"you are here at an opportune moment," said one of my st. petersburg friends, who had rendered me important services in my studies. "mikhailovski died suddenly, and will be buried to-morrow."
"mikhailovski?" i was almost ashamed to admit that i was entirely ignorant of the services of this man, and did not understand what interest his funeral could have for me. my friend had pronounced the name as if no tolerably well-educated person in all the wide world could have the least doubt as to its significance. i had to acknowledge again how little we, in the west, know of russian life. i am not of the people who have read least about russia, but mikhailovski's name was as unfamiliar to me as that of julius rodenberg to a chinaman.
my friend enlightened me. mikhailovski was the editor of the most widely read russian monthly, ruskoye bogatstvo (russian wealth), a sociologist, and the recognized intellectual leader of radical young russia. nowhere in the world do the weekly and monthly magazines play such a r?le in the[pg 134] intellectual life of a nation as in the great slavic empire. this may be accounted for, on the one hand, by the meagre development of the daily press, existing under strict censorship, and on the other by the high degree of scientific and practical development. the nation is still in a state of nature, and for such a nation there is really but one vocation—that of general education. this need of general culture is in accordance with the general modelling of russian social life. there is very extensive and fruitful social intercourse; visitors on estates remain for weeks. this requires a periodically renewed supply of topics for conversation. and, finally, the nation is in a state of high political tension. parliamentary debates wherein this political tension may be discharged are entirely lacking. thus there remains only the home-bred discussions, which, again, are fed only by the reviews. thus it happens that the weekly and monthly publications serve at once as books, newspapers, and parliaments, and that the greatest writers are enrolled either as contributors or editors on the staffs of the reviews. mikhailovski, however, was jointly with the writer korolenko the editor of the greatest radical monthly; a man who was the object of a reverence such as is only accorded in the west to a great orator or party leader.
"plehve is a lucky dog," continued my friend. "the outbreak of the war has forced the entire russian opposition camp into an armistice. it[pg 135] would be considered unpatriotic to create internal difficulties for the government, that needs all its power for an external conflict. it is at least intended to see whether there would be any new provocations on plehve's part before further steps are taken in the organization of the opposition. at any other time an occasion like mikhailovski's funeral would lead to great demonstrations and collisions with the cossacks. now it will only amount to expressions of devotion; and it is quite probable also that the police will avoid a collision. hence, you may take part without danger in a demonstration by intellectual st. petersburg, where, at any other time, you would be exposed at least to a few blows of the knout or a temporary arrest at the police station."
"why do you speak of the knout and the cossacks?" i asked. "are not the police sufficient to maintain order?"
"they are not sufficient in mass-demonstrations, especially where these are participated in by the student body. formerly use was made of the "dvorniks" (janitors) and butchers' clerks to bring the students to reason. but that is no longer practicable. the "dvorniks" and butchers' clerks have hesitated of late to come out against the students. they have discovered that these persons really take their lives in their hands for the people's sake, and, therefore, are no longer willing to do the jailer's work. and so the cossacks must hold forth; and they know no pity."
[pg 136]
we therefore agreed to meet in front of the deceased publicist's house. such a russian funeral is a full day's work. it begins early in the forenoon, and it is dark when you return home. in front of mikhailovski's house i saw korolenko—a still robust man, with very curly gray hair and beard—and almost all the master-minds of the intellectual life of st. petersburg. even the recently retired minister, s?nger, showed himself. many a man was named to me with great reverence. the foreign public knows not one of them, and so i may forego the repetition of their names. it should be mentioned here, however, that in russia a distinguished man tries to show his distinction by his dress and appearance, as far as possible. here an original way of dressing the hair is one of the marks of distinction, and so one sees many striking heads. there is no getting along without some posing. i noticed, too, that scarcely one of the forty or fifty men i had become acquainted with was absent from the funeral. now, these forty or fifty persons belong to most widely different social and political groups, so that the radical publicist could not have possibly had the same significance for each of them. but every one was present and was noticed. in fact, every new appearance was noted by the crowd. most of them knew one another. the loose but yet effective organization of opposition in russia had never been so clear to me as now. the unwritten public opinion, i had frequently noted,[pg 137] orders every intellectual to take part in this mute demonstration against the régime; and this dictation is more readily submitted to than the legitimate one. i do not believe our newspapers in the west could even approximately replace this intimate contact established day by day among these thousands in a manner mysterious to me. it is as if st. petersburg were fermented by some medium in which every impulse is propagated with furious speed. and people have an incredible amount of time for politics in st. petersburg. people in russia have in general more time than we hurrying westerners can conceive.
the coffin was carried from the house, where a religious service had already taken place, to the church across the street, and there a new service was begun. the church was so quickly filled that hundreds had to remain outside. but i was advised by my companion to go to the cemetery; for the funeral proper takes place only there, and it is of importance to secure a good place. we attended to various matters in the city, and reached, after more than a half-hour's ride in the sleigh, the cemetery where rest the city's celebrities. names are again mentioned to me with respect and reverence. what an unsubstantial thing is fame, after all. the few sounds that fill one with awe fall on the unheeding ear of another. another sphere, and nothing remains of the words that are esteemed in the first.
[pg 138]
we stamp through the snow along the narrow paths between the gravestones towards the spot where the deceased is to find his last resting-place. a densely packed multitude is already pushing towards the newly dug grave. near-by a mausoleum, with open portico, is already entirely occupied by women. we attempt to find a place there. we are met by hostile glances. then one of the ladies approaches me and says something in russian, which, of course, i do not understand. i express my regrets in german and french. she now excuses herself, declaring that she had made a mistake. a word from my companion, and the excitement is at once allayed.
"it was nothing," he explained to me. "they did not know whether you were a spy or a foreigner. they know it now, and are no longer uneasy. people know one another in this circle. but you are an entirely new person that must first be classified." evidently my companion played a prominent part in this society without statutes, for a place was made for me with the greatest readiness; so that i found myself among none but celebrities, whose names were mentioned by the young ladies standing near in respectful whispers. they were mostly writers, scholars, and professors; among them was also the author of a work on siberia, which i had read with horror years ago. he had already spent twelve years of his life in exile, and now he was again exposing himself to oppression by the[pg 139] authorities. although the police were still out of sight, it would have hardly been advisable for a spy to appear here. among the thousands of men, women, and girls who were already densely crowded about the grave, there was not a single person that was not acquainted with at least a part of those present. suddenly there was a commotion in the crowd. a name is mentioned and repeated resentfully. suvorin. who is suvorin? the editor of the novoye vremya. he was supposedly seen by some one. what impudence! where is he? he shall at once leave the cemetery! but it was only a false alarm. suvorin would not dare to come here; and why not? i inquire about the nature of his paper. is it a libre parole or intransigeant? is it nationalistic or clerical? an old gentleman who hears my question replies, turning towards me: "no-ism, scoundrelism." i see how the word is winged and is approvingly repeated in a widening circle. yes, the most widely circulated sheet in russia, which enjoys government patronage and the best and most authentic news from all the departments, is branded here with the deepest contempt by the flower of russian intelligence as a well-poisoner, a worthless cynic. russia is surely a remarkable land, it does not grant a license for baseness even to anti-semitism. the hours follow one another. the snow under our feet had turned to water, and then again to ice, but it is no longer possible to leave one's place. we are ranged[pg 140] shoulder to shoulder, the men scarcely able to make room enough for the women to keep them from being crushed against the trees and gravestones. an elderly woman, with remarkably delicate features, and wrapped in a thin cloak, is standing quite near me. she has been here since ten o'clock this morning—that is, more than four hours. i feel almost ashamed of my fur coat and my felt overshoes when i see that bit of intelligent poverty standing near me. my neighbor and myself succeed, without her noticing it, in placing her between our coats, so that she might feel somewhat warmer. and thus thousands of women and girls are standing, old and young, down to the unsophisticated school-girl, pretty and homely, all of them patient and orderly; and what impressed me especially was the absence of the least trace of flirting between the men and women students. all of them were possessed by one sentiment—by political passion and the yearning for freedom. i am not foolish enough to think that in russia erotic tendencies are eliminated in the intercourse between the youth of the opposite sexes, but nothing of it is noticeable here, and i must assume from this that frivolity and cynicism have no abode in this generation. all those who are standing here run the gantlet of imprisonment and deportation, and frivolous thoughts have no room here.
we hear, at last, the indistinct noise that heralds the approach of a great crowd of people. then[pg 141] the noise becomes more differentiated—it changes into song. it is the student body following the coffin with songs of mourning over the miles of road. they sing beautifully, in wonderful polyphonic choirs, do the russians; even envy must follow the song. they have a perfect ear. after the long waiting the final deliverance through its solemn notes affects the heart strangely. and now a new wave of approaching humanity. the impossible becomes possible, the students crowd past us and gather about the grave. the coffin is lifted over our heads and into the noose of the dull gravedigger. a moment of silence. then the pope reads a short prayer and gives a short funeral sermon on the departed brother in christ. then only does the funeral ceremony proper begin. the pope steps aside. a white-haired man, a university professor, whose name passes from mouth to mouth, extols the departed champion of freedom. he is followed by a poet speaking in swinging verse. then a woman. then a student. then a woman again, in irregular, improvised order. then my neighbor, the man from siberia, calls out to the students. then begins a song full of fervor and passion. then a woman speaks again, and after her a young girl. the police, hundreds of them, with many officers, are crowded quite into the background. it is better so. for of all the speeches i distinguished but one word, spoken in passionate tones, "svoboda! svoboda!" (liberty! liberty!). and, as if that[pg 142] word were a signal, it calls forth sighs and weeping and the gnashing of teeth. it is an indescribable drama, a terribly exciting scene. i cannot control myself, and cry out to my neighbor, "make the poor girl keep still," and i point towards the police, but i am not understood. they have all been seized by a religious fanaticism that makes martyrdom bliss. how truly lovable they are, these educated people that still have an ideal and are strange to the base satiety that so sadly deforms our western youth! and how the heart contracts at the thought that all this beautiful enthusiasm must vanish without result; that the longing and inspiration are helplessly shivered against the brutality of the cossacks and gendarmes!
we left the consecrated ground in a strange intoxication after a tiring struggle with the densely packed crowd that would move neither forward nor backward. "it is not the business of the police to maintain order, but only to keep people under surveillance." i have been astonished to this very day that no one was trampled to death in the crowd.
i heard a few days later that the statistician annenski, an old man of sixty-five, was arrested for having delivered one of those impassioned speeches at the grave. a number of men of irreproachable character, among them the historian who was the first speaker there, testified that annenski was not one of the speakers. i could have testified to that myself, for i stood among the speakers, and[pg 143] each one was named to me. but the police would not give up its victim. annenski was still in confinement when i left russia. now he is banished to reval for four years, because they had found in his house a few numbers of struve's periodical.
i, however, carried away with me from mikhailovski's grave the certainty that the coming generation is lost to the reaction. young russia, in so far as it possesses an academic education, is liberal, both the men and the women. and thus that funeral day was for me the most hopeful day that i had lived in russia.
