X SÄNGER'S FALL
The sudden dismissal of the minister of public instruction, the former university professor Sänger, led me to discuss it more exhaustively with several high dignitaries who willingly gave me information during my sojourn in St. Petersburg. I had the opportunity of conversing with persons exceptionally well-informed, but, for reasons easily conceivable, I am not permitted to mention their names. I report here, from my notes, an interview with a person standing near to the retired minister, and still in active government service, because it seems interesting to me even now.
"In the first place," said my informant, "you must not believe that Sänger was dismissed. He himself insisted that his resignation, repeatedly offered, be finally accepted. Scarcely two days ago the Czar asked a general, highly esteemed by him, who came here from Warsaw, where Sänger had formerly acted as curator of the university, as to his opinion of Sänger, and the general answered that he considered Sänger a very honest and learned man. 'I have just that opinion of him myself,' said the Czar, complainingly, 'but he positively would not remain.'"
"Why does your excellency believe that Sänger had become so tired of his position?"
"There are permanent and special reasons. The permanent ones are harder to explain than the special ones. I therefore begin with the more difficult. A minister of public instruction—'lucus a non lucendo'—has here a very difficult post when he is an honest man and really desires to live up to his duties. For what he is really asked to do is, that he do not enlighten the people, that he do nothing for education, that he merely pretend activity. We need no education; we need obedience. That, of course, is not said to the Czar, who really believes that he is being served honestly. But in the end it amounts to this, that only one man rules here, the minister of the interior and chief of the secret police, and that all the other ministers must dance to his music. I make exception here, to a certain extent, of the ministers of war and of finance. But if in any case there be a possibility of conflict between any other department and the omnipotent police ministry, that other department must subordinate itself to the rule of the latter. For von Plehve stands guard over the security of the empire. You understand that all other considerations are silenced here. The third division (the secret police) and the Holy Synod are the pillars of our empire. Of what importance is here an inoffensive minister of instruction, or culture, as he is called in your country?"
"I should be obliged to your excellency for concrete examples."
"Here they are. There was, for instance, General Wannowski, a really competent and influential man. While he was at the head of the department of instruction he could not be so easily turned down at the court as our ordinary university professor. Wannowski even effected some reforms in our universities, but finally he, too, found it desirable to retire from the field. Do you think it possible for a minister to remain in office when a regulation prepared by him, approved by the Czar, and made public, must next day be withdrawn because the minister of the interior states in a special report that this regulation is in opposition to the general government policy and is a danger to the security of the country?"
"And has that occurred?"
"Something of that kind was a secondary cause also of Sänger's resignation. As former curator of the University of Warsaw, he knew Poland well. With the Czar's approval, he framed a regulation for instruction in Poland that was pedagogically wise and politically conciliating. Instantly Plehve made objection—for a relief of the tension everywhere prevailing does not suit his system—and secured the withdrawal of the regulation."
"But could not Sänger defend his measures?"
"His position was already weakened. Above all, his enemies succeeded in placing him under suspicion as guilty of philo-Semitism. You know, or perhaps do not know, that it is also a part of the system here to keep the Jews—particularly the Jews—from higher education; and this higher education in itself runs contrary to the desire of the dictator-general of the Holy Synod and to that of the police. A minister of public instruction, particularly when he hails from the learned professions, may easily commit the error of making science readily accessible to all properly qualified. Sänger granted some alleviation to the Jews, so that the most gifted among them, especially when their academy professor had already taken a warm interest in them, could enter the university without great difficulty. He was reproached with that, and that would have been sufficient to weaken the position of a stronger man."
"I am not familiar with the disabilities of Jewish students."
"A detailed description of these disabilities would carry you too far afield. Suffice it to state that we possess a very complicated system, particularly developed in Moscow, for the exclusion of Jewish children from the schools. The ratio of three to one hundred must, however, be conveniently tolerated. Now it happens quite frequently that, no matter how strict the director at admission, on promotion from the lower to the higher class this relation is shifted in favor of the Jews, because of their diligence and sobriety in contrast to the characteristics of the sons of the Russian officials. Then the trouble begins anew. Splendidly qualified candidates cannot enter the university, since the prescribed percentage has already been reached. The professors, however, who are not pronounced anti-Semites really like these Jewish students who have survived this process of selection, for they are really studious. But that again is opposed to the principles of the accepted policy. And whoever is inclined to take sides with the professors rather than with the bulwarks of this general policy may easily find himself in the toils, as it happened, for instance, in Sänger's case."
"Who are these bulwarks of this general policy?" An involuntary glance towards the door, as if to see whether some uninvited listener was not accidentally near—a glance I have frequently seen only in Russia—was the first answer. Then, even in lower tones than before, he proceeded.
"That is still a portion of the legacy of Alexander III., rigidly guarded by the dowager-empress, and particularly by the Grand-Duke Sergius in Moscow. When in the Russo-Turkish war enormous peculations of the military stores were discovered, the heir to the throne, then commander of a corps in the reserve, was persuaded that the Jewish contractors had defrauded the army, and the officer of the secret police, Zhikharev, exerted himself to prove that two-thirds of all the revolutionaries were Jews. That belief remained, just as a great portion of the French still cling to the belief that Dreyfus is a traitor because he is used as a scapegoat for the information-mongers of high rank on the general staff. Something similar happened here. I really have no desire to defend any Jewish contractor; but when there was in our stores lime-dust instead of flour in the sacks, quite other people than the Jews pocketed the difference. However, that is another story. Grand-Duke Sergius, of Moscow, has among his other passions bigotry and a fanatical hatred of Jews. And he is the uncle and brother-in-law of the Czar."
"Then Sänger found himself in a rather dubious position mainly as a philo-Semite?"
"At least as a man of not sufficiently pronounced anti-Semitism. But also because he was not really the man to hold his own with the generals and talents of the career-maker von Plehve. Finally, he was blamed for adverse criticism of the general principles of the government expressed at various conventions."
"At what conventions?"
"There was lately a convention of public-school teachers that presumed to criticise by speaking the truth about an intimate of Plehve's, Pronin, of Kishinef. I must emphasize here, by-the-way, that there was only an insignificant minority of Jews at that convention. Then there was a medical congress whose hygienic resolutions hid under a very thin hygienic disguise an arraignment of the system of stupefying the populace. The Lord knows Sänger had surely no premonition of these occurrences. But they concerned his department; the spirit of his staff was not right, and he alone was to blame for it, especially since von Plehve knew very well what Sänger thought of him."
"Always Plehve, and only Plehve!"
"He is our little Metternich. A representative man, to quote Emerson. The régime cannot be discussed without the mention of his name. Here is another little sample of Plehve. There is a Professor Kuzmin-Karavayev at the academy of military and international law. He was elected member of the St. Petersburg city council, and is a member of the zemstvo of Tver, a highly respected, upright man, interested in popular education. But now he has been forbidden any public activity by the following letter of von Plehve. Plehve wrote to Kuropatkin, the minister of war: 'By virtue of the authority vested in me by the Emperor on January 8, 1904, I would simply dismiss Professor Kuzmin-Karavayev as politically inconvenient. But since he is in the government service I ask you to insist that the aforesaid professor renounce all public activity.' This is literally true. You see how the omnipotent Plehve treats even a favorite like Kuropatkin, to say nothing of a timid, good professor like our Sänger! You may rest assured that, with all his upright views, we lost little in his resignation; he was without influence and too weak."
"And who will succeed him?"
"That is quite immaterial. Major-General Shilder, superintendent of the cadet corps, has already been offered the position, but he declined it. As long as Plehve's spirit and that of his minions is sweeping over the waters nothing will happen save what favors the suppression of public enlightenment and the prevention of revolution. The name is but an empty sound."
"Your excellency, should I commit an indiscretion by publishing our conversation just as it took place?"
"With the necessary precaution of leaving out my name, for I naturally have no inclination to attract the especial anger of our dictator-general. For the rest, I do not believe I have told you anything that could not be said in almost the same words by any one at all familiar with conditions as they are."
"That, your excellency, I must confirm. One of the greatest riddles for me is the formation of a public opinion in St. Petersburg, where the papers dare not even hint of what is spoken in the circles of the intelligent classes."
"Russia also has its constitution," said he, rising, and smiling significantly. "That constitution consists of the dissensions among the ministers. And when among ourselves, a certain discretion assumed, we do not stand on ceremony. Here you have the sources of public opinion"—again the significant smile—"you will perhaps understand why no minister fares well."
"Hence also Plehve?"
(A motion of despairing defence.) "He? No! speaking seriously. It is the curse of our country. May the Lord save us!"
XI THE PEOPLE'S PALACE OF ST. PETERSBURG
(NARODNI DOM)
In Potemkin's fatherland the art of government consists principally in hiding the truth not only from the people, but also from the Czar, who must be made to believe that he really strives for the welfare of the people, and not only for that of the all-powerful bureaucracy. Potemkin's art, as is well known, consisted in deceitfully showing to his beloved Empress, in a long journey, prosperous peasant farms, where in reality wretchedness and misery had established their permanent home. What the all-powerful favorite had accomplished by means of pasteboard and bushes, costs the modern Potemkins somewhat more comfort; but like their predecessor, they are in a position to supply it from the richly filled imperial treasury. The "Narodni Dom," the people's institute on the St. Petersburg fortress, is utilized to persuade the philanthropic Nicholas that in his paternally governed empire more ample provision is made for the common people and their welfare than in the heartless, civilized Western countries.
To the eye of a well-meaning ruler or of a well-disposed globe-trotter this is really a pleasant sight. Framed in alleys of tall trees, there rises in the park a far-stretching stone structure, of St. Petersburg dimensions, surmounted by a great cupola. On the payment of ten kopeks at the entrance we walk into the well-heated central portion under the dome, brightly illuminated by arc-lamps. Furs and overshoes are removed. And now an exclamation of admiration escapes our lips. A well-dressed crowd strolls naturally, without crowding and elbowing, towards a platform rising at the farther end, on which, to judge at a distance, Neapolitan folk-singers are performing. We join the procession, and when scarcely in the middle of the immense hall supported by iron girders, there resound behind us thundering notes that cause us to look upward. An orchestra stationed on a one-story-high cross-gallery has begun a Russian popular song. The singers before us stop for a while. The crowd moves forward. A negro dandy with high, white standing collar and patent-leather boots, proudly leads by the arm a voluptuous blonde of the Orpheum type. He grimly shows his teeth and fists to the scoffers who make fun of the unequal pair; but this does not end in a race conflict, for it is not yet certain whether a negro boy is more in sympathy with the Japanese or the Russians. We finally reach the interesting side of the hall, and there opens before us a still more enchanting picture. Behind long buffet-tables, kept scrupulously clean, and laden with all the delicacies of Russian cookery, from caviar sandwiches to the splendid mayonnaise of salmon, there bustle neat waitresses in white caps and broad, white aprons. The prices are maintained low throughout. The same is true of the warm dishes, the preparation of which we could watch in the large, open kitchen. Spirituous liquors are not sold, but in their place kvass, and tea from the immense copper samovar blinking in the kitchen. The glasses are continually washed by sparkling water on an automatically turning high stand. The bright nickel, the reddish shimmer of the copper, the bluish white tiles of the floor and walls, the snow-white garments of the cooks, the white light of the arc-lamps could induce a Dutchman to produce a very effective painting of neatness. We allow ourselves to be crowded forward, and after a fruitful pilgrimage, pass the folk-singers, where a part of the crowd is gathered, back towards the central hall, which we now observe at our leisure. We are struck here, in the first place, by the colossal portraits of the Emperor and Empress. They are the hosts here; for the millions for the imposing structure came from the Emperor's private purse. Then there is an immense map of the Russian empire for stimulating patriotic sentiments. But there await us still other pleasures. The entire left wing of the building is occupied by an enormous popular theatre. To-night Tschaikowski's "Maid of Orleans" is being played. We purchase tickets at the popular price of one ruble per seat, whereby we secure a place at about the middle of the extensive parterre, and are enabled to look over the public in front and at back of us; and this is not less interesting than the play on the stage. The seats in the rows ahead of us cost up to two rubles; in the rows at the back of us up to sixty kopeks. On either side are galleries and standing room that cost "only" from thirty to seventy kopeks. In comparison with the prices in the other St. Petersburg theatres those of the "Narodni Dom" must be considered decidedly popular, even though it is a peculiar class of people that can spare thirty kopeks to two rubles for an evening at the theatre, quite aside from the incidental expenses of an evening drive, of admission, and of wardrobe. But of that later.
We follow the play. The performance is decidedly respectable, from the leader to the chorus. The setting is quite brilliant, and true to style, the orchestra well trained, with some very excellent performers among the soloists. We forget, for the time being, that we are in Russia, notwithstanding the Russian language and the Russian music. It is Schiller's heroic composition which has inspired the composer. Dunoi's Lahire, Lionel, Raymond, Bertram, Agnes Sorel, Charles, the cardinal appear before us in familiar scenes, and we experience at times quite peculiar sensations when we again come across this northern night, the images, the glowing rhetoric of which in the dear tongue of our own poet had given us the first intoxication of patriotic enthusiasm. The passionately warm music of Tschaikowski, and the swing of his choruses intensify the effect of those reminiscences.
But let us return to Russian reality. A thin, black-bearded young man paces busily through the rows during one of the entr'actes. He exchanges remarks here and there with the officers and officials, whom he leaves with a smile. And in the second entr'acte it becomes evident what preparations had been made here. War had just been declared; the password had just been given out to arouse patriotic enthusiasm, or, at least, to make the attempt. Already in one or another of the theatres the public had thunderingly called for the national hymn. What is proper in the Imperial Theatre must be acceptable in the popular theatre. The curtain had fallen after the second act, when suddenly, from one of the boxlike recesses on the left gallery was heard the call "Hymn! Hymn!" Everybody looked curiously up. There were there a few uniformed young men, as we found later, student-members of that patriotic secret association organized under the patronage of the reactionaries—a stroke of Suvorin—to watch the progressive students. The orchestra replied to the call with remarkable alacrity, and the public rose dutifully smiling and stood to the beautiful hymn. But new shouts were heard. The choir must join in. The curtain rose obediently, and the entire cast of "The Maid of Orleans," Charles, Agnes, Jean d'Arc, and Lionel, Burgundy and England; the people and knights were already properly grouped and joined in the hymn with the orchestra accompaniment. The public again arose politely and listened standing. The demonstration was not yet at an end. It was reported that the hymn was sung three times in the other theatres, hence that should occur also here. And the public patiently rises for the third time, and lets the song float over it. The thin, black-bearded young man, however, rubs his hands with which he joined in the applause but shortly before, throws a significant glance to his neighbors, and hastens out. I do not know to this day whether he was an entrepreneur of the public resort, or a penny-a-liner who had arranged an interesting piece of local news.
Thus I came to see the birth of one of those patriotic demonstrations of which the papers were full in the following days. The impression was anything but striking. The fine hand of the police could be detected in the arrangement as well as in the audience. It was a forced demonstration that no one could avoid. I remember from my boyhood the explosive enthusiasm after the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war, and the evening after the battle of Sedan. In man's estate I was a non-participating observer of patriotic demonstrations in Hungary; my heart beat fast at home as well as in Hungary under the stress of sympathy. That was a real storm of feeling. Here—wet straw that would not burn. Worse. An obedient participation—woe to him who did not participate! and then a sarcastic wink felt as a compensation for the coercion just experienced.
The difference was never clearer to me between free citizens and Russian subjects, between national sentiment and obedience, as at these patriotic demonstrations under police supervision and inspiration.
And now I looked at the public more carefully. Where was the "people" among the thousands sitting in the theatre, or eddying up and down the colossal halls? not one hundred, not fifty men or women in the dress of the common people. All of it what is known in St. Petersburg as the "gray public," officials, business-men, the class with an income of two or three thousand rubles. I saw high-school instructors, students with their girls, modistes, the good, small bourgeois, that often stand morally and mentally high above the fashionable world; but the people, in our sense of the term, the workingman, the peasant, for whom the popular house was really built, in whose name the Czar was made to contribute, and to whom the building is dedicated, these were absent, and had to be absent, because they do not possess the schooling that would enable them at all to enjoy the offerings of the "Narodni Dom." The court may be persuaded that with such an institution they are marching in the vanguard of civilization, and that something of the future state has been realized with an institution that even the republics of the West do not possess; but the Russian patriots who are indeed living for their nation, and who would free it from the fetters of ignorance and superstition, only shake their heads sadly at this Potemkinism. Sand for the eyes of the philanthropic Czar, another winter resort for the St. Petersburg middle class; for the people neither "panem" nor "circenses," but for the paid eulogists a theme at which enthusiasm may be kindled—that is the "Narodni Dom," the pride of St. Petersburg. In Zurich, in Frankfort, in any place with real popular education, this "Narodni Dom" would be an ideal people's house, adapted to inspire sentiment of citizenship and patriotism, and to elevate the general culture level. In St. Petersburg it only shows the good intentions of the Czar and his consort, and the fundamental corruption of the régime. A sober, enlightened, culture-loving people would not submit to the autocracy of bureaucratic dictation shown above. It makes ideal "people's houses," but takes care that as far as possible, this house be kept free from the people.
XII RUSSIA'S FINANCIAL FUTURE
I had a long and exhaustive conversation about the material welfare of the Russian people with a statesman to whose identity I am not at liberty to furnish even the slightest clew, if I am faithfully to carry out my promise to guard against his recognition as my informant. They were several hours of searching criticism, such as I had never listened to, from a man who through long years had himself been active in a prominent position, an outpouring quite permeated by the most hopeless pessimism, and stated with a passion that contrasted oddly with the gray hair and deeply furrowed face of the speaker. My references to him were of such a nature that he felt it safe to allow himself the most uncompromising plainness of statement. But I carried away the impression that it would be sufficient to give the Russian statesmen the possibility to speak freely, and there would be left no stone unturned in that wicked structure that is called "the Russian government," so great is already the accumulation of bitter anger even among those of whom it would be supposed that they are the real leaders of the state. The autocracy cannot even utilize the forces that are at its disposal.
"Yes, fate is cruelly upsetting all our calculations with this war," said the statesman, in answer to my question as to the probable effect of the war on the Russian economy. "No one even suspects what catastrophe we are facing, thanks to the policy that is just now celebrating its greatest triumph."
"Is not that a paradox, your excellency?"
"No, not at all. The triumph of our policy is the money reserve at our disposal, which enables us to mobilize without borrowing. But only nearsightedness can find therein additional justification of this economic policy, which, on the contrary, receives with its triumph also its death-blow."
"May I have a fuller explanation?"
"It may be easily given. Financial and fiscal considerations have destroyed our economy. You are surprised at this statement. But one must understand this system. The creation of a gold-reserve, the formation of a fiscal balance even at the expense of the internal forces of the nation, are, under certain conditions a necessity. For a backward agrarian state it is necessary, before all else, to join the more advanced countries in fiscal economy and guaranteed values, and if that requires sacrifices, it pays, in the end, in the greater credit facilities, I might say by the greater financial defense of the state."
"And your excellency believes that the internal development of the nation was thereby neglected, just as an athlete develops the muscles of his limbs at the expense of his heart muscles?"
"Certainly; I accept the analogy. We have increased our fighting efficiency, and have paid for it by internal weakening. I repeat that there was no other way, if we ever were to pass from the natural to the money system. This would be the right time to employ the credit thus secured for internal strengthening. But the war has upset our calculations and not only has it consumed our cash reserves, but will also compel us to make new sacrifices. We are in the position of a man who is still out of breath from running, but must begin running anew in order to save his life, and may only too easily get a stroke of apoplexy."
"Has not the industrial development in the western part of the country strengthened the national finances?"
"No; on the contrary, it has involved sacrifices. And we cannot expect salvation from these either. We have a yearly increase of two million souls, and our entire industry does not employ more than two million workmen. Our national existence must still depend for a long time on our agriculture, and this, so far from advancing, is becoming poorer from year to year."
"On account of the industrial policy?"
"No; but you should not forget that this industrial policy has by no means mastered the system. Nay, had the spirit whence our industrial policy originated been the ruling spirit, our agriculture would also have been in a better position; for that is the spirit of enlightenment. But now the strength of the soil is decreasing; and the peasant has no manure, nor is he acquainted with any system of cropping under changed conditions of fertility."
"And why is nothing done for the uplifting of his economic insight?"
"You must ask that of the gentlemen of the almighty police and not of me. I am of the humble opinion that hunger is beneficial neither to the soul nor to the body; but in that department where there is more power than in ours, it is believed that knowledge is under all conditions injurious to the soul. Also, that too many people should not come together and take counsel of one another; in the opinion of our government, no good can come of it. We had appointed commissions for the uplifting of the peasantry, for road-construction, for the regulation of questions of credit; but always the results were only conflicts between the provincial corporations, the zemstvos, and the government."
"What was the cause of these conflicts?"
"The tradition and the guiding principle of the present system, which I can only designate as the principle of gagging. An administration that does not oppress the peasantry is not yet to be thought of. Our peasant needs nothing so much as travelling agricultural teachers. But what would be the end of such teaching? To Siberia direct. Fear of the intelligent classes has already become a mania. Intelligence, if it pleases you, is revolution; only no contact with Liberal elements. The salvation of our people lies in its isolation."
"But that is the régime of a conquered country! Are not the rulers themselves Russians? How can they be so cruel to their own flesh?"
"The police official is no Russian. He is quite free from national sentiment; he is only an oppressor, a detective. Our ministry of the interior is merely a great detective bureau, a monstrous and costly surveillance institution. When the notorious 'third division' was abolished and subordinated to the ministry of the interior it was considered a step in advance. But it was not the ministry of the interior that absorbed the 'third division,' but the reverse. We no longer have administration, but only surveillance, arrest, deportation. Shall I tell you? Our commission worked honestly. It consisted of noblemen, high-minded patriots, who took part in working out a project for the improvement of economic conditions. Only three hundred copies of the report were printed; it was not meant for general circulation. But the result of the labors undertaken at our instance was the arrest of the outspoken, upright critics. Do you consider that an encouragement for patriotic endeavor? Our merchants and our zemstvos have opened, in the last six years, one hundred and thirty-six schools without one kopek of state aid, and with a yearly expenditure of four million rubles. The instinct for what is necessary is therefore present. Our society should only be let alone and we also might go through the same development, perhaps in a slower measure, which Germany has passed through with such momentous success in the last thirty years—from an agricultural state dependent on the weather to a mighty industrial country. But Germany is a constitutional state and we are a police state. Germany has a middle class; we have none, and the formation of such a class is prevented by every possible means. The commercial schools are subjected to annoying conditions because they are under the jurisdiction of the ministry of finance, where, naturally, a different spirit prevails. The commercial guilds are making enormous material sacrifices, spending annually, besides the four millions for maintenance, five additional millions on buildings, only to retain their autonomy, to keep in their own hands the staffs of instruction and inspection, and to possess a greater elasticity of adaptation to local conditions. This sacrifice is overlooked, and the slightest exhibition of free initiative is jealously suppressed."
"Your excellency, I find that one cannot discuss the least question of pedagogy or economics in Russia without touching high politics."
"Very true. You may see from that to what a pass we have come. We have been going backward uninterruptedly for the last twenty years. The nobility is losing its estates because it has not learned to manage them, and has not recovered to this very day from the abolition of serfdom. But the land does not fall into the hands of the peasants, who need it, but into those of the merchants. The agricultural proletariat remains unprovided for. The peasant cannot raise the taxes. The soil here gives fourfold returns; in Germany eightfold returns. It pays at the same time, this side of the Dnieper, ten to fifteen per cent. annually for tenure; in England two to three per cent.; in France and Germany four to five per cent.; and on the other side of the Dnieper, where long tenures are in vogue, five to six per cent. Remember that this is a yearly tenure. It is a premium on soil robbery. Sixty rubles for the tenure of one desyatin. The peasant cannot raise that amount, and yet he is compelled at the same time to pay taxes. Year after year hunger visits entire governments, for the peasants are utterly impoverished and have not even seed. With an empty stomach and a dark mind the peasant must bear family, communal, and government burdens."
"I read something similar two years ago in a book by an Englishman."
"You mean The Russian Conditions, by Lanin, from the Fortnightly Review."
"Quite right, your excellency. But I considered the description overdrawn. Moreover, I cannot conceive how abuses could be so clearly painted as in that book, the statements of which your excellency now confirms, without any prospects of redress."
"Who is to give redress?"
"The Czar."
"The Czar is living behind a Wall of China. He has never visited a 'duma' (city council), never a zemstvo (district council), never a village, never an industrial centre. He is kept by the camarilla in constant dread, and is so closely watched that he sees not a finger's-breadth of heaven, much less of earth. He rejoices when an occasional quarrel breaks out among the ministers, for he then has the opportunity to learn here and there a fragment of truth."
"And does no one succeed in representing to him conditions as they are?"
"I will make a confession to you. Not very long ago I myself prepared a paper, not bearing my name—that would have offered certain difficulties—but anonymous, and had it transmitted to the Czar by a trustworthy person. For eight days there was great joy at the court. The Emperor and the Empress were delighted to know where the trouble lay and how it was to be remedied. Then the whole matter, as it were, vanished and was forgotten."
"Then that already is pathological."
A shrug of the shoulders was his answer. "Above all things there is the great anxiety and fear at the responsibility. There is also a weakness on account of conscientious scruples. The Emperor knows nothing thoroughly enough to enable him to overcome the arguments of a skilled sophist, and he is too indulgent to say to one of his counsellors, 'Sir, you are a cheat.' He hears in the reports only praise of somebody, never any censure. For he has a great dread of intrigue, and not without good reason. The atmosphere is a fearful one in the vicinity of every autocrat. The Czar is pathetically well-meaning, and is modesty itself, but he is not the autocrat for an autocracy, who must be equal to his task."
"And what, in your excellency's opinion, should be done to help the country?"
"No more than the rest of the world has already accomplished. Abolition of the police system, security of personal freedom, abolition of the censorship, discontinuance of the persecution of sectarians, who are our best subjects, and—I say the word quietly—a constitution."
"And would the country really be helped thereby?"
"Unconditionally. With these little concessions to-day any political convulsion could be avoided, and the intelligent class freed from its fetters. No one knows what will be offered ten years from now."
"Are there prospects of this concession?"
"Not the slightest. On the contrary, whoever falls under the suspicion of unconditional approval of the present system may be morally destroyed at any time."
"What will then be the end?"
"That the terror from above will awaken the terror from below, that peasant revolts will break out—even now the police must be augmented in the interior—and assassination will increase."
"And is there no possibility of organizing the revolution so that it shall not rage senselessly?"
"Impossible. Our rural nobleman is, to be sure, not a junker; but the strength of the régime consists in the exclusion of any understanding between the land-owners and the peasants because of the social and intellectual chasm between them."
"Your excellency, I remember a saying of Strousberg's, who was a good business man, 'There is nowhere a hole where there once was land.' One learns to doubt that here in Russia. There is not one with whom I have spoken who would fail to paint the future of this country in the darkest colors. Can there be no change of the fatal policy that is ruining the country?"
"Not before a great general catastrophe. When we shall be compelled, for the first time, partly to repudiate our debts—and that may happen sooner than we now believe—on that day, being no longer able to pay our old debts with new ones—for we shall no longer be able to conceal our internal bankruptcy from foreign countries and from the Emperor—steps will be taken, perhaps, towards a general convention. No sooner."
"Is there no mistake possible here?"
"Martin Luther hesitated as long as he had not seen the pope, no longer after that. Whoever, like myself, has known the state kitchen for the last twenty-five years, doubts no longer. The autocracy is not equal to the problems of a modern great power, and it would be against all historical precedents to assume that it would voluntarily yield without external pressure to a constitutional form of government."
"We must wish, then, for Russia's sake, that the catastrophe come as quickly as possible?"
"I repeat to you that it is perhaps nearer than we all think or are willing to admit. That is the hope; that is our secret consolation."
Such was the substance of my long interview with one of the best judges of present-day Russia, from which I have omitted only those places and versions which would render their author easily recognizable. For the rest, I must say here that, with slight variations, the statements of all the other competent persons whom I had the opportunity to meet agreed with those of my present informant. The unwritten public opinion of Russia is absolutely of the same mind in its judgment of existing conditions; it differs only as to the remedies.
"We are near to collapse—an athlete with great muscles and perhaps incurable heart weakness," repeated the statesman at parting. "We still maintain ourselves upright by stimulants, by loans, which, like all stimulants, only help to ruin the system more quickly. With that we are a rich country with all conceivable natural resources, simply ill-governed and prevented from unlocking its resources. But is this the first time that quacks have ruined a Hercules that has fallen into their hands? Whoever shall free us from these quacks will be our benefactor. We need light and air, and we shall then surprise the world by our abilities and achievements."
XIII THE RUSSIAN FINANCES
It was shortly after the Port Arthur naval catastrophe that I sought out a bank director, with whom I had become acquainted, to talk with him upon the financial effects of the war, that had had such noteworthy results on the floors of European exchanges. To my astonishment, I found the comfortable bank director very calm.
"The system will still help us out," said he, evasively, to my question whether Russia would have to face a financial crisis after the war.
"What system?" said I.
The bank director adjusted his eye-glasses and, with round eyes, gazed at me for a while. Then, with that burst of candor which so often surprises us in the Russians, he began:
"We are not children, after all, and neither you nor I is dancing to the government music to which others are keeping time. We may, therefore, talk it over calmly. Well, we have a great drum, with which there can be no marching out of line. It drums. We have never as yet stopped our payments, like France, Austria, or Turkey. We are, therefore, punctual payers, hence we shall again secure money."
"Is this a serious argument?" I asked.
"God forbid!" was the answer. "We have paid to secure future credit. But it seems that this policy of honest debtor is wiser than the occasional discontinuance of payment, which allows some advance but involves the loss of credit. We can always repeat to the public that wishes to buy our bonds, 'Russia is honest; Russia pays; you need have no fear here of shrinkage.' And so the public buys."
"But the banker must know that the liberality is not real," I rejoined.
"And if he does know it? Is it the banker's business to initiate the public into the secret sciences? Do not forget that no government pays to the world such commissions for loans as we do. Prussia pays one-half per cent., Austria one and a half per cent., we pay three per cent.; and, confidentially, it does not end with that, but the issuing banks also get their six per cent., especially when they appear reluctant at first. For what reason should a commission of three to six per cent. be paid where the business is as bad as it is? It was Offenheim who said, 'You don't build railroads by moral maxims.' And high finance says that dividends and bonuses are not paid with moral maxims."
"According to my perhaps unbusiness-like opinion, this is not much better than stealing."
"Very unbusiness-like, indeed, my friend. The banking world needs no Nietzsche to stand on the other side of good and evil. Ethics, like religion, is only for the masses. Just calculate what a commission of three to six per cent. means on a loan of five hundred to a thousand million rubles that we shall surely need in this war. Let us say only three per cent., officially. That means thirty millions—more than sixty million marks. Do you then think that the banks belong to the Salvation Army, to imagine that they should renounce such a transaction?"
"Slowly, slowly. You said at first that Russia will need in this war about a milliard rubles. That would be contrary to what I have heard from other very reliable sources—namely, that the cash reserve is supposedly equal to about a milliard rubles."
"I will bet you that in three months we shall not have left a single kopek of this milliard, assuming that it exists. In agreement with military experts, who, between ourselves, are not at all optimistic, I estimate the duration of this war at twelve to eighteen months at least. With our management, every month costs us at least a hundred million rubles. Thus you see that a milliard will not be sufficient."
"Well, let us say that the banks cannot reject the business, still they must, in the first place, dispose of the securities, which will not be so easy, since the French are thoroughly satiated with the bonds, and, as the fall in the rate of exchange has recently shown, confidence in these bonds is no longer any too great."
"They may drop still further," said the banker, smiling. "The fall in the rate of exchange would have been still worse had not our banks received a strict order not to turn over the deposited bonds to their owners during these days of convulsion."
"How? I do not understand this. The issue of the deposited securities to their owners is delayed?"
"Yes, my friend, that is being done. You again do me the honor to forget in my office that we are in Russia. Even worse things are done here. At the order of the minister of finance, the owners of the bonds who wish to withdraw their deposits are given only a few hundreds or thousands of rubles for the most pressing needs, but they do not get their bonds. This is in order to prevent, by all means, the bonds being thrown on the market and thus increasing the panic."
"But that can be done only here. You have no such power abroad."
"Well, the first alarm did cost a respectable sum. Then the foreign bondholders came to the rescue and intervened for their own interest. The price of the bonds was maintained, especially in Germany."
"Why particularly in Germany?"
"Because it fluctuates less in France. There it is in the hands of small investors who do not run to the treasury at the first opportunity. It is not as strongly intrenched in Germany, and must be supported there."
"Very well, then, you support my reasoning, and you say that the bond values are maintained artificially alone. How can you say, then, that they may be augmented at will by new issues?"
"I say that, because the buyers are an amorphous mass that crystallizes just as little as a combination of producers is met by a combination of consumers. The masses may be frightened for a while, but in the long run they are irresistibly led to spoliation by the great combinations of capital, and the act of creating current opinion is well known in high financial circles."
"You forget the independent press."
The banker made a very peculiar grimace. Then he said: "That is not nice of you. I am speaking to you as if to a member of the profession—like one augur to another. And when we come to speak of your own profession, you turn out to be a simpleton. How can you speak of an independent press, when under the pressure of the high finance of the Russian and German governments?"
"You will pardon me. I honor your uprightness equally with that of the greatest of my profession. But I must stop at that. Newspapers are still guided by morality. And I am willing to bet anything that among our German papers only a vanishing fraction is susceptible to the arguments of Witte and his associates."
"And what becomes, then, of the millions that our ministry of finance is spending to secure good will in the papers towards our finances?"
"I do not want to suspect any one; but the German papers that I know well are incorruptible."
"Well, let us say that the radical or socialistic press is inaccessible, and cannot be bought either by our ministry of finance or by the German bank combinations. There still remains the influence of the German government, that has its reasons for not allowing the weakening of Russia to too great an extent. For this is still the keystone of the conservative system in Europe, and this influence suffices to keep the unfriendly critics of our financial conditions from all the leading German papers. That is not even an official favor. I consider it quite logical for serious papers not to play mean tricks on their foreign office. But as to the other, the extremely radical writings, they have no significance for the financial world; and you will not doubt, at this day, that Germany is doing her best to keep us in good humor."
"Yes, I see with shame and resentment how the German government has been transformed into something akin to a Russian police ally, with the blessing of Count Bülow."
"Who surely knows what he is doing."
"Perhaps I myself do not believe that Germany has reason to seek Russian security, even though there be certain limits even for friendly services; which limits have long been passed, to the detriment of the dignity of the German empire."
"I am also willing to believe all that you have told me about the influence of the high finance, the Russian noble, and German diplomacy. Yet I cannot conceive how the mass of investors—and after all it is they who are to be considered—will permanently pay a much higher price for securities than corresponds to their intrinsic value, as is the case with the Russian securities, according to the information given me by Russian statesmen."
"Permanently? Some day it will stop. But when? Even the autocracy or the social structure will not maintain itself permanently. But meanwhile there is no power on earth to prevent the great banking institutions from earning thirty million rubles or more, when there is a chance. There will be a great bargaining, especially since the French government will exert itself strenuously to prevent future issue of Russian bonds; for every new issue depresses the value of former issues, and in these a great portion of the French national wealth is invested. In the end, however, German influence will prevail. Germany will advance us the new funds, because Germany wishes to render us a service; for Germany feels itself from day to day more and more isolated in Europe, and we are still not to be despised, either as friends or enemies, in spite of Port Arthur. Hence the German investor must help out; and, after all, he is not making a bad transaction when he buys a four-per-cent. bond at let us say ninety."
"How so?"
"Well, the bank interest is now three per cent. When four rubles are paid on an investment of ninety rubles having a par value of one hundred rubles, then the valuation of Russian government securities is not quite seventy. And that may continue for a long time."
"Do you consider that the real, intrinsic value?"
"The stock exchange knows no intrinsic value. It only knows tendencies. One hundred rubles' worth of Russian government securities can always be disposed of at seventy, if all the strings do not break."
"You are evading me. I asked for your personal opinion on the intrinsic value of the Russian bonds."
"I will give you an answer. As long as our Russian peasant is able to starve and to sell his grain, as long as there are gendarmes to aid the tax-collector, and people who are willing to make further loans to us, so long is the payment of coupons assured. Beyond that the foreign bondholder has no right to inquire."
"Please tell me whether in your opinion there is a hidden deficit in the Russian budget, or whether there is none."
"I am telling you that as long as there are people who are willing to make further loans to us we shall pay the interest. Were our budget a real one, we should not need to contract new debts in order to pay the interest on the old ones."
"That is what I wanted to know. And do you consider Russia a really insolvent country, that cannot really pay its debts, and cannot bear the burdens of modern national life?"
"On the contrary, Russia is intrinsically so rich a land in uncovered treasures that it only needs another and a just régime to pay its debts and to assume still further burdens."
"And this other régime?"
The banker pointed to the east. "Our future is being decided there. If it goes hard with us there, it may become better here more quickly than is suspected."
"Hence, worse for the bankers," said I, jokingly.
"People accustom themselves to honesty when there is no other way," answered the banker, also jokingly. "And when universal honesty comes into vogue, it will no longer be a shame to be honest."
With this I parted from the banker, whose pleasing cynicism always amused me, the more so since I recognized in him the essence of sterling, honorable views. Later interviews with other members of the financial world showed me that my first informant conveyed the generally accepted opinion. Isolated Germany will, for political reasons, and as a favor to the Russian régime, support Russian credit; the great German banks will not renounce the splendid loan-issuing business; and the German investor will permit the imposition upon him of the Russian bonds. "Sheep must be shorn," coolly said one of the brokers to me, when I expressed a doubt that the German imperial government would pay for its political business with the hard-earned pennies of its investors. Your Bismarck did not hesitate for a moment to throw Russian values into the street, and to destroy thereby milliards of German property, when it suited his political convenience. Your present government will not be at all embarrassed in sacrificing again milliards of German property to place us under obligation. And, finally, no one is compelled to it. Whoever is not able to figure sufficiently to see how Wishnegradski prepared the balances to deceive the eye had better keep his money in his stocking and not buy securities. If he does buy them, let him bleed. Another explained, however: "The Germans will buy our bonds. When no other bait is attractive there is still one left to us. When the landowner sells his crops, and is thinking of investing his proceeds, the banker will say to him, 'How about a little of the Russian securities?' 'But those are supposed to be insecure,' answers the good fellow. 'The idea! This is only a Jewish trick. Probably on account of Kishinef.' And the good fellow will hand over his shekels, for he cannot be fooled about Kishinef."
XIV A FUNERAL
"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 rôle in the 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 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."
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, Sänger, 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, 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.
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 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 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 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 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 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.