented intensity, requiring extraordinary expenses, these voluntary sheets became obligatory and even included specifications of how much and what rank should contribute. Such a turn of events terribly alarmed the entire official world. Especially alarmed were the police and fire departments, which until then had been free from taxes, and now, to their horror, saw the appearance of these disagreeable subscription sheets in their offices with a clear specification of the sum each person should contribute. And this sum was quite substantial. Thus, the police, who are divided into four ranks, had to subscribe: a patrolman 12 dollars, a sergeant 25, a lieutenant 50, and a captain 100 dollars. The firemen similarly. And everyone subscribed.

— Please tell me, is this not wild coercion? How do officials tolerate it?—I asked one American.

— They can’t do anything!—he replied,—if you don’t want to pay, you’re dismissed from your position. It’s better to pay a small sum and keep your position than not to pay and lose it altogether.

— But in any case, the Republican government is making enemies rather than friends through such a practice, and many officials might vote for the Democratic candidate as a result of this.

— Oh, not at all. Acting this way for officials would mean cutting off the branch they sit on. They will endure even a double tax, and all will be ardent Republicans, because they sit in warm places,—the American joked.

Besides official collections, there are others which, in appearance, more rightfully bear the name of voluntary. From the party headquarters, subscription sheets are sent to all private institutions—to stores, banking offices, railroad administrations, and so on, wherever there are party adherents, and significant sums are collected everywhere. First of all, of course, the proprietors themselves subscribe, but the main collection is composed of contributions from employees, clerks, and shop assistants, of whom there are entire legions in some stores and offices. Again, crude acts of violence frequently occur. After subscribing himself, the proprietor sends the subscription sheet to his employees, and they all subscribe—under threat of losing their positions. There have been cases where zealously politicking proprietors dismissed all their employees for refusing to make a contribution to their party. Such omnipotence of proprietors over their employees has degenerated here into a sort of shameful tyranny, and proprietors entirely control not only the money of their clerks, but—worse still—even their votes at elections, forcing them to vote for their candidate and their party, again under threat of crude dismissal from office. The American bourgeoisie is the rudest and most soulless tyranny one can imagine.

In such ways enormous sums of money are collected, which are generously transformed into smoke and soot during brilliant processions. Only one part of them is used for the processions; another part goes toward other methods of presidential struggle. The despicable metal plays an extraordinarily important role in the presidential campaign, especially in the so-called “doubtful” states. These are states in which the competing parties are equally powerful, and which therefore vote sometimes for one party, sometimes for another, due to various accidental causes. Given the general balance of power between the parties, it is primarily these states that give preponderance to whichever party they incline toward. Consequently, both parties use all their efforts to win them over to their side, and one of the most powerful means of this persuasion is the all-powerful dollar. The bribery of voters is here the most common thing, and enormous sums are spent on it. How important a role the dollar plays in the presidential campaign can be seen even from the fact that the parties openly boast of the capital that their headquarters have at their disposal. New York State is one of the doubtful states, and the leader of the Republican party in it once said with self-satisfaction that “headquarters” was fully assured on the monetary side and had at its disposal several million dollars for the needs of the campaign.

In war all means are permitted. This rule finds complete application in the presidential campaign. Parties resort to all possible means to simply besmirch the opponent’s candidate in the eyes of the people. Intrigues are set in motion, tall tales are spread, all the defects of candidates are examined to the very roots and exhibited in a form exaggerated to monstrosity for public ridicule, counterfeit documents are circulated, false letters purportedly written by the candidates and compromising their moral character or political beliefs, and so on. The Democratic party distinguished itself most in this regard, knowing no bounds of propriety. The Democratic press, from the very moment of Garfield’s nomination as candidate, launched into some sort of wild bacchanal of exposing the unfortunate general in various dealings. Day after day, it discovered and published ever new documents supposedly testifying to his immorality, official corruption, venality, and such other terrible crimes, and poor Garfield was not left with a single blemish that had not been bespattered with mud. Upon seeing this, a foreigner’s hair would stand on end at the thought—but what if this disgraced, bespattered candidate were to be elected president? How would half the nation regard such a ruler of the country?

[1] Where songs are sung, there settle yourself peacefully: Evil men have no songs.

The Oddities of the Presidential Campaign (Cont.)

The Democrats accused Garfield most of all of speculative dealings. A few years ago, a broad speculative society of “Land Credit” was founded here, and to increase its activity, it drew into its membership some members of Congress—contrary to a direct law forbidding members of Congress to participate in any speculative establishments. Garfield was supposedly among them. The Democrats unearthed a document somewhere showing that he had received a sum of 329 dollars from this society. This discovery was enough for them to proclaim the Republican candidate a corrupt and depraved man. In vain did Garfield swear that he had received this sum not as a member of the society, but as a lawyer for some purely legal service; the Democrats spread his name throughout the country as a man who, as a member of Congress, contrary to explicit law, was a criminal participant in a speculative society and therefore deserved not the presidency, but criminal prosecution; that this figure showed the percentage income from the shares of this society, and that compensation for legal services could only be a round figure—330, 350, but in no case 329. The fateful number began appearing every day in the headlines of Democratic newspapers, and the document in which it was found was printed in millions of copies and circulated throughout the country with appropriate commentary. Gradually, this number became a true curse for the Republican candidate and began to pursue him at his heels. He began receiving numerous letters, the entire content of which consisted of the number 329 with a sign designating dollars, and some invisible hand began inscribing this number in all places where the general might appear. It appeared on the chair in which he sat in Congress, and on his desk. The entrance to his house was adorned with the monogram 329; the hateful number penetrated into his private study and decorated all the walls in it, and even crept into his bedroom and hung over his resting place like the sword of Damocles. Not enough. Rising in the morning and taking up his boots, he, to his horror, saw 329 on them. Setting out for his usual morning walk with his beloved dog, he noticed on its collar the very same antichrist number 329. Coming home and removing his coat, he saw in despair the antichrist number on his back. Setting out to his wife’s room for morning greetings, Garfield could only gasp upon seeing the accursed number 329 on her bonnet. In short, wherever he turned, everywhere he encountered the antichrist number 329. From him the accursed number spread throughout the country with the speed of electricity, and soon all the main leaders of the Republican party became its victims. Meanwhile, entire poems in honor of the mysterious number 329 appeared in Democratic newspapers, and many insinuations aimed at the unfortunate general. Among other things, it turned out that the sum 3+2+9 equals 14, and that is precisely the number of letters in Garfield’s name (James A. Garfield). From the Republican leaders, the antichrist number descended upon all Republicans in general, so that constantly one could see entire parties of gentlemen with the number 329 on their backs. Finally, it even penetrated the temple of science—the university. A respectable professor of mathematics, having drawn a geometric theorem on the board, turned to the students with a preliminary explanation of it. Finishing the introduction, he turned to the board for a practical demonstration of the theorem in the diagram and suddenly—was dumbfounded with astonishment: on the board, instead of the diagram, was inscribed a gigantic number 329. The Republicans were so alarmed by this unprecedented plague that they appointed special detectives to catch the mysterious hand writing the antichrist number everywhere. But the mysterious hand turned out to be uncatchable and continued to place the antichrist mark on the doors of Republican houses.

Then on the field of battle began a terrible exchange of blows over the so-called “Chinese letter.” Americans hate the Chinese terribly, and the working people consider them mortal enemies, since, arriving in large numbers in America, in extreme need they accept employment at low wages, contributing thereby to a general lowering of wages. In recent times the Chinese question has become so important that the government was forced to organize a special expedition to review the treaty with China concerning Chinese emigration with the goal of limiting it. Given such importance of the Chinese question, the question of what views the current presidential candidates held on it became very important. In satisfaction of public and popular demand, in their official letters outlining the political program of their future actions in case of election to the presidency, both expressed themselves on the Chinese question, both pointing out the abnormalities of Chinese resettlement, calling for a radical review of laws concerning it. Garfield expressed himself as follows: “The latest movement of Chinese toward our Pacific coast too much resembles the importation of Chinese to welcome it without restriction; too much resembles an invasion to regard it indifferently. We cannot allow any form of slave labor to be introduced among us under the guise of emigration.” These expressions clearly defined Garfield’s views on the Chinese question. But for politicians this matters not at all. An insignificant Democratic newspaper published a private letter of Garfield, addressed to a certain Morey, a member of the “union of employers” in the city of Lynn. The letter stated: “The Chinese problem is coming to business. In my opinion, the question of workers is a matter of private and corporate economy, and private persons or companies have the right to purchase labor wherever it is possible to obtain it more cheaply,”—and further it said that the treaty with China should be strictly preserved and its annulment would adversely affect American industry, depriving it of cheap labor. Obviously, this was completely opposite to the official statement. The Democrats, with unusual enthusiasm, seized upon this letter; facsimiles appeared in all newspapers, which indicated that it was Garfield’s handwriting. The question became very important. The Republicans were troubled, and the Democrats printed the letter in millions of copies and circulated it among the working people, for whom the Chinese question has special significance. Independent newspapers made an inquiry to Garfield himself, whether this letter truly belonged to him, and he delayed his answer, further increasing the confusion of his friends and the gloating of his enemies. Poor general had received so much slander that if he were to answer all of them, the world itself could not contain the written books. He had decided not to answer this letter either, but then the matter took on such a serious turn that he could not avoid a response and wrote an official letter in which he declared that he had never written such a letter, did not know the person it was addressed to, that the entire letter was a shameless forgery of his handwriting, and asked that detectives immediately be put to work to discover the “scoundrel” who perpetrated such a trick. Further investigation indeed showed that the letter was a conscienceless forgery, and was addressed to a person whom no one knows in his own city. Terrible indignation arose in the Republican camp. An entire legion of detectives was set in motion, and one Republican appointed a reward of 5,000 dollars to whoever found the forger. Meanwhile, the Democrats had been careless in going too far with this letter, and complete exposure of this vile trick became a noose around their neck. And that newspaper, which had first circulated this letter, took advantage of the trick for its own purposes. It began hysterically to tear and rage, declaring that Republican detectives with revolvers were invading its office and printing office, destroying the set type, fearing further exposures of the “criminal policy of Garfield,” and threatening death to the publishers and editors themselves—and thus, amid the uproar, sold triple the usual quantity of copies.

7. The Decision of the People’s Will

The End of the Presidential Campaign.—In Anticipation of the People’s Decision.—The Universal Vote.—The Lucky Hauler and the Unfortunate General.—A Review of the Campaign.—The Causes of Republican Victory.—North and South.—The Republican Elect.—The Person of President Garfield and His Cabinet.

It has happened at last! The presidential campaign has ended, one of the most fierce in the history of the country. No more feverish agitation of ambitious politicians, no more fears and hopes, no more buffoon costumes and mad burning of torches, no more cries of fraud and bribery, and no more free festivities. The people themselves came forward into the arena and by the decision of its sovereign will swept from the stage all the trifling fuss of petty passions and quarrels, and chose as their ruler—an Ohio hauler, who by his own will and intellect had raised himself from the tow-rope on a canal to the highest position in the country.

The universal vote took place on November 2nd according to the new style. This was a Tuesday. The Saturday before, the Democrats conducted their last demonstration—with the crack of rockets and speeches. Sunday was a day of outward peace and inward anxiety for the leaders of the parties. Monday, the last day of the campaign, was a day of agonizing fears and hopes. In the party headquarters the final calculations were made regarding the chances of the election. The telegraph keys worked tirelessly, and the party leaders were occupied until they had headaches with mathematical calculations about the possible results. The general mood was as if before a day of great decisive battle. For the candidates themselves, the decision of this day could be more important than victory or defeat for a commanding general. If recognition by the people as ruler of the country is great honor, then rejection by them is moral death. One can therefore understand that on the night of November 2nd two men in the United States were completely abandoned by the merciless god Morpheus, and they met the magnificent dawn of the fateful day with exhausted, sickly faces. “We will await the people’s decision with philosophical calm,” said the wife of General Garfield the day before; but the anxiety in the very tone of her voice refuted philosophy, and a perceptive reporter hastened to strengthen her with assurances of her husband’s election. Mrs. Garfield is a highly educated lady, but it was painful for her to endure the abomination of personal attacks on her husband, in which the Democratic press had exhausted itself for five months, since the time of his nomination to the presidency. Therefore, she awaited the fateful day with even greater anxiety, since the non-election of her husband would have been the people’s sanction of all these low insinuations. Mrs. Hancock was more confident in her husband’s election and spoke only of how sorry she would be to part with her present refuge when they would have to move to the White House.

The day of the people’s election opened with a magnificent dawn. The sun rose brightly over the country and gently beckoned the people to the fulfillment of their great duty. Autumn in New York is the best season of the year. The air is dry, fresh, and healthy. But with November comes what is called Indian summer, and to good autumn are added the charms of early spring. The sun on November 2nd warmed with spring rays and gave much liveliness to the motley movement of the city population. Election day is a folk holiday; work ceases and stores close. Already from early morning the masses of people poured into the streets, and at the offices of the polling places crowds of voters lined up, patiently awaiting their turn. It is curious to observe this motley crowd of those who decide the fate of the country. They come to the fateful ballot box with prepared ballots in hand. On all faces shines a ripened resolve. Silently they move, rank after rank, to the great urn of the people’s will, and cast their small ballots, expressing their ripened will. What a variety of clothing, faces, and conditions in these legions of voters! Here is a brilliant gentleman in a silk hat and kid gloves with golden buttons; next to him stands a sturdy laborer in a worn jacket and with callused hands. A millionaire and a homeless pauper; a prominent public figure and a street shoe-shiner; a railroad magnate and a wagon attendant; a writer and a newspaper boy; a pastor and a church sexton; a lawyer, a teacher, a wine merchant, a street organ player, a Chinese, a Negro, a Jew, a Pole—everyone who had lived continuously for the preceding five years in the United States now moved to the urn to express his will, to choose the ruler of the country. A few days before, the registration of voters had taken place, and New York gave, in this case, 216,000 voters, 50,000 more than in the election two years prior. Such an increase is explained not so much by growth in population as by the fierceness of the party struggle. Voting is not obligatory, and very many citizens do not vote during their entire lives. Meanwhile, in the past year the noise of the presidential campaign so stirred the country that it roused from indifference many citizens who had never voted before. Votes are not cast directly for the presidential candidates, but for certain electors, of whom there are 369 throughout the country. Voting is scheduled for only one day—from sunrise to sunset. When the last rays of the sun died away beyond the river banks of the Hudson, the people cast their last ballots, and at 4[1]1/2 in the morning the urns were already closed. The work of election was done, the people had cast their decision, the president was already elected—although no one yet knew on whom the people’s election had fallen. Only a count of votes could definitively say to whom the people had entrusted the representation of their will. And then the telegraph keys began to chatter in all the party headquarters, and figures from all corners of the country flew along the iron nerves of the earth to the main centers and from there instantly transferred to the streets and were shown to the people by means of electric bulletins. And the people in dense masses occupied all the squares before these bulletins, and the night air in all corners of the city trembled from the cries of the people. Then the people marveled at their own will, and the parties, depending on the inclination of the figures, either madly rejoiced or angrily raged, and the hearts of the candidates and their wives either beat joyfully or painfully tightened and stopped. All night the count of votes continued, and until morning the figures kept wavering. Only toward the sunrise did the scales of the people’s will finally settle. The Republican scale heavily descended, while the Democratic one hopelessly swung upward, and there the unfortunate General Hancock sat in despair. The Republicans had won, and their rejoicing had no end, while the Democrats in despair hung their heads. Garfield with his family met the rising luminary of the day with prayerful thanksgiving, while Hancock angrily ran back and forth in his office, cursing the day of his nomination as a presidential candidate. Upon learning the final result of the election, Hancock put on his coat and set off to the nearest barber shop to get a haircut. A Negro barber, a great politician and talkative as a rattle, with unmistakable shining face met the stricken general and with simple acidity began to torment his great client with his chatter.

— How are you feeling, General?—asked the polite “colored gentleman.”

— Well,—answered the general sharply.

— Pleasant weather, General!—changed the subject the colored gentleman.

— Good weather,—answered the general gloomily.

— How shall I cut your hair?—asked the colored gentleman in confusion.

— As quietly as possible!—cried the general already quite angrily, so that the colored gentleman was frightened and, muttering an apology, silently began to snap the scissors.

Upon returning home, the general found a host of friends and acquaintances who had come to express their sympathy.

— What do you think, General, of the election results?—asked one of his friends.

— I can only repeat what I have said before, that I fully recognize the decision of the people’s will. Our country is a republic, and the majority should rule.

— So you do not regret that you are defeated?

— Regret is useless,—answered the general.

— But there is one great consolation, General: by this defeat you have freed yourself from the troubles and complex cares connected with the presidency.

The unsuccessful candidate looked suspiciously at everyone, forced a smile at such consolation, and, saying nothing more, bowed and set off on his usual morning inspection of his troops. Such little oddities concluded the great efforts of the Democratic party in the past presidential campaign.

The present defeat of the Democratic party was all the more severe because it was completely unexpected for them. Never since the war had they entered into a presidential campaign with such hopes and such confidence as in this case. Already at the election of 1876, the Democratic party had displayed such a fighting force that the Republicans were threatened with complete defeat. Indeed, they had inflicted one, according to the conviction of the Democrats, and only Republican intrigue deprived them of the fruits of victory. If four years ago the people’s will had expressed itself in favor of the Democratic party with such force that the Republicans had to use intrigue and deception to retain power, then over these four years the Democrats confidently calculated that they would acquire such strength before which intrigue would not dare to appear. With such confidence, the Democrats began the presidential campaign. Circumstances at first developed in such a way that could only support and strengthen the party’s overconfidence. A split occurred among the Republicans. The strongest Republican faction was pushing General Grant for a “third term,” provoking against itself strong popular discontent and open suspicions of hidden designs on the free institutions of the country. With this the Republicans greatly weakened themselves, at the same time strengthening their opponents. If Grant had held his ground at the Chicago convention and had been nominated as the Republican candidate for the presidency, the party’s cause would have been completely lost, its presumed strength would have turned to weakness, since all independent voters were against the “third term” and would therefore have voted for the Democratic candidate. The Democrats fully understood this dilemma and for their part did all they could to set such a trap for the Republicans. But General Grant did not withstand the opposition and did not receive the nomination. Instead, from the convention came out a “dark horse,” General Garfield, which again was not in favor of the Republican party and could not be more helpful to the Democrats. General Garfield as a “dark horse” was an unexpected product of the bureaucratic demoralization of the Republican party and, apart from his personal merits, was a living indictment of the degeneration of the state spirit in the ruling party. The country was troubled by such an outcome of the Republican conclave, and involuntarily there arose the thought of a change of government. The attention of the people turned to the Democratic party, and they awaited with great interest whom this party would nominate as its candidate. When from the Democratic convention emerged the valiant General Hancock, popular for his military services to the country and impeccable in his private life, public attention apparently irrevocably fixed itself on the Democratic candidate, and thereby promised him the people’s election. The Democrats rejoiced, relishing all the advantages of power, while the Republicans held the reins of power with trembling hands, foreseeing their defeat. In such a mood the first months passed after the nomination of the candidates. Meanwhile, the summer heats subsided, the people gathered the richest harvest that they had ever had occasion to gather, and the autumn industry of the country expanded to unprecedented dimensions. The Democratic politicians merrily spent their time at country estates and returned to the political arena with complete confidence that they had only to come, see, and—victory was certain. And so they indeed came, saw, and—only gasped. The people were so satisfied with their condition, their harvests, and their industry, that they entirely devoted themselves to their domestic affairs and were not interested in politics at all. In vain did the Democrats thunder curses at the ruling party, predict the inevitable destruction of the country from its further rule, prove the necessity of a change in government, threaten with Caesarism, which was gradually growing in the Republican party—it was all in vain. The people were full and content, and a full belly is deaf to politics. The people were full and wished to remain so, and for this reason did not wish for the change that the Democrats promised them. Given such a state of affairs, it was clear on whose side lay the strength. The Republicans quickly understood where their main fortress lay, and made popular contentment the main argument in favor of their party. And this argument turned out to be so convincing and persuasive to the people that by an overwhelming majority they rejected the party of change.

This, in my opinion, is the main cause of the Republican victory. But there were, besides this opinion, special causes which also contributed to the success of the ruling party. First of all, the Republican party was strong by the fact that it held the government of the country in its hands. Over its 20 years of rule, it had succeeded in striking such deep roots in the country that only some general convulsive movement of the people could uproot them. In its hands are all the vast domain of state administration with an entire army of officials, for whom the dominance of the party became a matter of life and death. Over the course of 20 years, several generations of officials had succeeded each other, who grew up in this environment and owed it their entire existence. All of them therefore worked for the ruling party, and their influence, as representatives of the administration, is very strong and important. Then twenty years of governmental practice had developed in the party leaders a remarkable tact in understanding the conditions and needs of the country and in using them for their own purposes. In the past campaign, the party put forward so many statesmen with strong oratorical and political talents that the Democrats had to bring out all their reserves just to stand against them somewhat. Moreover, the Republicans had more material for self-defense. Long years of rule gave them an inexhaustible store of argumentation in their favor, so that they could always rely on this or that service which the country owed to them. The Democrats did not have such advantages. They had to rely only on negative arguments; on accusations of the defects of the ruling party and on promises of those benefits that would pour upon the people once they entrusted their power to the Democrats. But while the accusations produced some effect, the promises were, given the present state of affairs, an empty word. The people were content, and therefore the Democratic promises could only arouse their distrust and ridicule. Thus the people’s masses in general related to the arguments of the Democratic party. But among them there is one class which cannot regard it otherwise. This is the numerous class of business people—of manufacturing industry. One of the distinguishing principles of the Republican party has always been a high protective tariff. It has constantly existed throughout all twenty years of the party’s rule and under its influence the aforementioned class of business people was formed. Thanks to this tariff, manufacturing industry achieved high development, gave employment to millions of people, and accumulated considerable wealth in the hands of numerous industrialists. Being obliged for their wealth to such a principle of the Republican party, this powerful class naturally clings firmly to the party that gave them not only wealth but life itself, and opposes in every way the Democratic party, which holds the exactly opposite principle in trade. This class strengthens year by year in the country, and the present four-year rule of the Republicans will inevitably have as its consequence an even greater strengthening of it and a proportional decrease in the chances of the Democratic party ever reaching the position of the ruling party.

[1] Where songs are sung, there settle yourself peacefully: Evil men have no songs.

7. The Decision of the People’s Will (Cont.)

Besides social causes, a remarkable force in this case was shown by one political cause of the Democratic defeat. In political terms, the parties differ in that the Republican party constantly works for centralization and is an active guardian of the integrity and unity of the Union of States. It constantly maintains that the United States is not a simple political or geographical union, but a single, indivisible nation, having one common supreme government, to which all individual states must submit. The Democrats, on the contrary, strive to defend the separate rights of the states, and insist that the United States is not at all a nation, but merely a voluntary union of independent states and can exist only as long as these separate states wish it and find such a union advantageous. Particularly tenacious is such an idea in the South, and it once led to a fratricidal war. Since the war until now, this idea has constantly asserted itself in the southern states and has expressed itself especially in the uncompromising opposition of the “solid South” to the North. Meanwhile, the North, having once saved the Union from dissolution, went by reaction in this regard further and further, finally even breeding the idea of Caesarism. This Caesarism, of course, is of a problematic character and is rather an inflated invention of the Democrats, but it is undoubtedly true that the idea of the national unity of the states has firmly settled in the people’s consciousness, and in this respect they prefer the principle of the Republican banner. This explains the still unprecedented fact that in the present election the entire North unanimously cast its vote for the Republican candidate, and all so-called doubtful states voted for Garfield, giving him a commanding majority. In acting thus, the North conducted a grandiose demonstration in favor of national unity against the separatist South. The Democratic press so understood this demonstration, and one of the most candid newspapers thus greeted the election of the Republican candidate: “Ave Caesar Imperator! Garfield—president, king, emperor! The people of the United States, by their own act, freely and voluntarily, chose as their ruler a man who is the embodiment of intrigue, deception, and criminality. We must recognize the people’s decision. But let us not close our eyes. Henceforth the country must enter a new era. We have done with the republic. Let us welcome the empire. The people’s rights are trampled underfoot. They are trampled and mired in the mud. On the ruins of the republic will arise an oligarchy of officials, an aristocracy of the bourgeoisie, an empire of self-chosen ambitions. Are we exaggerating the situation? Oh, no…” and so forth. This tirade sounds like the cries of one gone mad, maddened by impotent rage, but it reflects to a certain degree the general mood of the Democratic party. This party, it should be noted, composed mainly of former slaveholders of the Southern States, still bears the marks of the demoralizing slavery. The Democrats are incorrigible aristocrats, passionate, ambitious, and frivolous. They do not love slow, patient, and persistent labor and wish everything to be done at the magical movement of their imperious brows. They are ambitious demagogues and love to keep the people’s masses in complete subjection. For this, they keep the people in the deepest ignorance, and the Democratic South in intellectual respects stands at least 50 years behind the Republican North. With slight success they lose their heads in a whirlwind of rejoicing; with the least misfortune they give way to despair and in furious wails pour out their impotent rage. Clearly, it is not difficult for the sound-thinking, practical, calculating, intellectual North to struggle with such a South and to vanquish it. Thanks to their passionate hot-headedness and lack of practicality, the Democrats made numerous mistakes during the campaign itself. When they saw that on the basis of principle they could not withstand the Republicans, they insanely plunged into personal politics, unleashed a veritable bacchanal of personal attacks, slanders, and insinuations against the Republican candidate. For five months of the campaign, the Democrats did not issue a single sheet in which Garfield was not accused of bribery, speculative dealings, bureaucratic corruption, perjury, and other such terrible crimes, and finally gloriously concluded this campaign of gossip and scandals with the invention of a forged “Chinese letter,” calculated to turn the working population against the Republican candidate. At first this personal bacchanal seemed to produce some effect, but then, by its excessiveness and too transparent tendency, it exposed itself, and the unfortunate “Chinese letter” finally scandalized itself before the eyes of all the people. The author of this letter was soon arrested, turned out to be a contributor to one Democratic newspaper, and the court proved the malicious forgery of the letter. The contemptuous and filled with unshakable dignity silence of Garfield amid all this furious orgy of personal attacks only gave him greater stature, won public and popular sympathy, and made him invulnerable. The glowing coals of accusations and slanders turned back upon the heads of the accusers themselves. The people said that the Democrats had pounced so furiously on Garfield because they had nothing more to say for themselves. Thus the Democratic party itself was undermining its own ground, and its defeat would certainly have been even greater if it had not found some support in the personal merits of its candidate. All these general and special causes led to the fact that out of 369 electoral votes, Hancock received only 150, and Garfield received 219, 34 more than the necessary 185 for election.

James A. Garfield, the Republican nominee and current president, is by his personal qualities a man highly sympathetic. He draws attention simply by his own romantic destiny, which elevated him from dark poverty to his present prominent role in the state. Son of a poor farmer, at his father’s death he was left to the care of capricious fate, and it, apparently, had little regard for him. The poor boy was forced beyond his strength to work alongside his brothers on a small farm left by his father and saw scarcely a kind word from stern fortune. Crushing physical labor could easily have crushed intellectual gifts, but this boy, endowed by nature with strong will and resourcefulness, paved his own way. He noticed that workers on the canal earned more money than they could have made on the farm or in carpentry, which he practiced in winter. Without much thought, he took up pulling boats and soon rose to the position of steersman. After this success he resolved to become a sailor on a ship in his native Lake Erie, but severe fever disrupted his plans, and he lay in bed for three months. Upon recovery, with his meager savings and two loaves in his pocket, he went to a neighboring school. After completing his course there, he moved to what was called the “Eclectic Institute.” By day he attended lectures; in the mornings and evenings he did carpentry work, earning money for his keep; he rented a humble room and cooked for himself. The combination of physical and mental labor only strengthened the talented youth. He left the institute with a brilliant diploma, good classical and real education, and $450 in debt, which he had borrowed to pay for lectures. Having married an intelligent and modest girl who studied with him at the school, he built himself a small cottage and began a poor but happy life, serving as a teacher in one college. This was before the Civil War. The agitation occurring at that time in favor of abolishing slavery gave him the opportunity to enter the political arena; he delivered several brilliant speeches against slavery, which made such an impression that he drew the attention of the Republican Party, which had taken upon itself the task of abolishing slavery. When the war broke out, he took an active role in organizing the local militia of his native state of Ohio, and in 1861 was elected commander of the local regiment. During the war he proved himself an able military officer and achieved the highest military ranks. Though not particularly brilliant as a warrior and not having made a great name for himself, he was nonetheless known as an intelligent and cautious commander who greatly contributed to the success of the northern army. This reputation gave him the opportunity afterward to be elected to Congress. If during the war his caution somewhat hindered his fame, on the peaceful field of state service it advanced him. As a member of Congress, he was not an idle officeholder but took the trouble to study the Congressional archives thoroughly and worked daily like a tireless and persistent scholar in the dust of papers, for which he even earned the nickname of pedant from his colleagues. This gave him such practical knowledge of state procedure that his colleagues envied it and which served as a terrible weapon in his hands against any ignorance, recklessness, or routine.

As president, Garfield undoubtedly represents one of the most worthy and experienced statesmen in the country. He clearly and deeply understands the needs of the state and possesses a sufficiently strong will to persistently apply his enlightened views to reality. He proved this from the first steps of his state career, boldly and courageously entering the struggle against the administrative plague of bureaucracy, which in the last decade has developed into a vicious public evil. The dark evil, of course, could not yield at once, and even sent forth a rogue who raised a murderous hand against the people’s chosen representative, resolved to act honestly and openly for the benefit of his country. But the villainous shot of Guiteau was a signal for the awakening of a terrible public outrage, and in the energetic support of society, President Garfield, if only he recovers from the attempt, will find a firm basis for dealing a mortal blow to evil. At the same time the election of President Garfield once again brought into the federal government of the American republic that truly popular atmosphere which in recent times had begun to give way to a nascent atmosphere of aristocracy and plutocracy. President Garfield’s cabinet is now the most democratic in the world. Both the president’s wife herself and the wives of his two chief ministers, who are now the leaders of the highest American society, were in the not-distant past simple rural schoolteachers. Americans can point to this cabinet with pride as proof that the traditions of their fathers, who bequeathed them the great principles of true democracy, still live in them.

* * *

On the Journey from America

1. Across the Ocean

Return to the homeland.—On the deck of a German ship.—Victim of a shark. —Descendant of the Varangians.—Brother Slav and the international language of Slavic peoples.—Sunday and two sermons.—An American preacher.—Shore of the Old World.—The Channel and the German Sea.—Sorrow and joy.

“Home is where things are good—Ubi bene, ibi patria,” says the rule of cosmopolitanism. Nothing could be more false than this rule. It is an idle production of frivolous fancy by people who have never been abroad, or those in whose withered souls there is not a drop of moral feeling. A foreign land can be interesting for observation, profitable for earning money, but it can in no way replace one’s fatherland or make one forget it. Sympathy can be found in people and abroad, but this sympathy gives little to a man’s heart, and it mournfully yearns for the place where the sweet memories of his childhood live, where his hopes were nurtured, where all who love him live, and all whom he himself loves and cannot but love. I spent a year and a half in America. It is one of those countries that can stifle homesickness with a mass of interesting and varied impressions. But this is only temporary. Natural feeling takes its course. That is why I received word of the possibility of returning home with such joyful rapture as is seldom experienced.

At a huge dock on the Hudson River, the enormous ship “Donau” was already ready to embark on its distant ocean voyage. The machines raised the gangplanks, and the hearts of passengers and their relatives and friends shuddered with the pain of parting. A final whistle roared, the ship’s orchestra played a farewell march, the engine creaked, adults wept, children cried out, farewell handkerchiefs fluttered over heads, and blue waves boiled beneath the mighty blows of the giant screw. Picturesque shores flashed on both sides, and ahead already the cool breath of grandfather Ocean was felt. Passengers mournfully followed the fleeing shores; each was absorbed in his own thoughts. Parting is always sad, even if it is freely undertaken and followed by a joyful reunion; all the more painful is parting on such a distant journey fraught with every chance and danger. Summer travel across the ocean is considered the most favorable, and thousands of more or less wealthy Americans depart for Europe simply for the pleasures of the summer season. Nevertheless, the vastness of the water route retains its terrifying power for the imagination. The heart involuntarily shudders at the thought of having to live for whole ten days under fear of the capricious elements. For me, ocean travel was no longer a novelty. I had experienced it in one of the stormiest seasons—late autumn. Now I boldly looked upon the approaching voyage and only wished that the canvas wings of the ship would fill more strongly with a favorable wind and carry me more quickly to the shores of my native continent. Meanwhile the magnificent panorama of New York and the host of neighboring cities had already blended into an indifferent gray mass, and when the fiery orb of the setting sun descended to the azure surface of the ocean, the American metropolis struggled helplessly against the wave that soon engulfed it and it vanished from sight. The ship found itself in an enchanted circle of water and sky, from which the evening stars smiled welcomingly.

The ship “Danube” belongs to the wealthy German company “North German Lloyd” and makes voyages between New York and Bremen. It is in every sense a German ship—with German economy, a German table, and German sailors, though in the healthy broad faces of the latter the Slavic type is clearly visible, consumed by German culture. To Bremen, the “Danube” charges the same fare that English ships charge to Liverpool and French ones to Le Havre, despite the considerable difference in distance. An ocean crossing costs $100 in first class, $60 in second class, and $30 in third class. For Americans this equals the same amount in rubles, but for a Russian traveler, thanks to the low value of our currency and the difference in wages, this amounts to exactly double the sum. The cabins were crowded with Germans who struggled along in broken English. It is interesting to observe these types of American Germans. They are all full citizens of the American republic, yet at the same time subjects of their beloved fatherland. Most of them arrived in America as poor emigrants decades ago. Fortune smiled upon them in the new land, they grew rich, acquired families, and now were setting off to look at their former homeland, to see relatives and childhood friends. The history of their lives is inscribed on their entire appearance. All these are stern, gnarled faces, in whose deep wrinkles is written hieroglyphically the tale of their laborious, much-tried lives, but on their hands gleam massive diamond rings and on their chests hang heavy gold chains attached to gold pocket watches. The old men continue to speak in provincial German dialect, while the younger generation has become thoroughly Americanized, speaks pure English, and uses German only to please the elders. Material well-being provides moral contentment, and the passengers, free from the sadness of parting, at the magnificent dinner of the first day transformed into a company of merry and carefree people. When after dinner, on the ship’s deck, beneath the starry sky and to the harmonious splash of gentle waves, the orchestra played a German waltz, the Germans whirled in a frenzy of their native dance.

Joy spread across the surface of the floating craft. When the orchestra finished its music, groups of singers formed, and grandfather Ocean listened until deep midnight to the mixed melodies of German and American songs from happy Teutons. But happiness depends not so much on external contentment as on internal satisfaction! When the latter is lacking, external merriment only oppresses the soul further. Among the carefree revelers was a young girl who sat alone at the rail with a mournful, motionless gaze following the running waves. No one spoke to her, and she spoke to no one. The next day she stood in the same place and took no part in the endless chatter of passengers getting acquainted with one another. It was Sunday. The sun shone brightly on a cloudless horizon, and the German orchestra opened its pre-dinner concert with a sacred hymn: “My God is my rock.” The solemn music of the sacred hymn, together with the music of softly splashing ocean waves, spread bliss among contented souls, but for the unhappy soul of the gloomy passenger it was a funeral dirge. When the hymn ended and reverent silence fell under its influence, the girl rose above the rail as if to gaze more closely at the waves cut by the ship. But in another moment—only a dress flickered above the rail, and she plunged into the water, where she was at once caught in the boiling wake of the propeller. Passengers cried out in horror, an alarm signal sounded, a lifeboat was quickly lowered, but the unfortunate girl was already buried in the fathomless watery grave. Sorrow settled on the deck, passengers gazed grimly at the waves that had engulfed a human life, yet they flowed on as carelessly as before, murmuring gently, and only from the boiling surface appeared at times the black back of a terrible sea monster, waiting for a new victim. The unfortunate girl became the prey of a shark, which thus forever devoured both her and the sorrow that drove her to this terrible suicide.

This terrible incident cast a shadow of grief over the entire company of passengers. But the grief of strangers is fleeting, and by evening of the same day merriment resumed. Among the passengers, besides Germans, were people of all nations, ranks, and conditions. There was a “most reverend” (as the official title goes) American bishop from Cleveland, who with his wife was setting off on a summer excursion to Europe, and an American businessman traveling on commercial business to the land of pyramids; a German writer studying the public life of the Yankees and a Norwegian adventurer returning home from the wild reaches of the American Far West, where he had lived nine months among red-skinned Indians solely for the sake of adventure; an American preacher setting off to observe the religious and moral life of the Old World, and a Spanish artist carrying home the monetary laurels gathered in America, and so forth. This diverse assembly, necessarily bound together by the limited space of the ship’s deck, formed a single intimate family. For me all were equally foreign people. But it is remarkable how expandable the sense of kinship is. The farther you are from home, the wider the circle this feeling encompasses. Those closest to me were those of the same profession, but the Norwegian was the most kindred, and solely because he was from a country geographically nearest to my homeland. He is more familiar than others with Russia, has a brother in the Swedish embassy in St. Petersburg, and is more familiar than others with our history, which is extraordinarily pleasant to encounter after the usual dark ignorance about such matters among foreigners. By natural association the conversation turned to the question of the Varangians, and the Norwegian proved to be an ardent adherent of the Norman school on this question. According to his account, Norwegian historians have carefully worked out this period and have no doubt whatsoever that the Varangians were none other than Norse knights. The word “Varangian” still survives in the language of Scandinavian and Anglo-Saxon peoples. In Norwegian waranger and in English “warrior” means a fighter, a warrior. Listening to the animated speech of this modern Varangian, one could not help thinking that he was a direct descendant of those valiant Varangians who were summoned to establish order in our abundant but disorganized land. We are very little acquainted with the ancient history of the Scandinavian Peninsula, and careful study of it would undoubtedly shed considerable light on the still obscure question of the origin of our first princes, over which our historians have fruitlessly broken lances to this day. To those same valiant Varangians belongs the honor of first discovering the New World. The fact, though little known, is nonetheless firmly established by Norwegian and American history, that America saw white men on its shores five centuries before the bold Genoese loudly proclaimed the discovery of this continent. As early as the beginning of the eleventh century, Norwegian Vikings boldly roamed the entire width of the northern half of the Atlantic Ocean, had settlements in Iceland and Greenland, and one of them, namely Leif Erikson, made his way to America, where within the present state of New York a colony was founded, of which archaeological remains have been found. The colony was too weak to withstand the onslaught of the red-skinned natives, and the colonists had to abandon the newly discovered land, and Erikson’s name along with the path he had traced was forgotten for whole centuries. Now in America there is a plan to erect a monument in honor of the valiant Viking, which should have been done long ago, as my interesting interlocutor declared, visibly overflowing with patriotic pride at the remembrance of his historical ancestors.

Thus, in idle conversations, day followed day while the ship rushed tirelessly along the blue waves of the ocean, daily covering about five hundred versts. The weather was excellent and remained so throughout, despite the desperate leaps of the porpoises which, according to sailors’ observation, usually foretell a storm. In summer the ocean is much more lively than in winter, and we daily encountered several vessels and ships which, like dots, passed along the rim of the watery circle. Once, in the rays of the setting sun, I stood at the bow of the ship gazing into the boundless blue, awaiting the appearance of some oncoming vessel. A ruddy-cheeked, self-satisfied German approached me and asked what nation I was from. Upon my answer, he said that in the third class there was a young sick man who spoke no European language, and yet he was extremely helpless, and perhaps something could be done to help him. Could it be a Russian, flashed through my head, and I went to him at the German’s direction. Pale and emaciated, poorly dressed, the young man sat mournfully and alone on a bench, presenting a living picture of misery and misfortune, whose sorrowful features stood out all the more sharply against the surrounding picture of German self-satisfaction. I addressed him in Russian, and the gloomy features of his face instantly brightened. He understood me and was glad of the possibility of breaking the unbearable silence. It turned out that he was an Orthodox Serb. Only six months before, he had set off with money earned through intense labor to America, hoping to find better happiness there. Unfortunately, he knew no other European language besides his native Slavic tongue, and so could serve only as heavy labor. Exhausting work quickly broke down his health, he fell ill, and now in despair was returning home. I had previously encountered Serbs, and they usually understand Russian poorly, but this young man seemed to have need instilled in him a special gift of linguistic understanding, and he perfectly understood every word. Moreover, I deliberately clothed my speech in Church Slavonic form, and this undoubtedly greatly facilitated his understanding. Our Slavophiles in their pan-Slavic aspirations constantly encountered the fact that cooled their desire for pan-Slavic brotherhood—that individual Slavic tribes do not understand one another, so that for more or less serious relations one must resort to the mediation of some European language, and chiefly German. It has always seemed to me that the Slavic peoples, at least the Orthodox ones, have such a common, unchanging, classical language that could serve as an international language for them and an excellent means of communication among themselves and moral unity. This is precisely Church Slavonic, in which all of them equally perform their divine service and which from childhood they all grow accustomed to understand. One should only pay more attention to it in popular education, and then all Orthodox Slavic peoples could easily speak with one another in a common and moreover sacred language, and there would be no need to resort to German, which serves as one of the strongest instruments of Slavic Germanization. My Slavic interlocutor factually confirmed the truth of this theory. To make his speech more intelligible to me, he also began to clothe it in Church Slavonic form, and concluded the sorrowful tale of his adventures with an exclamation: “Hey, brother, it is good for a healthy man to be in America, but for an unhealthy man all is evil!” The poor fellow had no money at all for the passage from Bremen to his homeland, and so his joy could not be expressed in any language when, through the active mediation of the American preacher, a small sum of German marks was collected in his behalf. On the ship was another helpless man, a Swiss poisoned by lead at the factory where he worked in America. In him the American bishop took a lively interest and also collected a sum for him. Whatever philosophers may say about pure humanism as a fully sufficient source of charity, its true foundation can only be religion. Many of the passengers sympathized with both unfortunates, but without the active initiative of religious ministers, this sympathy would scarcely have expressed itself in actual charity.

The ocean giant creaked and labored tirelessly for more than a week, yet could not break free from the enchanted circle of water and sky. One might even doubt whether it was moving forward at all, if the map did not daily mark the number of miles traveled and indicate the point where it was located that day. By the second Sunday, this point on the map had already moved far beyond the midway point of the ocean. According to calculations, only two days’ journey remained before the shores of England, and passengers, tired of the tedious monotony of travel, came to life again. On German ships, regular divine services are not held on Sundays as they are on English ones. But nevertheless, the maritime life by its very character inspires a prayerful disposition, and the customary morning concert on this day consisted entirely of sacred hymns. After the concert, passengers were invited to the hall, where after a few moments an American bishop appeared in full ecclesiastical vestments and delivered a sermon on an Old Testament text: “People walk to and fro and thereby increase their wisdom”; the bishop eloquently depicted the significance of travel for people’s moral and intellectual development and reviewed events that had taken place on the ship during the past week. After the bishop, an American preacher also came forward with a sermon, and to the serious impression produced by the bishop’s speech, he added some humorous touches customary in American preaching.

1. Across the Ocean (Cont.)

Both sermons were equally interesting and edifying, but of the two preachers their personalities were more interesting to me in the case of the latter. He is a characteristic type of an American preacher. He is extraordinarily sociable, was the first to become acquainted with everyone, an interesting conversationalist, and from the first days became the soul of the entire company. In one of the western cities in America, he has a parish where he serves as pastor and preacher. Now he was setting off for summer rest in Europe, and his parish took upon itself all his travel expenses. By his clothing and appearance, he differed not at all from other passengers, but at the same time he made clear from the first day to all that he was a preacher. Preaching is not only his profession but his very soul. Without preaching he cannot live at all and literally fulfills the apostle’s commandment: “Preach in season and out of season.” Besides Sundays, he also gathered passengers on weekdays in the dining hall and spoke sermons to them with remarkable skill at arousing their interest. Once, dense fog covered the entire ocean; the ship constantly sounded whistles out of fear of collision with some oncoming vessel; passengers out of boredom gathered in the dining hall and drank beer. The preacher appeared in their company, himself offered those present glasses of beer, and just as the Germans clinked glasses to his health, he pulled out his notebook and offered them an edifying lecture. After his beer, it was clearly necessary to listen to his lecture as well, and the Germans indeed became attentive listeners. Only one German, more drunk than the rest, clearly could not concentrate his attention on the edification and took advantage of every ship whistle to punctuate it with an appropriate sound. But the preacher struck the table so forcefully with his fist that the inattentive German was put to shame and quieted down. I found this original scene very interesting. The American preacher not only preached “out of season” according to the apostle’s commandment, but was also able to “exhort and rebuke” with authority.

Two days after Sunday, a blue strip appeared on the eastern edge of the watery circle, which the passengers greeted with joyful cries: “Land, land!” It was the shore of England, the outpost of the Old World. A few more hours, and the ship was passing along the shore itself, which jutted into the ocean as a sharp cliff. On the cliff rose a grandiose building of the transatlantic telegraph, by means of which news was at once sent to New York of the ship’s safe arrival. Two days’ journey remained to Bremen, and according to sailors’ account, this route through the English Channel and the German Sea, due to underwater rocks and shallows, is far more dangerous than the entire ocean crossing. But at the sight of land it was somehow difficult to believe this. Along the way, now a French shore appeared, now an English one, and the variety of ships and steamers, which in great number cut through the water in all directions, inspired a sense of confidence and safety. On June 23, exactly after twelve days of sailing, the ship entered the turbid mouth of the Weser River, cast anchor, and river steamers took the passengers for conveyance to shore.

Joyful as it was to set foot on land, at the same time it was somehow sad to part with the ship. When, as the steamer pulled away, the ship’s orchestra played one final farewell march and the entire crew waved handkerchiefs and hats in farewell, many involuntarily felt tears, and all passengers gave a last rousing cheer to the valiant crew. On shore, the passengers were met by a multitude of friends and relatives, and expressions of joyful reunion were endless. But amid the universal rejoicing, like a terrible phantom of death, stood one white-haired old man. Despair, horror, and boundless grief had twisted his features, and with terrible wandering eyes he gazed at all the arriving passengers. At first he seemed to understand nothing, but then the abyss of his terrible grief opened before his consciousness with all its awful clarity, and he struck against the brick wall of the station and wept like a child. This was the unfortunate father of the unhappy girl who had thrown herself from the ship into the abyss of the ocean. Before leaving America, she had informed him by telegram that she was leaving for Europe and asked him to come meet her at the dock. The old man joyfully came to meet his only daughter, but instead met only boundless grief, which undoubtedly will bring him closer to the grave.

Meanwhile the train whistled and carried the passengers into the city of Bremen itself, situated about thirty versts from the dock, and in this rich and luxurious member of the ancient Hanseatic League, the passengers of the “Danube” parted from one another—perhaps forever. For some, however, the chance acquaintance on the ship led to the closest bond that will link them for life: a young man won the hand of a young female passenger during the voyage, and in Bremen it was decided to have the wedding.

2. From Bremen to St. Petersburg

A Hanseatic city.—Memories of the past.—German land.—Capital of the god of war.—Russian spirit in the heart of Germandom.—Yaroslavl men in Berlin and the struggle of Russian culture with German culture.—On the deck of a steamer on the Baltic Sea.—Prussian officers and Russian ladies.—Kronstadt and a vision of Peter the Great.—Again on native soil…

Ocean travel leaves behind a feeling of exhaustion even in the most favorable season in which one makes the crossing, and therefore it is necessary to rest at the first stopping point on solid ground. Such a point was the Hanseatic city of Bremen. I stayed there for two days, and I must say it is difficult to find another city more suitable for moral and physical rest. Judging by the fact that Bremen is one of the richest commercial centers of central Europe and through it flows a continuous stream of European emigration directed toward America, one might suppose it to be a noisy bazaar of worldly bustle. In reality, however, it is one of the most elegant cities I have ever seen. The streets are extraordinarily clean and neat, and magnificent houses stand amid a sea of greenery and flowers. It is evident that culture has reached a high development here and has managed to transform a bazaar of worldly bustle into a pleasant residence of elegance and beauty. The streets themselves bear the names of heroes of culture, and I came across inscriptions on signboards indicating this was Schiller Street, or Humboldt Street, and so forth. As an ancient historical city, Bremen has many important landmarks, but I will mention only the cathedral, which within its walls contains the ancient traditions of the city. Its majestic portal faces the market square. This square is now sparsely populated, and the main market has moved closer to the sea. But the cathedral remembers the time when it teemed with people—foreign guests—and could tell the tale of how from across the distant Varangian Sea came wealthy guests from Great Novgorod and Pskov, its younger brother, bringing with them downy furs and patterned fabrics, laying them out on the square to the wonder and envy of German beauties, marveling at the sound of the foreign church bell and, removing their dear hats, devoutly crossing themselves, remembering the native bell of great Saint Sophia. Now there are no traces of Novgorod and Pskov guests here, and at the sight of the cathedral one involuntarily feels sadness that the German city has managed to retain its ancient glory to the present day, while the glory of our once great and wealthy cities that belonged to the Hanseatic League can scarcely be discerned in the poor and decaying remains of hoary antiquity. Bremen remains a free city to this day and almost miraculously preserves its independence from the all-grasping hand of the iron chancellor. Therefore, upon entering the city, neither passport is requested nor is baggage inspected. But as soon as you enter the railroad station leading into the territory of the German Empire, you are met by the uniformed angels of the inexorable chancellor who thrust their hands into luggage, searching for something subject to taxation. In this respect the chancellor is inexorable, and all his policy in the present peaceful time, as is known, amounts to finding something among the Germans still free from taxation and taxing it under some cunning or humane pretext.

The train, meanwhile, rushed into Bismarck’s kingdom, into the heart of the German Empire—Berlin. Along the way, far and wide plains stretched before you, intersected here and there by forests and almost entirely occupied by fields of ripening rye and greening potatoes. These plains remarkably resemble the middle Russian plains of the central provinces. At first glance, you see no traces of German culture in them, and conversely, feel the spaciousness and breadth of free Slavic nature. One might think that our brother-Slavs still inhabited here—those valiant Obodrites and Lutitians who once occupied all the Baltic coast, fought the Germans, and, according to some historians, gave us our first princes. But one only needs to look more carefully at these plains to see the traces of the German hand upon them. This hand makes itself known in everything: in the cleanly cultivated fields, in the cleared forests, in the drained swamps, and in cozy villages displaying their red tile roofs from amid fragrant garden greenery. At the stations one encounters many broad-bearded faces in which the Slavic type is clearly visible; but this type too is consumed by German culture, dressed in a German uniform, sucking a German curved pipe, and singing the German patriotic hymn “Wacht am Rhein.” The closer to Berlin, the denser grows the German spirit, and Berlin itself is truly the fervent heart of present-day Germandom.

It was about eight in the evening when I stepped onto the pavement of the German capital. A police officer at the station gave me a number for a “Droschke,” as the Germans for some reason call huge cabs, and a mutilated German cabdriver drove me into the city. We passed by a majestic marble column, on top of which some golden winged figure blazed and glittered dazzlingly in the rays of the setting sun. The Teuton did not fail to explain that this was a monument to German victories in the recent war against the French, and no sooner had I shown interest in this monument than the German drove me around it to show the foreigner in its pictorial representations all the glory of the valiant Teutons. In these depictions the poor French undergo such merciless beating as they never experienced in reality. After listening to the cabdriver’s explanatory lecture, I asked him to drive to the hotel more quickly, especially since the fees for cabbies among economical Germans are charged by the minute. Nevertheless, the column of the god of war made a deep impression. For the Germans it is undoubtedly a source of boundless pride, but for the French it is an unbearable monument to shame, and who knows what events await this monument in the future course of history? If the Germans once took Paris, there is nothing impossible about the French someday taking Berlin, and then not a stone of this monument will remain. Certainly it is true that such monuments do not foster peace on earth and good will among men… The patriotic cabdriver meanwhile drove me to the majestic “Imperial Court” Hotel (Der Kaiserhof), and I had to pay him not only for the ride but for the explanatory lecture as well.

The city of Berlin itself is so well known and familiar to us that there is no need to describe it. But it must be noted that the prevailing opinion about it among us does not do it justice. Walking along the magnificent “Unter den Linden” street, I was astonished at how we could have formed the opinion of it as a barracks city. Constantly you see exquisite buildings that successfully combine colossal size with elegance, and on everything there undoubtedly lies the stamp of the highest culture. The shops strike one with their luxury, and among them bookshops constantly gleam, which behind mirror glass display the literary wisdom of all peoples, including the Russian. Looking at entire rows of Russian books, one might think that Germans are absorbed in reading the works of Russian minds. It is undoubtedly true that they take a lively interest in our internal and external affairs, and I saw many German books devoted to the fateful catastrophe of March 1st. Casually opening one of them with the title “Alexander II as a Man and as a Ruler,” I read bitter words that “Russia was not worthy of such a ruler, and he was immeasurably above his people…” With a heavy heart I hastened to leave both the book and the shop. One end of the “Unter den Linden” street is occupied by palaces, and directly opposite the imperial palace stands a magnificent temple of science—the university. Such close coexistence of the highest learning with imperial government makes quite a different impression than what we have grown accustomed to in the sad facts of recent times. If anything gives Berlin a barracks appearance, it is the mass of military and uniformed people who adorn the streets. But in this respect it only resembles our northern Palmyra. In general, Berlin closely resembles Petersburg, and I, after being away from home, felt in it the proximity of my native land already.

Despite Berlin’s proximity to Russian soil, the Russian colony there is very insignificant and consists only of chance migratory birds who fly to the waters in spring and fly from them in fall, making Berlin their chief resting place. Only once did the German capital sense in itself a genuinely Russian spirit—in its authentic individuality.

No matter how cunning the German is, he still cannot make felt as well as our Yaroslavl men do, and so once a Jewish speculator decided to make good business from this. He founded a Russian felt factory in Berlin and imported genuine Russian Yaroslavl peasants, who set off in the number of twenty men to the heart of Germandom. They brought with them authentic Russian culture such as the Germans had never seen before. They wore wide beards and sheepskin coats, red shirts, and shoes smeared with tar. On Sundays they all appeared as a party at the Russian church, and after dinner would go out “under the Linden trees” in a crowd, occupying the entire wide sidewalk and forcing all passing Germans to give way, who gazed in astonishment at the “barbarous Russians.” To introduce the full measure of Russian culture into Germandom, the Yaroslavl men brought from home a woman who began to cook them native cabbage soup and established all Russian housekeeping with all its necessary attributes and even cockroaches. Thus Russian culture happily settled in the very heart of Germandom. But, alas—it is sad to say that gradually it began to submit to German culture. According to ancient ancestral custom, the Yaroslavl men sleep huddled together on benches and eat meat only on holidays. Following this example, the Jewish speculator also arranged benches for them in Berlin and fed them meat in the Russian manner. At first the Yaroslavl men did not think that anything was amiss here. But then, as they settled in and noticed that Germans sleep on individual beds and eat meat abundantly, they realized that their “customs” were not “proper German ones,” and without delay sent representatives to the Russian embassy with a complaint against the Jew, that he was not keeping them “in the German way.” Thus repulsive Germandom overcame even the representatives of authentic Russian culture. But the latter was about to make German culture pay dearly for its cultural victory. Once the Yaroslavl men went into a nearby forest to gather mushrooms and met with brilliant success, filling a large basket, and the woman salted them. The next day there was a great celebration: the Yaroslavl men sat down in a merry circle, placed a bucket of green wine, drank cup after cup, nibbling on mushrooms in sweetness, remembering their native land and singing joyful songs. But—whether the woman did not salt them properly, or the German mushroom is such, only the next day all the Yaroslavl men lay ill, and a terrible misfortune befell them—an unfortunate sickness. Across Berlin the fateful news ran that the Russian colony was seized with cholera; the press sounded the alarm, sanitary committees sprang into action, and strong quarantines were quickly established around the dwelling of our Yaroslavl men. But it is well known—the German is a coward. There was no cholera at all, they simply fell somewhat ill, and soon the Yaroslavl men recovered, and they continued making felt, bitterly cursing the German mushroom. Soon, however, the Yaroslavl men grew weary in Germandom, melancholy and heavy grief crept into their mighty hearts, and they abandoned the Jew-antichrist with his cursed invention and departed for their homeland, to their Yaroslavl land—to their wives and beloved children. Some of them, however, became so susceptible to German influence that they remained in Germandom even after the cessation of felt production, and at present represent an interesting type of a Russian person consumed by German culture. In the life of this simple Russian colony there were many other interesting phenomena. In it there remarkably collided direct Russian culture with German culture, and more detailed observation of this collision would undoubtedly have furnished many interesting facts of more than curious significance.

From Berlin, two roads lead to the native land—rail and sea. In summer it is so pleasant to enjoy the freshness of sea air that I preferred to take the sea route, and for this purpose traveled to Stettin, from where steamers regularly depart for Russia. On the Oder River, the German steamer “Moscow” was already raising steam and in the early morning set out on its journey. On the German “Moscow” there were only about a dozen male and female passengers. They were all Germans and German women, but with signs of becoming Russian. At the first table I heard Russian words with a German accent. Some of them had already been in barbarous Russland, and, having filled their purses, were traveling to see their beloved fatherland; others were only now going to try their luck. In this respect Russia for Western Europeans constitutes the same as America. Just as to the one, so to the other do Western Europeans emigrate for profit, with the only difference that America assimilates these migratory vultures on its soil, while from Russia they fly away again, carrying with them weighty plunder. Among the passengers, two handsome men attracted particular attention, from under their ordinary clothes there was plainly visible strictly disciplined manners. In any free time they sat in a corner and diligently read some profound books requiring terrible concentration. I listened and understood that they were struggling with Russian grammar and one of Turgenev’s tales. It turned out that these were Prussian officers who were coming to Russia for practical study of the Russian language, the theoretical foundations of which had already been laid in the officers’ school, where Russian is obligatory just as French is. The officers proved to be very cultured, educated, and amiable gentlemen, and I pleasantly whiled away the monotonous time of sailing with them; but only a cold shudder ran through me at the thought that these educated people were none other than emissaries of that bloodthirsty demon of German militarism which holds all Europe under the terrible sword of Damocles, every moment threatening the horrors of destruction and bloodshed. The officers were traveling to villages near Moscow, where they were awaited with heartfelt longing—one by a Russian countess N., and the other by a Russian princess X. These Russian ladies, having exhausted all Russian sense in their foreign wanderings, now evidently serve only as Russian stoves on which poisonous snakes and scorpions dangerous to the native land warm themselves. Undoubtedly, under these ladies’ careful guidance, the officers will perfectly master the Russian language, and then—oh, if only this never happened!—leading savage hordes of German soldiery ten times greater in number, they will cause far more harm to poor Russia…

The ponderous steamer, meanwhile, tirelessly cut through the quiet expanse of the Baltic Sea, and soon it entered the Finnish Gulf. Native soil should soon appear, and I gazed with trembling attention at the eastern edge of the watery circle. The eye had seen nothing yet, but the heart already sensed the nearness of home, and the invisible seemed to become visible. But then suddenly two candles of white wax seemed to light up over the water, and after a few moments the eye plainly distinguished in them the churches of God. And the heart rejoiced and trembled, and from sweet excitement the blood roared in my head. Meanwhile, from the water there emerged more and more the wondrous panorama of the crown city and coastal settlements—above which rose stately golden-domed towers. This wondrous panorama, together with the dense swarm of all sorts of vessels and steamers, among which stood majestically a neat row of giant ironclads, presented an almost magical picture, and I, with delight seizing both officers by the hands, exclaimed rapturously: “Look, there is the land of the Tsar! Have you ever seen anything like it?” The Germans were evidently enchanted by the magical picture and replied seriously: very imposant, very imposant (very impressive), and one of them added thoughtfully: “A wonderful picture, but I am surprised here not so much by what I now see as by Peter the Great himself, who with his genius was able to create all this on marshes!…”

A few more torturous hours, and I was already on native soil. Having safely passed through the customs ordeal and taking a cab, I merrily drove along the majestic spacious prospect of Nevsky Avenue, and could not help reflecting on how much during this time the native land had endured terrible volcanic upheavals, how many awful and historically significant changes had occurred in it, and how terribly, at the same time, cab fares had risen in it.

Scripture Index

Every Scripture reference identified in this book, sorted in canonical Bible order. Tap a reference to jump to the verse where it appears.

Psalms
Psalms 118:87. The Bible in America
Luke
Luke 2:82. “Merry Christmas”
John
John 7:87. The Bible in America (Cont.)
John 11:357. The Bible in America
John 19:414. Easter in America
1 Corinthians

1 Corinthians 11:247. The Bible in America (Cont.)

Galatians

Galatians 5:132. Russian Sorrow (Cont.)

Colophon

Life Across the Ocean
by Professor Alexander Lopukhin.

This edition was produced by
Royal Archives.

The cover features
The Ships “Winged Arrow” and “Southern Cross” in Boston Harbor
by Fitz Henry Lane (American, 1804–1865), Wikimedia Commons, which is in the public domain.

The text is set in Palatino and Georgia.

The first edition of this ebook was released on
August 16, 2026.

Table of Contents

Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Preface

On the Way to America

- 1. From St. Petersburg to Vienna
- 2. Zurich
- 3. Geneva
- 4. Paris
- 4. Paris (Cont.)
- 5. London
- 5. London (Cont.)
- 6. Ten Days at Sea
- 6. Ten Days at Sea (Cont.)

Beyond the Ocean

- 1. New York
- 1. New York (Cont.)
- 2. "Merry Christmas"
- 3. Carnival and Fasting
- 4. Easter in America
- 5. Religion in a Free Country
- 6. The Land of Positive Knowledge
- 7. The Bible in America
- 7. The Bible in America (Cont.)
- 8. The Kingdom of the Dollar and Preaching
- 9. In the Camp of Salvation
- 9. In the Camp of Salvation (Cont.)
- 10. The Knights of Mystery
- 10. The Knights of Mystery (Cont.)

Native Echoes

- 1. A Russian Festival Across the Ocean
- 2. Russian Sorrow
- 2. Russian Sorrow (Cont.)
- 3. The Russian Church in New York
- 3. The Russian Church in New York (Cont.)
- 4. Americans in the Russian Church
- 4. Americans in the Russian Church (Cont.)

Public and Economic Notes

- Our Trans-Atlantic Friends
- Our Trans-Atlantic Friends (Cont.)
- 2. Emigration
- 2. Emigration (Cont.)
- 3. A Land Flowing With Milk and Honey

- 3. A Land Flowing With Milk and Honey (Cont.)

- American Agriculture

- American Agriculture (Cont.)

- Tanner or the Fasting Doctor

- Tanner or the Fasting Doctor (Cont.)

- The Passion for Competitions

- The Passion for Competitions (Cont.)

- On the Ocean Shore

- On the Ocean Shore. (Cont.)

The Presidential Campaign of 1880

- 1. Opening of the Campaign
- 1. Opening of the Campaign (Cont.)
- The Democrats
- The Greenbackers and the Ladies
- The Greenbackers and the Ladies (Cont.)
- On the Field of Battle
- On the Field of Battle (Cont.)
- In the Democratic Camp
- In the Democratic Camp (Cont.)
- The Oddities of the Presidential Campaign

- The Oddities of the Presidential Campaign (Cont.)

- 7. The Decision of the People's Will

- 7. The Decision of the People's Will (Cont.)

On the Journey from America

- 1. Across the Ocean
- 1. Across the Ocean (Cont.)
- 2. From Bremen to St. Petersburg

Scripture Index

Colophon