Should some one assert that there is a great artist in a European capital, honored by an entire nation as its very greatest master, yet, nevertheless, not even known by name among the great European public, we should shake our heads unbelievingly, for such a phenomenon is impossible in our age of railroads and printer's-ink. And yet this assertion would be literally true. There is such a great artist living in a city of a million inhabitants, and recognized by millions, yet of his works even art-students outside of Russia have seen but one or two. To make this even more incomprehensible, it should be stated that this artist had attained renown in his country not merely a few years ago, but has created masterpiece after masterpiece for more than thirty years; indeed, his first picture at the world's fair in Vienna in 1873 was generally recognized as startling. Nevertheless, the name of the master has long been forgotten on our side of the Vistula; it may be because no one found it to his interest to advertise him and thus to create competition for others, but more probably because Russia is a separate world and isolates itself from the rest of Europe with almost barbaric insolence.
There is, however, some advantage for Russia in this isolation from the "rotten West." They are not obliged to pass through all the various phases of our so-called art movement, and therefore are not carried from one extreme to the other, but calmly pursue their own quiet way. They also had the good-fortune, while the rest of Europe was in a state of conflict over unfruitful theories, to possess really great creative artists, always the best antidote against doctrinarianism. When the one-sided, methodically proletarian naturalism reigned in the West, itself a protest against the shallow idealistic formalism of the preceding decades, Russian literature possessed its greatest realistic poets, Tolstoï, Turgenyev, Dostoyevski, who never overlooked the inner process, the true themes of poetical creation, for the sake of outward appearances, and have thereby created that incomparable, physiological realism that we still lack. And because their great realists were poets, great poets and geniuses, they felt no need of a new drawing-room art, which of necessity goes to the other extreme, the romantic, aristocratic, catholic. They had no Zola, and therefore they needed no Maeterlinck. And it was exactly so with their painting. Their great artists did not lose themselves, like Manet and his school, in problems purely of light and air without poetical contents; hence to rediscover poetry and to save it for art there was no need for Preraphaelites or Decadents. The great painter is artist, man, and poet, a phenomenon like Leo Tolstoï, therefore the few symbolists who believe they must imitate European fashions make no headway against them.
Imitators can only exist among imitators, by the side of nature's imitators, imitators of Raphael's predecessors.
A single true artist frightens away all the ghosts of the night, and thus decadence plays an insignificant rôle alongside of Tolstoï and Ryepin, whether it be the decadent literature of Huysmans and Maeterlinck, or the decadence of the Neoromanticists and of the Neoidealists.
It is time, however, to speak of the artist himself, an artist of sixty, still in the fulness of power, who, besides wielding the brush, occupies a professor's chair at the St. Petersburg Academy. I have just called him professor. He is more than that, he is, like Leo Tolstoï, a revolutionist, the terrible accuser of the two diabolical forces that keep the nation in its course, the church and the despotism of government. But, to the honor of the Russian dynasty be it said, this artist, acknowledged to be the greatest of his country, was never "induced" to cast aside the criticism of the prevailing system he made by his painting and to engage in the decorative court art. His so-called nihilist pictures, reproduction of which has been prohibited by the police, are for the most part in the possession of grand-dukes, and, notwithstanding his undisguised opinions, he was intrusted with the painting of the imperial council representing the Czar in the midst of his councillors. The czars have always been more liberal than their administrators. Nicholas I. prized Gogol's "Revizor" above all else, and Nicholas II. is the greatest admirer of Tolstoï. And so Ryepin may paint whatever and however he will. And we shall see that he makes proper use of this opportunity. He is Russian, and nothing but Russian. At twenty-two he received for his work, "The Awakening of Jairus's Little Daughter," an academic prize and a travelling fellowship for a number of years. But before the expiration of the appointed time spent by him in Berlin and Paris he returned to Russia, and produced in 1873 his "Burlaks" (barge-towers), which attracted great attention at the Vienna exposition. The thirty years that have passed since then have detracted nothing from the painting. How far surpassed do Manet's "revolutionizing" works already appear to us, and still how indelibly fresh these "barge-towers." That is so. The reason is simple—it is no painting of theory but of nature represented as the individual sees it, the masterly impression of an artist, the most concentrated effect of landscape, light, and action. The purely technical problem is subordinated to the whole, to the unity of action and mood, solved naturally and easily. The problem of the artist to tell us what we cannot forget, to give us something of his soul, his sentiments, his thoughts, is of first importance, just as geniuses of all ages cared less to be thought masters of technique than to win friends, fellow-thinkers, and comrades, to share their joys and feelings. From the purely technical stand-point, where is there a painting that presents in a more masterly manner the glimmer of sunlight on the surface of a broad stream—as in this case—and where, nevertheless, the landscape is treated merely as the background? And again, where is the action of twelve men wearily plodding onward, drawing with rhythmic step the boat against the stream, seized more forcibly, more suggestively than in this plaintive song of the Russian people's soul?
The youth of barely twenty-four years had at one leap placed himself at the head of all contemporary artists. Analogies between him and the artistic career and method of Leo Tolstoï force themselves on us again and again. Tolstoï's Sketches from the Caucasus, Sevastopol, Cossacks, are his early works, yet they are the most wonderful that the entire prose of all literature can show. And so it is in this lifelike picture of a twenty-four-year-old youth. Had we no other work of his than the "Barge-towers," we should yet see in him a great master. It is but necessary to look at the feet of these twelve wretched toilers to realize with wonder the characterization, the full measure of which is given only to genius. How they strain against the ground and almost dig into the rock! How the bodies are bent forward in the broad belt that holds the tow-line! What an old, sad melody is this to which these bare-footed men keep step as they struggle up along the stream? In all his barefoot stories of the ancient sorrow of the steppe children, Gorki has not painted with greater insight. A sorrowful picture for all its sunshine, and the more sorrowful because no tendency is made evident. It means seeing, seeing with the eyes and with the heart, and, therefore, it is art.
It would be wrong, however, to say that Ryepin—in his works as a whole if not in a given instance—has introduced a "tendency" in his choice of solely sorrowful subjects. Such is not the case. There is nothing more exuberant, more convulsing than his large painting, "Cossacks Preparing a Humorous Reply to a Threatening Letter of Mohammed III." The answer could not have been very respectful. That may be seen from the sarcastic expression of the intelligent scribe as well as from the effect that his wit has on the martial environment. A be-mustached old fellow in a white lamb-skin cap holds his big belly for laughing; another almost falls over backward, his bald pate quite jumping out of the canvas. One snaps his fingers; another, old and toothless, grins with joy; a third pounds with clinched fist on the almost bare back of his neighbor; another shuts his right eye as if perceiving a doubtful odor; one with a great tooth-gap shouts aloud, while others smile in quiet joy through the smoke of their short pipes. All these are crowded around a primitive wooden table scarcely a metre wide; twenty figures, a natural group, one head hiding another, and with all you have an unobstructed view of the camp lying bright in the sunshine and dust and full of horses and men. The effect of the picture is so overpowering that at the mere recollection of it you can scarcely refrain from joining in the hearty laughter of these sturdy, untutored natures. In the entire range of modern painting there is no other picture so full of the strong joy of living.
"The Village Procession," preserved in the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow—the finest collection of the master's works—is not gloomy like the mournful song of the "Barge-towers," nor exuberant with serf arrogance and vitality like the Cossack camp, but a fragment of the colorless Russian national life as it really is, a sorrowful human document for the thoughtful observer alone. Tattered muzhiks in fur coats are carrying on poles a heavy sacred image, and behind them crowds the village populace with flags and crucifixes. I will not again emphasize how masterfully everything is noted here, from the gold border of the sacred image to the last bit of dusty sunshine on the village street. Absolute mastery is self-evident in Ryepin's work. We are again attracted in this picture by the great intensity of mood. What harmony there is in it—the mounted gendarme who pitilessly strikes with his knout into the peasant group to make room for the priests and the local officials; the half-idiotic, greasy sexton; the well-fed, bearded priest; the crowd of the abandoned, the crippled, and the maimed, the brutalized peasants, the old women. A long procession of folly, brutality, official darkness, ignorance; a chapter from the might of darkness; the crucifix misused as an aid to the knout, a symbol of the Russian régime that could not be held up to scorn more passionately by any demagogue; and yet only a street-scene which would hardly strike the Moscow merchant when strolling in the gallery of a Sunday, because of its freedom from any "tendency."
Then comes a work of an entirely different character, a tragedy of Shakespearean force, a painting that is red on red. Ivan the Terrible holds in his arms the son he has just stricken to death with his heavy staff. It is a horrible scene from which one turns because of the almost unbearable misery depicted there, and yet you return to it again and again. So great is the conception, so wonderful the insight, so incomparable the technique. The madman, whom a nation of slaves endures as its master, is at last overtaken by Nemesis, and he is truly an object for pity as he crouches on the ground with the body of his dying son in his arms. He would stanch the blood that is streaming from the gaping wound to the red carpet. He kisses the hair where but a moment before his club had struck. The tears flow from his horrified eyes, and their terror is augmented, for at this last and perhaps first caress of the terrible father a happy smile plays on the face of the dying son. He had killed his son! Nothing can save him! He the Czar of Moscow, the master of the Kremlin, can do nothing. He draws his son to himself, presses him to his breast, to his lips. What had he done in his anger, that anger so often a source of joy to him when he struck others less near to him and for which he had been lauded by his servile courtiers, since the Czar must be stern, a terrible and unrelenting master?
Shakespeare has nothing more thrilling than this single work, its effect so tragic because the artist has succeeded in awakening our pity for this fiend, pity which is the deliverance from hatred and resentment. The pity that seizes us is identical with the awe of the deepest faith, the feeling of Christian forgiveness. We can have no resentment towards this sorrow-crushed old man with the torn, thin, white hair. And we can never quite forget the look in these glassy old eyes from which the bitter tears are gushing, the first that the monster had ever shed. And how the picture is painted, the red of the blood contrasting with the red of the Persian rug and the green-red of the tapestry. Nothing else is seen on the floor except an overturned chair. The figures of the father, and of the son raising himself for the last time, alone in all the vast space, hold the gaze of the spectator. With this painting hanging in the ruler's palace the death-sentence would never be signed again.
Still another ghastly picture shows that the artist, like all great masters, is not held back by affectation and feels equal to any emergency. It represents Sophia, the sister of Peter the Great, who from her prison is made to witness the hanging of her faithful "streltzy" (sharp-shooters) before her windows. It was a brotherly mark of consideration shown her by the Czar. The resemblance of the princess to her brother is striking; but the expression of pain, anger, and fear on the stony face turned green and yellow is really terrifying. But it is also characteristic of the great master to have chosen just that incident in the life of the great Czar.
In general it must be said that for a professor in the imperial academy the choice of historical subjects is curious enough. It certainly does not indicate loyalty.
I could not if I would discuss in detail the fruits of thirty years of the artist's activity. Besides, mere words cannot give an adequate idea of the beauty of his works. But there is one thing that may be accomplished by the description of his most important painting—namely, the refutation of the absurd notion that the artist and his art can become important only when they are entirely indifferent to the joys and sorrows of their fellow-men and concern solely the solution of artistic problems. The doctrine of art for art's sake has no more determined opponents than the great artists of our time, and among them also Ryepin in the front rank. He is willing to subscribe to it just as far as every artist must seek to influence only by means of his own peculiar art; yet he rejects the absurdity that it is immaterial for the greatness of the artist whether he depicts the essence of a great, rich, and deep mind or only that of a commonplace mind. According to him only a great man that is a warm-hearted, upright, and courageous man can become a great artist; and he regards it as the first duty of such to share the life of their fellow-men, to honor the man even in the humblest fellow-being, and to strengthen with all their might the call for freedom and humanity as long as it remains unheeded by the powerful. Just like Tolstoï, he has only a deep contempt for the exalted decadents who, with their exclusive and affected morality, would attack nations fighting for their freedom. Like every independent thinker, he is disgusted with the modern epidemic of individualism, and his sympathies belong to the progressive movement derided by the fools of fashion. To be sure, that does not make him greater as artist, for artistic greatness has absolutely nothing to do with party affiliations; neither does it make him less, for his artistic achievements are not at all lessened by his giving us sentiments as well as images. But if a humane, altruistic, cultured man who finds joy in progress stands ethically higher than the exclusive, narrow-minded reactionary or self-sufficient, surfeited decadent, then Ryepin is worth more than the idols of snobs. And not as man only; he also stands higher as artist, for he gives expression with at least the same mastery, and, in truth, with an incomparably greater mastery, to the ideals of a more noble, greater, and richer mind. The belief that participation in the struggles and movements of the day affects the artist unfavorably is ridiculed by him; the contrary is true in his case. It has given him an abundance of striking themes as well as the duel and nihilist cycles.
I will pass by the duel cycle culminating in the powerfully portrayed suffering of the repenting victor. For us the nihilist cycle is more interesting, more Russian. "Nihilist" is, by-the-way, an abominable name for those noble young men and women who, staking their lives, go out among the common people to redeem them from their greatest enemies—ignorance and immorality. The real nihilists in Russia are those of the government who are not held back even by murder when it is of service to the system, the cynics with the motto, "Après nous le déluge"; surely not these noble-hearted dreamers who throw down the gauntlet to the all-powerful Holy Synod and to the not less powerful holy knout.
At the time when the "well-disposed" portion of Russian society had turned away in honor from the Russian youth because a few fanatics had believed that they could more quickly attain their aims by the propaganda of action than by the fully as dangerous and difficult work among the people, Ryepin painted his cycle which explains why among the young people there were a few who resorted to murder. Who does not know from the Russian novels those meetings of youths who spent half the night at the steaming samovar discussing the liberation of the people and the struggle against despotism, in debates that have no other result than a heavy head and an indefinite desire for self-sacrifice? The cycle begins with such a discussion. Men and women students are gathered together, unmistakably Russian, all of them, Slavic types, the women with short hair, the men mostly bearded and with long hair. In the smoky room, imperfectly lighted by the lamp, they are listening to a fiery young orator. We find this young man again as village teacher in the second picture. He had gone among the people. In one of the following pictures he has already been informed against, and the police search through his books and find forbidden literature. The police spy and informer, who triumphantly brings the package to light, is pictured to his very finger-tips as the gentleman that he is. In still another picture the young martyr is already sitting between gendarmes on his way to Siberia; and in the last he returns home old and broken, recognized with difficulty by his family, whom he surprises in the simple room. One may see this cycle in the Tretyakov Gallery, and copies of it in the possession of a few private individuals, persons in high authority, who are above fear of the police; and one is reminded of the saying so often heard in Russia, "We are governed by the scoundrels, and our upright men are languishing in the prisons." The nihilist has the features of Dostoyevski who was so broken in Siberia that he thanked the Czar, on his return, for his well-deserved punishment, and who had become a mystic and a reactionary. In another picture a young nihilist on his way to the scaffold is being offered the consolation of religion by the priest, but he harshly motions him back.
All these pictures are homely in their treatment. The poverty of the interior, the inspired faces of the noble dreamers, and the brutal and stupid faces of the authorities speak for themselves clearly enough, and no theatrical effects of composition are necessary to impart the proper mood to the observer. On the contrary, it is just this discretion, the almost Uhde-like simplicity that is so effective. Yet Pobydonostzev and Plehve will scarcely thank the artist for these works that for generations will awaken hatred against the system among all better-informed young men. However, their reproduction is prohibited.
On the other hand, the drawings which Ryepin made for popular Russian literature are circulated by hundreds of thousands among the people. It is an undertaking initiated by Leo Tolstoï with the aid of several philanthropists, for combating bad popular literature. It is under the excellent management of Gorbunov in Moscow. There are annually placed among the people about two millions of books, ranging in price from one to twenty kopeks. It may be taken for granted that the men who enjoy Tolstoï's confidence will not be a party to barbarism. The foremost artists supply the sketches for the title-pages, among them Ryepin, the fiery Tolstoïan. Ryepin's admiration for the great poet of the Russian soil is also evident from his numerous pictures of Tolstoï. He has painted the saint of Yasnaya Polyana at least a dozen times—at his working-table; in the park reclining under a tree and reading after his swim; a bare-footed disciple of Kneipp; or following the plough, with flowing beard, his powerful hand resting on the plough-handle. All are masterly portraits, and, above all things, they reflect the all-embracing kindness that shines in the blue eyes of the poet—eyes that one can never forget when their kindly light has once shone upon him.
Public opinion in Russia has been particularly engrossed with a recent picture which furnishes much food for reflection. Two young people, a student clad in the Russian student uniform and a young gentlewoman with hat and muff, step out hand-in-hand from a rock right into the raging sea. What is the meaning of it? The triumphant young faces, the outstretched arms of the student exclude the thought of suicide. It has been suggested that it is an illustration of the Russian saying, "To the courageous the sea is only knee-deep." But in that case it would mean, "Have courage, young people; do not fear the conflict; for you the sea is only knee-deep." But it could also be interpreted, "Madmen, what are you doing? Do you not see that this is the terrible, relentless sea into which you would step?" In that case it would be a warning intended for the Russian youth, revolutionary throughout, who would dare anything. This much is certain: the greatest Russian painter, and one of the greatest of contemporary painters, is on the side of these young people, and his heart is with them even though he may doubt, as many another, the success of the heroic self-sacrifice. The noble ideals of youth cannot conquer this sea of ignorance and slave-misery. Great and immeasurable as is the Russian nation, nothing can help the country. It must and will collapse within itself, and then will come the hour of release for all, whether noble or poor, to whom the Ryepins and the Leo Tolstoïs have dedicated their incomparably great works. Perhaps this hour is nearer than is suspected. Russian soil is already groaning under the March storms which precede every spring.
The curious conception of Tolstoï's as to the severing and injurious influence of art that does not strive directly to make people more noble, can perhaps be understood only when the collections in the St. Petersburg Hermitage and Alexander Museum are examined. Striking proof will there be found that the enjoyment of art—nay, the understanding of it—need not necessarily go hand-in-hand with humane and moral sentiments. Antiquity and the Renaissance prove that, under certain conditions, inhumanity and scandalous immorality can harmonize very well with the understanding of art, or with, at least, a great readiness to make sacrifices for the sake of it. The inference that the greater refinement of the taste for art is the cause of moral degeneration is not far from the truth. It is quite conceivable from the stand-point of an essentially revolutionary philosophy, framed for the struggle against the demoralizing, violent government of St. Petersburg, since everything that is apparently entitled to respect in this St. Petersburg is unveiled and damned in its nothingness. Thus it is with science—that is to say, a university that does not begin its work by denouncing a despotism only seemingly favorable to civilization; so it is with a fancy for art, which possibly may convince czars and their servants that they also have contributed their mite towards the welfare of mankind.
The stranger who does not see things with the eyes of the passionate philanthropist and patriot, and who when gazing at the master-works of art, does not necessarily think of the depravity of the gatherers of these works, is surely permitted to disregard the association of ideas between art and morality, and to give himself over unconstrainedly to the enjoyment of collections that can hold their own with the best museums of the world. To be sure, Catherine II. was not an exemplary empress or woman, yet by her purchases for the Hermitage she rendered a real service to her country, a service that will ultimately plead for her at the judgment-seat of the world's history. Alexander III. and his house were misfortunes for his country, but the museum that bears his name will keep alive his memory and will cast light of forgiveness on a soul enshrouded in darkness. Besides, it has nowhere been shown that without the diversion of expensive tastes for art, slovenly empresses would have been less slovenly or dull despots less violent. But in the Hermitage one may forget for a couple of hours that he is in the capital of the most unfortunate and the most wretchedly governed of all countries.
On the whole, it is impossible to give in a mere description an adequate conception of the great mass of masterpieces here gathered together. I shall attempt, in the following, to seize only a few meagre rays of the brightest solitaires.
Borne by the one-story high—entirely too high—naked Atlas of polished black granite, there rises the side roof of the Hermitage over a terrace of the "millionnaya" (millionaires' street). We enter the dark, high entrance-hall, from which a high marble staircase, between polished walls, leads to a pillared hall, already seen from below. The attendants, in scarlet uniforms, jokingly known at the court as "lobsters," officiously relieve us of our fur coats, and we hasten into the long ground floor, where await us the world-famous antiquities from Kertch, in the Crimea. Unfortunately, there awaits us also a sad disappointment. The high walls are so dark, even in the middle of the gray winter day, that the beauty of the many charming miniatures must be surmised rather than felt. We could see scarcely anything of the great collection of vases. We breathe with relief when we at last enter a hall that has light and air, now richly rewarded for our Tantalus-like sufferings in the preceding rooms. Here glitter the gold laurel and acorn crowns that once adorned proud Greek foreheads; there sparkles the gold-braided border with which the Greek woman trimmed her garments, representing in miniature relief lions' and rams' heads. The gold bracelets and necklaces, ear-rings and brooches tell us that there is nothing new under the sun. Before the birth of Christ there were worn in Chersonesus the same patterns that are now designed anew by diligent artistic craftsmen—nay, even vases and tumblers, the creations of the most modern individualities, had already lain buried under the rubbish of thousands of years. Our attention is drawn to a vase in a separate case, which gives an excellent representation of the progress of a bride's toilet from the bath to its finishing touches ready for the bridegroom's reception. Who knows what scene of domestic happiness was involved in the presentation of this gift thousands of years ago! Sensations which one experiences only in the streets and houses of Pompeii are renewed here while looking at the glass cases with their collections of ornaments and of articles of utility that tell us of the refined pleasures and the exquisite taste of times long gone by. The waves of the Black Sea played about Greek patrician houses where to-day the rugged Cossack rides with the knout in his hand. A great hall shows us finally the Olympian Zeus with the eagles at his feet, also with the soaring Nike in his right hand. Klinger's "Beethoven" reminds us involuntarily of this lofty work without attaining its majesty. A torch-bearer, a mighty caryatid of Praxiteles with a truly wonderful draping of the garments, a Dionysus of the fourth century, an Omphale clad in the attributes of Hercules, sarcophagi with masterly reliefs, a divine Augustus, portrait busts of satyrs, entitle this collection to rank with that of the Vatican, not in numbers, but in the great worth of single works. But our wonder and admiration become greater when we enter the splendid halls of the picture-gallery. We hasten past Canova and Houdon, however; the graceful figures of the one and the characteristic "Voltaire" of the other had attracted us at other times. On to Murillo, Rembrandt, Rubens, Titian, to be presented to us in unusual completeness. Twenty-two Murillos, the finest of them carried away by the French from Madrid, wrapped around flag-staffs. I must confess that I had not hitherto fully comprehended Murillo's fame, for I am not acquainted with the Spanish galleries. It was only in St. Petersburg that the full greatness of the master dawned upon me. No description can give an adequate idea of the charm of the Virgin Mother in the two gray-walled pictures of "The Conception" and "The Assumption." What distinguishes it from the famous Louvre picture is, above all, the childlike expression of the sweet girl's head. A Mignon as Mary! The dark eyes looking up to heaven with such inspired enthusiasm; the full cheeks delicately tinted; the light garment of the maiden, almost a child, enfolding it chastely; the entire figure, to the blue, loosely fluttering cloak bathed in light; the cupids crowding about the knees and carrying her heavenward; sweet rogues on the cloud wall, a part still in the light radiated by her, and a part already immersed in the deep darkness of space—the whole sublime, as on the first day of creation, no note failing in the Spaniard's full glow of color.
No less splendid and inspired is "Repose During the Flight to Egypt," where the mother of the Lord again awakens the most fervent sensations. She is no longer the half-childlike virgin of the Conception and the Assumption; she is the mother, tenderly and rapturously gazing at the sleeping child surrounded by a halo of heavenly light. Angels crowd forward in naïve curiosity; the saintly Joseph looks with emotion on the contented infant; the thick foliage gives to the entire group shade and coolness. Even the ass looks comfortable and pious. The color and composition are entirely beyond comparison.
A painting brimful of roguishness is "Jacob's Ladder," where angels ascending and descending, making up the dreams of the sleeper, amuse themselves in most innocent fashion. Well known is the charming Christ-Child in the painting of "St. Joseph," and the charming little "John" often fondly painted by him, his arms entwined about his lambkin. Hardy peasant types are not wanting; and that the inspiration of the great Spaniard may not exceed all bounds, there are a few pictures which, with all their artistic excellence make us realize what a chasm separates us from the passionate Catholic Murillo. We believe that full artistic justice may be done to the poetry of Biblical legend without being obliged to glorify a Peter Aubry. However, other lands, other customs!
Of Velasquez's work there should be mentioned, in the first place, his paintings of Philip IV. and the Duke of Olivarez, both of striking characterization in their grotesque ugliness—the master will survive even the one-sided and exclusive cult of which he has been made the victim. We will not set our minds against Velasquez's or Leonardo's "Mona Lisa" just because they are to be found in all the exercises of enraptured modern goslings.
I will not say anything about the "Madonna Conestabile," the "St. George," and the wonderful "Madonna Alba" of Raphael, for I consider it entirely superfluous to combat the affected underestimates of the master of Urbino, which is insisted upon as a matter of party obligation by every imitator of fashion. If Herr Muther prescribes the Botticelli cult for the last years of one century, the rediscovery of the joyous Andrea del Sarto for the first years of a new century, he will, if we live to see the day, prescribe for the century noonday the return to the master of perfection, Raffaelo Sanzio, as the inevitable requirement of fashion, and his disciples will add here their solemn amen. But the eternal masters are above the gossip of salons and fashions.
Sebastiano del Piombo is represented here by a most extraordinary "Descent from the Cross," Correggio by the "Madonna del Latte," Leonardo da Vinci by the light blonde "Madonna Litta," which, like all the works of this master, is questioned, but which bears his imprint as much as any of his works. Of Botticelli there is a very well-preserved "Adoration of the Magi," similar to the Florentine painting. Likewise, here in all the minor figures of the kneeling kings and shepherds, and even of the horses, there is a perfection in the mastery of drawing, the Madonna archaically overslender, with the thin neck of the Primitivists, which, out of respect for sacred tradition, the otherwise bold master did not dare meddle with. Naturally, the modern art mockery sees in this defect of Botticelli's, accounted for by respect for tradition, his chief superiority, and goes into affected raptures at the sensitive figures of his "Primavera," and imitates the studied gestures of those foolish airs which our higher bourgeoisie affect in order to resemble the decadent nobility. But Botticelli really deserves a better fate than to be the fashion painter of the snobs.
Bronzino's picture of a young woman, with quite modern bronze-colored hair and exceptionally small hands, might well be substituted, if fashion chose, for "Mona Lisa" in the modern feuilletons. A Renaissance could easily dedicate a piquant novel to her dreamy, roguish eyes, her soft chin, and her sensual mouth, which would not be contradicted by the rich pearl ornaments in her hair and ears. There is a Judith by the highly beloved master Giorgione, which is far superior in the majesty of her bearing and the beauty of her head to her sisters of earlier and later times. By the side of this noble and historical figure the other Judith, the creation of the wanton and diseased fancy of Klimt—the otherwise prominent but misguided master—appears absolutely odious.
A crown of shining jewels is the Titian room, with the Christ, the Cardinal Pallavicini, the Danaë, the Venus, Magdalene, and the Duchess of Urbino. It is a small cabinet, scarcely measuring five square metres, in which is gathered more shining beauty than in many an entire museum. Prominent, however, is the fair daughter of Parma, forerunner of the "Mona Vanna," as Venus dressed, or rather undressed, naked, in a velvet cloak that kindly fulfils its duty only from the hips downward. The goddess gazes at herself in a mirror held by a cupid, while another chubby little fellow is trying to place a crown on her head. She deserves it, this prize of beauty. There radiates from her eyes, her mouth, her shoulders, arms, and hands a splendor such as even this prince but seldom gave to his creations. The curves of the breast, only half covered by the left hand, the navel, and the hips are as soft as if painted with a caressing brush. The heavy velvet cloak intensifies even the remarkable brightness of the body. The Danaë, languidly outstretched on the cushions of her luxurious couch, shuddering under the golden harvest that falls into her lap, is much superior to her rivals in Naples and Vienna. It is the only original that does not disappoint the expectations created by the widely distributed reproductions, for it also is perfectly preserved. The line of the back from the shoulder to the bent knee of the resting young body is of a unique softness; the transition from the thigh to hip is like velvet in the softness of the body; the feet and toes are of classic beauty. The Magdalene again is all feeling. The tears flowing from her eyes, reddened by sorrow, are as real as her contrition; the heavy braids, pressed with the right hand to the full bosom, enable us to understand her sins; but the penitential garment and the desert, where we find her alone with a human skull, compel us to believe in her repentance. The artist's model was, as in the similar work in Florence, his daughter Lavinia.
The school of Leonardo da Vinci is not as well represented; but mention should be made here of "St. Catherine of Luini," if only for the sake of the saint herself, that is fashioned after the same model as "St. Anne," by Leonardo. Somewhat better represented is the Venetian school with a few Tintorettos and Paolo Veroneses. Of the later Italians, we find especially of note, "Mary in the Sewing-School," "St. Joseph with the Christ-Child," and "Cleopatra," by Guido Reni.
But the pride of the collection is the Rembrandt gallery. The so-called "Mother of Rembrandt" is somewhat inferior to the incomparable Vienna painting. But, on the other hand, there are among the thirty-nine authentic works of the master such gems as the "Descent from the Cross," with its singular lights and shadows, and "David and Absalom," with astonishing boldness of sketching and wonderful softness of coloring. But far beyond the technique we are struck in this picture by the almost tragic power of expression. It is the moment of conciliation between father and son. How the young prince with luxurious hair hides his trembling hand on his father's breast; how the father, who very strangely has the features of the master himself, draws to his breast the newly found son, and breathes to Jehovah a prayer for blessing. It is treated with such overpowering mastery as dwells only in the greatest scenes of fatherly passion in all literature and art. The second treatment of the same theme, "The Prodigal Son," is transplanted from the princely to the common. The returning son is not a prince; the father is not a be-turbaned sultan; but the intensity of the embrace is the same; the same thrill comes to us out of this as out of the brilliant "Absalom" picture, the two songs of the forgiving father's love. The counterpart of these two is the painting of the great father's sorrow that seizes the old Jacob when his sons bring to him the bloody garment of his beloved Joseph. The terror and amazement of the patriarch, distinctly marked in the hands of the sage uplifted as if warding off a blow, are strongly impressed on the mind of the beholder. The famous "Sacrifice of Isaac" is to me of slighter value than the preceding, notwithstanding all the dramatic force of the moment depicted. It is really too difficult for us to look into the soul of an old fanatic who is ready to slay his own son at the command of God; yet the foreshortening of the recumbent Isaac, and the angel sweeping down on him like a tempest, to seize just at the right moment the hand of the old man, are brought out again with really wanton mastery. The so-called Danaë is not to every one's taste, its universal fame notwithstanding. Bode takes it as Sarah, the daughter of Raguel, awaiting her betrothed. Its meaning might well be a subject of discussion. The old woman who draws back the heavy drapery over the couch, with the honest match-maker's joy on her face and the purse in her hand, indicates a mythological incident and not the legitimate joys of Sarah. On the other hand, there is lacking here the indispensable golden shower by which the Danaë pictures are really characterized. Besides, the profile of the joyously surprised naked dame is not all antique. I take the liberty humbly to suggest that the young woman with the rather mature body is, to judge by the ornaments on her arms and in her hair, as well as by the attributes of her luxurious bed and the unceremoniousness with which she allows the light to play on her naked body through the open portières without making use of the cover lying near by, to be considered a professional beauty, who is receiving with more than open arms some very welcome and generous guest. When once freed from the not exactly pleasing impression which the fidgety impatience produces on the none too pretty face, we cannot but admire the play of light on the nude body. Nothing is flattered in this painting, and that makes more striking the indelible impression of the shimmering light in all the depressions and curves of the not especially attractive figure.
It would be much beyond the limits of the present sketch to mention even by name the works of the first rank in the Rembrandt gallery. Suffice it to state that there are among them a so-called Sobieski, the portrait of the calligrapher Coppenol, almost breathing before one's eyes, the "Parable of the Workmen in the Vineyard," "Abraham's Entertainment of the Angels," a "Holy Family" of such loveliness as can scarcely be accredited to the forceful realist, the "Workshop of Joseph," the "Incredulity of St. Thomas," full of restless movement, a splendid heroic "Pallas," portraits of men and women, all of them works of the first rank, gems in the art of all time. To say anything of the master himself is, thank Heaven, unnecessary. He has thus far escaped untouched from the constant revolution of values, the propelling force of which is usually unknown to its satellites. Of him alone can it be said, that even an approximate conception of the range of his mastery is impossible without familiarity with his paintings in the Hermitage.
Rubens, too, is represented here in all his astonishing versatility. I do not know what value is placed nowadays on this omniscience. Yet even the termagant tongue of impotency must become dumb before this splendid collection. Mythological and Biblical themes, portraits and landscapes, are almost throughout of equal perfection and beauty. His exuberant fancy is nowhere revealed to better advantage than in the fascinating sketches in which the Hermitage is so rich. They must be termed veritable orgies of the draughtsman and the colorist, and bear to a certain extent the imprint of perennial genius and happy inspiration, which the painting, often completed by his pupils, cannot quite show. But where the master's own hand has worked it has given life to the imperishable. If a prize were to be awarded to any one of the forty-seven masterpieces it would surely belong to the portrait of Helene Fourment, on which the artist worked with undivided love. The roguish beauty is painted life-size. She is standing in a flower-bedecked meadow, and in the background heavy clouds pass over the landscape. But they serve only to bring out in greater relief the delicate lace collar around the bare neck of the woman in a low-necked gown. She has on her blond, curly head a black, soft, Rembrandt hat, ornamented with feathers, and adorned with a violet-blue ribbon. Her heavy, black satin dress with the airy white lace sleeves shows the still youthful, slender figure in a swaying, graceful pose. The delicate hands are crossed over the waist. The right is holding, fanlike and with refined ease, a long, white heron's feather. The dress and ornaments, the ear-rings and the bejewelled brooch and chain, are treated with such care as was seldom shown by the busy master. The main charm of the painting lies, however, in the roguish, spirited face with the large, clever eyes and the smiling little mouth. The neck and bosom show, however, that the name Helene is not inappropriate.
Of the mythological pictures the "Drunken Silence," variations on which in the Munich Pinakothek are well enough known to make a more detailed description superfluous, is to my taste the most wonderful. But the St. Petersburg original is, if possible, even richer in its coloring, and the grotesque humor of the fine company is altogether irresistible. We also find an excellent variation in "The Pert Lover's Happy Moments," the brown shepherd attacking a young woman with the features of Helene Fourment. The liberation of Andromeda by the victorious Perseus is a work with all conceivable merits. The dead monster that had guarded the brilliantly beautiful maid lies outstretched with gaping jaws; the white-winged steed that had carried the victor is stamping the ground, but easily held in check by a little cupid. The victor, still in his glittering armor, with the gorgon shield in his left hand approaches the fair maid and softly touches her. Another little cupid has removed his helmet so that the emerging Fame may place the wreath on his locks. But the youth sees only the glorious beauty at whose draperies three or four little rogues are busily tugging to pull away from the white body even the last vestige of covering. Of the splendid composition, "Venus and Adonis," only the wonderful heads were drawn by the master; the rest was done in his studio, but it is quite respectable.
Of the religious works, the "Descent from the Cross" is akin to the famous painting in the Dome of Antwerp. The large painting, "Christ Visiting Simon the Pharisee," was completed with the aid of his pupils. The figures of Christ and of Magdalene, who is drying the feet of the Saviour with her hair, were drawn by the master himself. The head of the penitent is particularly striking. It has something leonine in it, and the fervor with which she seizes the foot and draws it to herself has also something of the passion that may have led to her sin.
Of Van Dyck, the cleverest and most prominent of Rubens's pupils, who aspired to aristocratic refinement—perhaps only to free himself from the overpowering influence of the robust genius of his teacher, perhaps also because of his inherently more tenacious nature—the Hermitage possesses the largest and most valuable collection. The "Holy Family" is still influenced by Rubens, although it is somewhat softer. It is a charming composition, full of peace and cheerfulness. Mary is sitting under a shady tree holding the Christ-Child, who is standing on her lap so that he may bend over to look at the dancing ring of little angels. St. Joseph is comfortably seated in the background. The play of the angels is unmistakably conceived after Rubens's festoon, and yet possesses great beauty of its own. In its color effects the picture is among the best. The artist is seen in complete self-dependence in the numerous portraits of his English period as well as in the cabinet piece of "The Snyder Family." The English impress us especially by the expression of self-conscious gentility, aristocratic exclusiveness, peculiar to themselves as well as to the master. We cannot escape the charm of these somewhat decadent faces, just as we would enjoy equally a Beethoven sonata and a Chopin nocturne. Without the exuberant imagination and the universality of his teacher, Van Dyck possesses, none the less, a personality of his own, shining with a light of its own; he is one of the psychologists among the painters.
Another psychologist, though not with delicate hands, but sturdy and creative, with exuberant genius, is Franz Hals, who is represented here by four strikingly lifelike portraits. Of him, too, nothing more need be said, though one may add he is a splendid fellow.
The Dutch miniature painters have here some dainty pieces. Of Van der Helst's we see his renowned "Introduction of the Bride," a scene from Dutch patrician life, with somewhat strongly exaggerated respectability and affluence. The bridegroom's parents, themselves still young, are seated on a garden terrace clad in their holiday attire, and with gloves in their hands; the youngest son, stylishly dressed, with a parrot in his hand, is looking with strained attention towards the bridal couple, who are ceremoniously ascending the terrace; two greyhounds by the side of the parents, a lap-dog by the bride's side, take part in the performance; and loudest of all is the parrot, whom the master is obliged to call to order by an indignant "Keep still!" Notwithstanding its size (it has a width of more than three metres), the picture is painted with a minuteness of detail, from the frills of the mother to the rustling silk of the bride's dress and the thin foliage of the poplars in the background of the garden, that would do honor to any miniature painter. To be sure, our impressionist creed of the present day does not allow the recognition of such painstaking elegance and neatness in the execution of details. However, doctrines pass away, but, thank Heaven, the pictures remain.
The numerous domestic genre pictures, Terborch's famous "Glass of Lemonade," Jan Steen's "Drunken Woman," held up to derision by her husband, and the "Visits of the Physician," who is feeling the pulse of a young woman, evidently embarrassed, while the doctor, with a significant smile, is exchanging remarks with an old woman, by Metzu, as well as certain physicians' examinations, by Gerhard Dou, that cannot further be described, are all notable, not only for the execution of the velvet and silk fabrics, of the glasses and the interiors, but even more for the unfailing firmness of characterization in movement and physiognomy. Certainly these are great painters, and their works are true cabinet-pieces. Composition must always swing between painstaking accuracy and bold impressionism. Yet nothing could be more foolish than the contempt for miniaturists in a period of impressionism and the contempt for impressionists in a period of painful detail. "In my Father's house are many mansions."
What shall we say of the works of Ostade, Teniers, Wouwerman, Pottes, and Ruysdael? The Hermitage not only contains an inexhaustible abundance of their productions, but includes their very best works. Potter has a wolf-hound and dairy farm, an animal group of the highest plasticity, and a quite modern transparency of atmosphere. Tenier has pieces that show him to have been not only a grotesque humorist but also a great landscape-painter; and of Ruysdael there are true pearls like the "Sand Road" and the "Bay Lake."
Rarities, valuable as such not alone to the art-lover, are the "Healing of the Blind," by Lucas van Leyden, the "Maid under the Apple-Tree," by Lucas Cranach, a triumphant Madonna, by Quentin Massys—faithful, honest works which the pious masters laid with devotion on the golden ground. No sensible person will deride them, for they are still governed in their conceptions by the carefully obeyed rules of symmetry. In the attachement there is such depth of characterization, such affection and warmth, that many a masterpiece must be placed much below them. For enthusiasm of conception and conscientious execution are, after all, of deciding moment in every unbiased judgment. But the technique belongs to the time and not to the individual.
The French of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries conclude the group. The Germans have never succeeded in placing themselves in a true relation to this art that is rhetorical and theatrical rather than really poetical. Yet we shall never be wanting in respect to others, especially to the masters Poussin and Claude Lorrain. The landscapes of a heroic-mythological character that represent them in the Hermitage are monuments of respectable ability.
Of real charm, however, are the piquant genre masters Fragonard and Watteau, who were held in such deep contempt in the virtuous years of the Revolution, that no one dared to pay even fifty francs for their frivolous paintings. They are represented by excellent pieces, as well as the more serious master Greuze, whose "Death of an Old Man" would do honor even to our good Knaus. Boucher and Lancret justly deserve our attention. But Marguerite Gerard, the sister-in law of Fragonard, and Jean B. Chardin, have quite inconspicuously realized a goodly portion of the impressionist programme without devoting themselves merely to problems of light and shade. The "Mother's Happiness" of the former does full justice to the charming scene and easily solves a problem in interiors. The same is true of Chardin's "Washerwomen." There is positively nothing new under the sun. It is only the one or the other side of the universal knowledge of the great masters acclaimed as an entirely new discovery. Then follow actions and reactions, and thus the so-called art history is formed, the rise and fall among a few high peaks and nothing more.
One day we found a whole row of rooms closed, just those that contained our favorites of the Rembrandt gallery. What was the cause of it? Preparations were being made for the Czar's dinner. A great court dinner is given every Friday in the splendid halls of the Hermitage, and suitable preparations are made on the previous day. Flowers are placed everywhere, dishes and silver are brought and kept under special watch. The Czar's table is placed in the large Italian hall; the courtier's tables in the adjoining halls. The conservatories and prominent artists have already petitioned for the abolition of this barbaric custom, for the vapors from the viands do not in any wise contribute to the preservation of the costly paintings. But how are exhortations of warning to reach the Czar's ear? They are derided by the servile courtiers, and held up to scorn as professional fancies of but little significance when compared with the wish of princes to dine among the finest works of art in the world. The consciousness that great works of art are merely kept in trust by their passing owners, kept for their true owner, progress-making humanity, has perhaps reached the better class, but has not been awakened in the autocracy, where even the conception of humanity has not yet been attained. They own pictures as they own crown jewels, and consider themselves at liberty to treat them as they please. But on such a matter the subject must remain silent; and he does. It is the environment that influences princes, whether for good or for evil. But the injury to a few paintings, however expensive, is not the worst that rests on the conscience of the ring in the Czar's court, just as the Hermitage is not the most objectionable feature of St. Petersburg. When the Russian empire shall have overcome the phase of barbarian mistrust for strangers and of oppressive police management, when it shall have really opened its gates, the Hermitage will become a true centre of attraction with few equals in the universe. Then will become common property those wonder works that to-day are still beyond the reach of common knowledge. In the Russia of to-day a treasury of culture like the Hermitage is almost an anachronism.
Before I report here a significant conversation I had with a prince, the friend and former confidant of the Czar, I would make an earnest appeal to the public opinion of Europe, for which these lines are intended. I have conversed with many men of the highest rank in Russia; I am indebted to them for most valuable information about the land of riddles, yet not a single interview was concluded without my informant asking me to withhold his name. Only the prince whose views I report here said to me, "If you need my name to prove the credibility of the most incredible things I had to tell you, you may use it without compunction. Possible suffering that may befall me because of this use of my name is of no consideration where the enlightenment of Europe is concerned." On mature deliberation I have preferred, however, not to mention his name here. I thus renounce the weight of a name of European repute and of unparalleled authority. Notwithstanding this, I still consider it necessary to ask public opinion of Europe to watch with redoubled care the fate of the few persons who have been my informants. It would not be right for me to suppress this report, for I should thus act in direct opposition to the wishes of the noble-minded prince. Neither could I disguise him entirely, since there are, after all, but few persons that could have made to me these disclosures on the helplessness of even the eminent patriots. And so I must resort to an appeal to the public opinion of Europe with proper caution. It can protect the prince. For with all their wickedness the Russian rulers still fear foreign public opinion. This and this alone has a certain influence on the Czar. Let it be exerted in behalf of a man of the greatest heroism, who makes appeal to it out of pure patriotism.
"Does your highness think," I asked, in the interview I am about to report here, "that the discontent everywhere noticeable in all classes of society is real and of political significance?"
"We must make distinctions," answered the prince; "of its reality there is no doubt. But if you ask whether I consider it politically fruitful, in the same sense that we may gain through this discontent some necessary change in the present régime, I must answer, unfortunately, no."
"Is this, then, only the chronic discontent present in western Europe as well as in Russia, or is it now acute?"
"It is acute. As you have justly observed, the West has its discontented element also; yet your Western discontent with all work of man may best be compared with that frame of mind prevalent in our country, even under a régime that is normal and well-intentioned, lacking only efficiency. The restlessness that you, as a stranger, have noted here is quite abnormal, and is due to the decided wickedness, not to say infamy, of the existing system."
"Then it is stronger than usual?"
"Incomparably stronger. No entertainment however harmless, no scientific congress, no meeting of any corporation can take place that will not end in a political demonstration. All the prisons are filled with most worthy people, deportations and banishments increase, yet other men and women press onward to martyrdom."
"I admire this spirit of sacrifice in your intelligent classes."
"That is the difference between to-day and a few years ago. Ten years ago our public opinion was weakened, resigned, crushed by the heavy hand of Alexander III. and the serpent wiles of Pobydonostzev. With the accession to the throne of the present Czar new hopes were awakened; but now, thanks to the executioners Sipyagin and Plehve, disappointment and exasperation have grown to such a vast extent that expression of them can no longer be repressed, and thousands risk life and liberty unable longer to bear this condition of grinding inward revolt."
"I witnessed the funeral of Mikhailovski. I must say that my ear detected revolutionary tones, and such a procession of five or six thousand men and women from among the highest classes, surrounded by Cossacks, among a listening police, singing songs, making fiery, freedom-breathing speeches, impressed me of all things as a foreboding of revolution.
"Arrests in plenty were made among the participants in the funeral celebration. But do not deceive yourself. There is no revolution with us. Our country is too thinly populated. Let us say that ten, fifty, or one hundred thousand inspired intellectuals would willingly sacrifice themselves if they could help us thereby; how many Cossacks and gendarmes would there be for each revolutionist, when we are spending millions to maintain an army against the nation? There is only one revolution that can be really dangerous, and I will not assert that such a revolution could not break out if the present war should end disastrously. That would be a peasant revolution, directed, not against the régime itself, but against all property-owning and educated persons; it would begin by all of us being killed and thrown into the river. And the odds would be a hundred to one then that the police would not be actively against this revolution, but secretly would be for it, in order to rid themselves quickly and surely of their real antagonist, the educated classes. A Kishinef may be arranged here at any day, not only against the Jews, but against every one with whom the police wish to get even."
"Then your highness believes that the Kishinef massacres were arranged by the police?"
"This is not a mere belief; it is a proved fact. Their real authors, Krushevan and Pronin, are the special protégés of Plehve; and Baron Levendahl received a direct order from the higher authorities to refrain from any intervention."
"And what was the purpose of it?"
"To intimidate the Jews, who, by their temperament, bring a little more life to the radical parties, and to create the impression in the higher circles that there is discontent in the country, not against the government, but against the usurious Jews."
"And is not that true?"
"Usury with us is carried on by good, orthodox Christians much more successfully than by the Jews, who are comparatively few in number, and, besides, do not enjoy the protection of the authorities. No; the mob massacres the Jews because in the name of the Czar they are proclaimed outlaws. It is a kind of annual picnic. The Kishinef massacres are condemned by the whole country, not only by the philo-Semites—to whom, by-the-way, I do not belong. It has showed to all of us what may be done in our land when an assumed purpose requires it. And for this reason the entire public opinion takes sides with the Jews, who were merely intended to serve as scapegoats for the educated and the discontented."
"But in what respect is the present régime so essentially different from the preceding ones that such a fermentation could arise? Surely the people have not been spoiled by anything better?"
"Now it is worse than ever before. There is perhaps an explanation for this. Czar Nicholas is inspired by the best of motives. He is the first of the malcontents. He would give his heart's blood to help his people. The clique knows that, and is, therefore, risking everything on one card, to prevent the Czar from drawing nearer to the people or creating institutions that would put an end to bureaucratic omnipotence. The terrors of revolution are painted on the wall, and the daily arrests are intended to prove that it is only the mailed fist of the present government that can curb a popular uprising."
"I know from sources near the Czar's family that the Czar is again finding threatening letters in his coat-pockets, under his pillow, and elsewhere."
"This is an old police trick. It was used to frighten Alexander III., and it almost drove him insane. Naturally, it is only the police that can carry out such devices, for others could not reach the Czar's room. But Plehve retains his ascendency through the illusion that his dismissal would mean the way to the scaffold for the Czar's family."
"Has the Czar really anything to fear should the police relax its vigilance?"
"Heaven forbid! The Czar is a sort of deity to the people, and the educated classes know only too well that no man is less responsible for existing conditions than he, in whose name these conditions are inflicted upon us. But the Czar is made to believe that every attempt to free public opinion from its fetters would lead to popular representation, to a constitution, and finally to the scaffold."
"And all that is done by Plehve?"
"By him alone. His predecessor, Sipyagin, was an honest, narrow reactionary, who regarded the state as the private property of the dynasty, something like a great estate with property in souls as well as in inanimate things. The nation has no more right to complain against the impositions of the master than the cattle on the estate to complain about the methods of feeding. Plehve is of an entirely different caliber. A political cheat, an intriguer, an unscrupulous cynic, the playing on the key-board of power tickles his blunted nerves. He has as much conscience, sympathy, and humanity as my tiger here. His talent consists of cunning and the art of dealing with men. There is no one with whom he has exchanged three words that he has not lied to. His patriotic overzeal, however, as a non-Russian—he naturally overdoes his patriotism—commends him to the 'camarilla,' and so he becomes omnipotent."
"You say that Plehve is not Russian?"
"He is partly Lettish, partly Polish, partly Jewish. Men like this are always the worst here; they must see that their non-Russian names are forgotten."
"And what do you mean by 'camarilla'?"
"The servile courtiers, the high officials, but above all, the entire system. Do not forget that we are being ruled by a Camorra of bureaucrats, that have no interest at all in the real welfare of the country, but have their primary interest in the uncurtailed maintenance of their power. If the Czar wished to hear, to-day, the truth about the condition and sentiments of the country, he would never succeed, because they do not expose one another in the Camorra; for there is only one god—the career with all its chances of legitimate and illegitimate gain."
"Your highness, I must allow myself an indiscreet question. It is said that you are a friend of the Czar. You are surely not the only one. You must have colleagues among the nobility, statesmen, and patriots who cannot be prevented from being heard by the Emperor. Are you not in a position to break through the iron ring of the bureaucrats, and to tell the Czar the truth about the men who possess his confidence?"
"I appreciate your question. But what could single individuals do against the abuses of centuries? Something is being done in the direction indicated by you. The Czar receives, often enough, honest and unreserved statements. But a lasting effect from such occasional impulses is out of the question. Moreover, one must know the spirit of the antechamber, the slanders and suspicions, the burden of routine. It would require the power of a Hercules to escape from the net of these forces, and the Czar is of a timid, modest, kindly nature. And how quickly is every suggestion or initiative paralyzed! And what influences cross one another at such a court! Who is strong enough to oppose a grand vizier who works with unscrupulous falsification, and weaves about the sovereign an impenetrable fabric of false dangers by means of documentary calumnies and misstatements?"
"And so your highness can see no deliverance?"
"Only when God in heaven shall decree it, not otherwise. We live between the anarchists in office and the anarchists with dagger and revolver. These are only active forces, the latter as the logical sequence of the former, and more than once their tools as well. All else is inactive, limited to dissipating demonstration. The fountain of public opinion is not tolerated; the organization of a progressive party is prevented; the system anxiously guards the people from any contact with the educated classes. There is no room for sentimentality in repelling every attempt to render the Camorra harmless. An unguarded word, a simple denunciation, are sufficient to send honorable and respected men where they lose all desire for criticism. Whence, then, can help come? And we need it, for the war places before us entirely new problems, that may be solved only by unshackling intelligence. But now our bankruptcy will become evident to all the world."
"And Witte! Has he no longer any influence?"
"None whatever. He is not a convenient and acceptable minister, for he has a statesman's ambition and political ideas. He could, perhaps, inaugurate a new system, but this is not allowed. In this country there rules only the ministry of the interior—that is, the secret police; the other departments are merely figure-heads."
"And a constitution would change nothing of this?"
"The Liberals and Radicals believe so, but I do not. I am of a different opinion. 'Men and not measures,' is my motto, especially in an autocracy. You know my views on the war. I am convinced that our brave army will win. That will only mean a greater strengthening of the system, till the complete financial and economic, social and moral collapse, or till the first collision with a real power like the United States of America. I see no relief and no salvation, especially since foreign public opinion also forsakes us. We are fawned upon for political or commercial reasons. Tell them abroad that we deserve something better than this contemptible, statesman-like reserve and these affected expressions of respect before a régime that we ourselves denounce without exception. We deserve honest sympathy, for no other nation has yet been made to struggle for its civilization against so pitiless an adversary. Europe must further distinguish between the Russian nation and this adversary. Russian society is full of noble impulses; it is generous, warm-hearted, capable of inspiration, and free from odious prejudices. Our common oppressor, the danger to the world's peace as well as the author of this unhappy war, I repeat it again, is the Camorra of the officials, a thoroughly anarchistic class. I do not know, I must admit, when and how our release will come. I fear that we shall, ere that, pass through sad trials, and even more terrible misery of our flayed and hunger-enfeebled people, before Heaven shall take pity on us."
I left the noble-minded prince with feelings that are usually awakened in us only by tragedy.