HOW THE RUSSIANS WENT TO WAR

Southland Times, Issue 17470, 26 March 1915, Page 6

HOW THE RUSSIANS WENT TO WAR

In an interesting volume entitled “Friendly Russia," by Dhnis Garstin. who lias lived among the Russians and knows their life, the author thus describes the scene after the declaration of war; — "I’was here when the Japanese, War was declared,” said a little man, who was too excited to keep his thoughts to himself, "but what a difference! Then it was the Government who sent us to war. Now we go gladly, eh?" We were standing an hour after the declaration of war on a balcony overlooking the Theatre Square. Below us was passing an immense crowd of men and boys, shouting, singing, and waving flags, while the inspection "Down with Austria!” jerked and swayed above the heads of its bearers. From every street they debouched into the square, some singing their National Anthem, others a religious chant, while a few broke into the "Marseillaise,” forgetting that they had learnt it —• and sung it perhaps —only two or three years ago in revolutionary processions. “Do you hear them? Do you hear them?” he gasped, elutheing my arm. He spoke entirely in gasps, and sucked in his breath between each sentence, giving the effect (somewhat modified) of an exhaust pipe. "They are not wild, not at all. these people. /They believe this war is right. They are fighting for the Slavs, for Holy Russia, Bravo Russia! Bravo, France! Bravo, England!” he shouted down to the crowd directly below us. who for the moment had stopped singing. They caught up his dicers and passed on, "No,” lie said, “this is not a war for tho Empire, or else they would he ail drunk and wild. They are not wild. They arc following their hearts, now. It is almost sacred. Come, come, they are all going to the Veskrcsenia Gate.” Wo went down into the square and immediately lost eadi other in the swirl of people, Tho whole crowd went bareheaded. An old man, looking on. had his hat knocked off. He caught the offender a hoy by the ear and dragged him to a policeman. “He knocked my hat off!” he shouted. “It should not have been on,” said the policeman. “They are singing 'God .Save the Tsar.’ 1 am no musician, but I know what is sacred, thank God!” There is a big shrine in front of the Sunday Gate which is one of the many gates in the Kremlin walls, and this shrine >vas gleaming with an array of candles by the time I arrived there. The road leading nn to it forms a square immediately tinder the walls, and there, in tlie insufficient light of two lamps, stood 10,000 people waiting for something to happen, something mystic, the expression of that strange feeling they possessed. Behind lowered the big walls ami the gateway, while the golden dome of tlie cathedral, reflecting a faint light, just peeped over the horizon of roofs, like a lialf-ohseured moon. Tlie night was heavy with coming rain, and in tlie dim light the crowd of rough peasants, hushed by the expectation of Divine blessing, some shockheaded, with legs cross-gartered like twelfth-century villeins, seemed under the old gateway, lit by guttering candles more likely to lie praying for help from thoii- mediaeval suzerain than beseeching tho blessing of God on modern warfare, The bishop, too, coming out from the shrine, helped the illusion with tho fantastic emblazonry of his robes. He hade some students fetch out (lie great ikon of the Blessed Mother, and on tho arrival of the Governor—prosaic figure in tlie old-time setting—began a prayer for tlie safety of tlie Russian arms. On tile hard, uneven cobbles they all knelt there while he prayed, then slowly and quietly they began a chant. "Pave. O God. Thy people,” and, beginning it on their knees, slowly they rose and on their rising the chant swelled and thundered out till the walls around cast hack the rich echoes. There are times when lhat chant might easily sound colourless and monotonous; it hangs for bars on one note, and. like all old chants, is solemn and restrained: but on that night it was tlie cry of a simple people, and in its stark simplicity achieved an effect that no chorus in any opera could ever hope to produce. There was uu insistance in its very monotony, an appeal that was compelling by reason of its extreme humility, that knew none of tlie bombast and selflaudation by which so many suppliants hope to obtain mercy. Once someone tried to start "God Save tlie Tsar." but the of for l was disregarded. The nation was there incognito: it was not a meeting of imperial Russians gathered together to remind God of their greatness. hut of simple folk in need. The long chant boomed and echoed round the gate, till the pauses it was hard to tell whicli was tho eelio and whieh the distant thunder. The lights fliekered and grew dim. hut the deep bass voices rolled out the heavy notes in sonorous entreaty, ending each appeal with a hushed "O Gospode Gospnds!" ("O I.ord of lairds!”)