One interesting figure has held the attention of the Continent of Europe for many long years, appealing to the imagination and baffling comprehension, but will never fill the same place again. Another, however, is coming forward very possibly in his stead, without any wish or intention of his own, and that other is the Emperor of Russia. He will do so, I believe, just as the German Emperor has done, because history affords him the opportunity, and because, like the Kaiser, he too is a man who cherishes thoughts of great purposes for his people and ideals for himself.

It affords me the greatest pleasure to write about the Emperor—he is not usually spoken of in Russian society as the Tsar—for I shall always feel most deeply grateful to him for his great personal kindness at my first audience with him, and the great encouragement he gave me at the very beginning of my work abroad.

I have already explained the quaking spirit in which I crossed the frontier. It so happened that Russia was the first country I visited when appointed to take charge of the jurisdiction, and, as to so many others, there was something forbidding to me in the very name of Russia. I knew at that time also that my visitations would bring me, as they have done, into contact with other sovereigns, and with great personages in other countries, and here at St. Petersburg I was to begin with the most unknown and, as one thought of his vast empire, most overwhelming of them all. And then—but let me describe an audience at the palace at Tsarskoe Selo, for it will probably interest many a reader, and also explain how very different from a somewhat perturbed anticipation was the pleasurable reality. I have taken care to satisfy myself beforehand that I shall not be transgressing any of the rules of court etiquette, nor be guilty of any breach of confidence in so doing.

Audiences abroad are always arranged through the British Embassy or Legation. Court dress is worn in Russia, even though the reception itself is perfectly informal, but, as court dress for a bishop consists in being robed as for Easter services, in red chimere, etc., there was no difficulty in providing it even for one who has to carry everything in a couple of bags, and for months at a time.

Tsarskoe Selo—“The Tsar’s village,” the words mean—is a little over half an hour by rail from Petrograd, and I was instructed to start from the Imperial Station in Petrograd, and there walked over rich carpets, through saluting soldiers, to the imperial train, most beautifully and comfortably arranged with smoking, writing, and reading compartments. Upon arrival at Tsarskoe Selo imperial carriages are always waiting for those expected, with coachman and footman on the box, wearing bright scarlet cloaks edged with white fur and very smart cocked hats of red and gold.

It was a typical Russian wintry day with a tremendous blizzard blowing, and blinding snow falling. Sentries were stationed at intervals through the streets of the village, saluting all the imperial carriages as they went by, although no occupant could be seen; and having passed through it we entered the park and soon drew up at the door of the small palace where the Emperor always resides, and which, white itself, looked that day like a fairy palace rising up amid the snow.

Nothing could be more strikingly different from that white world without, however, than the warmth and richness of colour within. On every side there were brilliant and unfamiliar liveries and dazzlingly rich uniforms. An official, of huge physique, wearing several medals, with a broad gold band round his head, from which, on its right side, stuck out a curious bunch of dark feathers, in velvet and lace dress, and with breeches and silk stockings—there was no one the least like him in the crowd of attendants—at once came forward and led me away to a dressing-room in which to leave my furs and change into my robes. He then conducted me through one beautiful room after another, each one richly furnished and adorned with beautiful china, paintings, ikons, trophies, and presents from different parts of the empire, until at length we reached a small room where a number of officers in brilliant uniforms were seated and evidently in attendance.

One of them, the Conte de GrabbÉ, at once came forward and welcomed me, chatting pleasantly until a servant, very quietly attired like an English butler, came out from a room opposite and, holding the door open, signified that I was to enter.

There was no introduction or announcement of any kind, and, as I entered, the Emperor was already standing there to meet me, smiling pleasantly and encouragingly, with extended hand.

“It is very kind in your Imperial Majesty,” I said, “to allow me to come and see you in this informal way.”

“It is very kind in you to come and see us, bishop,” he replied, so cheerily and unaffectedly, that away went every bit of diffidence and sense of constraint, and, to my great relief and gratitude, I found myself talking as naturally as to an intimate friend. I say “gratitude” because, being put so entirely at ease, able to say all that it was in my mind to say, and ask anything that it was in my mind to wish to know, enabled me to get a clear idea of the Emperor’s attractive personality, and even, as he spoke quite freely, of some at least of the opinions and principles which must rule his conduct and shape his policy and government.

“He gives you confidence,” a diplomatist who had had many official audiences with him said to me one day, and that exactly describes the effect he produces. He talked freely of all things before the public mind just then—of the approaching Coronation of King George, for whom he expressed a more than cousinly regard and respect; of domestic duties and family life as the ideals which shape the destinies of races; of the Russian Church, particularly asking if its dignitaries had welcomed me; of our English Church; of travelling; of my own impressions of Russia and other things. It was quite astonishing afterwards to recall the ground we had covered in that interview. And before I left he inquired:—

“When will you be coming to Russia again, bishop?”

“Next year, sir,” I said; “for I believe I am to go to Siberia.”

“Siberia! How interesting! I’ve never yet been to Siberia. Then you’ll come and tell us all about it when you return, won’t you?”

“I shall be much honoured, sir.” And praying God’s blessing upon himself and the imperial family, for which he thanked me as simply and modestly as any other layman would have done, I withdrew, feeling that it had been one of the most helpful and memorable interviews I had ever had.

I have been often asked if the Emperor is not very much like our King, and it is a somewhat difficult question to answer. As he stood there that morning, in a simple pale blue uniform, well set up and looking extraordinarily young and boyish, and smilingly happy—so entirely different from one’s expectations—it did not occur to me to see any such likeness, but an old courtier said to me, in speaking after luncheon of “the resemblance which is so much talked of”—

“There is no resemblance to be noticed when their two Majesties are together, nor would there be any striking likeness seen between their portraits in colours, but in photographs or anything that is black and white, just bringing out light and shade, then the similarity is most remarkable, you might easily mistake one for the other.”

This puts one’s own impressions very clearly. There is a well-known photograph, circulated as a postcard in Germany, and from a German negative, of which I have a copy, in which the two Emperors are shown in conversation on the imperial yacht. Any one seeing it in English hands would certainly think that it was our King and the Kaiser, and be quite astonished at learning it was not.

The Emperor received me the first time in a very comfortable but simply furnished study, and the last time, when, in accordance with his invitation, I went to tell him about my two missions to Siberia, in his billiard-room fitted up as a study or library, and in which he led me to the kind of window-seat which we know so well in English country houses, looking out upon the park. Afterwards luncheon was served for me in the Grand Palais of the Great Catherine, a most magnificent and immense palace a little distance away, full of interesting souvenirs of Russia’s past.

It is well known how many and different rumours have been circulated during the last two years about the heir to the throne, and it seems rather a pity that the simple truth has not been announced and made fully known from the first, for I am assured on the best authority in Petrograd, that the Tsarevitch suffers from a skin affection not unknown, unfortunately, to members of our royal family, which, as he is a very high-spirited boy, difficult to watch and caution, has in moments of exuberance and violent exertion caused him to receive injuries which for a time have been disabling.

When last at Tsarskoe Selo, before taking my leave I took out some puzzles from my pocket, made of wood and steel, quite inexpensive, as I thought it likely they would be most welcome because most unfamiliar, and handing them to the Emperor, said:—

“I have brought the Tsarevitch a present, sir, and I bring it out with much hesitation, for it is a very simple one, and I know he must have had many beautiful and costly gifts this Christmas.”

“Not at all,” he said; “we bring him up very simply, and he loves puzzles. He and I used up all we could get, especially those jig-saw puzzles, while he was ill. These, I see, are new.”

“I hope,” I said, “that he is now better?”

“Yes,” he said, “he is; he’s quite well now—quite well,” he repeated with emphasis.

The Emperor speaks English perfectly, fluently, and with ease, and I have been told that it is the language most generally, if not always, used in the ordinary daily life of the imperial family.

I have taken up some time in giving these personal impressions, but I think it is quite worth while to do so just now as the Emperor was so particularly gracious and kind, and thus enabled me to form some idea of what he is, just as a man and a father in his own home; and that I know will appeal to my own countrymen when wondering what is likely to be his policy and aim as a ruler of a vast empire.

A man can only do what he is, whether he be in the highest or the lowest positions in the world; and he always brings out, sooner or later, what he is at heart. It must therefore be a very great source of confidence to us all just now, when we believe that the providence of God has brought the British and the Russian Empires together, not for temporary, but for enduring objects, to know, as I feel we may consider that we do know, that the Emperor of all the Russias is a man we can all respect and trust, precisely as we respect and trust our own Sovereign—as one whose ideals are those of domestic duty and family life on the one hand, and the real interests and well-being of the labouring and toiling millions of his people on the other.

A somewhat scandalous book was written last year which I won’t mention by name, lest curiosity should lead those who have not read it to do so, which gave a most unfavourable impression of the Emperor and the imperial family. It was not, however, written by an Englishman; and, without questioning in any way the writer’s bona fides, I am bound to say, and very confidently and energetically, that I have never yet met one of my own countrymen who has had to do with the Emperor of Russia, financially, diplomatically, or in audience, who has not expressed himself to me about him in the same appreciative terms as I have here used myself.

Take, for instance, what Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace has written only a few months ago.[8] “The antiquated idea that Tsars are always heartless tyrants who devote much of their time in sending troublesome subjects to Siberia, is now happily pretty well exploded, but the average Englishman is still reluctant to admit that an avowedly autocratic government may be, in certain circumstances, a useful institution. There is no doubt, however, that in the gigantic work of raising Russia to her present level of civilization, the Tsars have played a most important part. As for the present Tsar, he has followed, in a humane spirit, the best traditions of his ancestors. Any one who has had opportunities of studying closely his character and aims, and who knows the difficulties with which he has had to contend, can hardly fail to regard him with sympathy and admiration. Among the qualities which would commend him to Englishmen are his scrupulous honesty and genuine truthfulness. Of these—were I not restrained by fear of committing a breach of confidence—I might give some interesting illustrations.

“As a ruler, Nicholas II habitually takes a keen, sympathetic interest in the material and moral progress of his country; and is ever ready to listen attentively and patiently to those who are presumably competent to offer sound advice on the subject. At the same time he is very prudent in action; and this happy combination of zeal and caution, which distinguishes him from his too impetuous countrymen, has been signally displayed in recent years. During the revolutionary agitation which followed close on the disastrous Japanese War, when the impetuous would-be reformers wished to overturn the whole existing fabric of administration, and the timid counsellors recommended vigorous retrograde measures, he wisely steered a middle course, which has resulted in the creation of a moderate form of parliamentary institutions.”

I am not alone, therefore, in the very favourable impression I have formed of the Russian Emperor as a man whom the best of my own countrymen may respect as one like-minded with themselves in his views of life and conduct, and his own countrymen thoroughly trust as a constitutional ruler who, though determined, as he will be advised by his most trusted counsellors, to go cautiously, yet is convinced that a good government’s one and chief concern is the well-being of those who are governed, and especially of those who form the lowest class in its social scale.

Like Sir Donald Wallace, I too could give instances of the Emperor’s straightforward and generous action which show the essential right-mindedness of his nature in a very striking way, if it were possible to do so without breach of confidence. Especially was this the case in a particular instance of which I know, when it was a question of putting his own interests, and even dignity, in a very secondary position. It was one, indeed, in which no great ruler could be expected or asked to do so, but when he learnt himself what was involved he at once did so subordinate his own interests, and has earned in consequence the lasting gratitude of all concerned, and their entire and loyal confidence.

The Russian people are intensely loyal, and, as the overwhelming majority are of the peasant class, their loyalty is of that simple, fervid, and trusting character which is seen in their family and village life. They do not speak of the “Emperor” so much as of “The Little Father,” and that is how they feel towards him. He is the father of his people and they are his children. If there is anything they object to in legislation it is always put down to officialdom, just as our own Colonies, before the days when they began to “think imperially,” used to vent all their displeasure upon “Downing Street” when unwelcome legislation took place, and never upon Queen Victoria (or her government), for whom they had the greatest respect and affection. The Russian peasant too murmurs loudly at times against the governors and their subordinates when he is requested to do something that he does not like, but with a solacing reflection to himself that “The Little Father would put everything right if he only knew.”

There is disaffection and serious disloyalty in other quarters, and I shall try my best to describe it and what may very possibly be some of its causes, in my chapter on “Russia’s Problem,” but the dangerous disaffection, probably already beginning to pass away, is confined to a few of the largest towns, and does not in any way affect the overwhelming majority of the Emperor’s subjects, who are entirely devoted to him and patriotically loyal.

This ought to be remembered also when we are thinking over future relations between our own people and theirs. The Russians are not a downtrodden and oppressed people struggling to throw off the yoke of a harsh and despotic rule, but are contented, loyal, and law-abiding. They do not, however, show their loyalty by any outward expressions such as the “All Highest,” and others with which we have been made familiar in the addresses and letters of Germans of high rank, office, and birth, during the war. No such terms exist or are thought of amongst the subjects of the Emperor of Russia. The word Tsar occurs, I believe, in the National Anthem, and Tsaritsa is used occasionally, while there is no such word as Tsarina in the language. But neither Tsar, Emperor, Tsaritsa, or Empress are used, I am told, amongst the ordinary people. They speak of “Gosudar” and “Gosudarina” which mean Lord and Lady, or Sir and Madame, and in such general use are these terms, I believe, that a man writing a business letter to a tradesman would begin “Gracious Gosudar.” The Tsarevitch Alexis is spoken of amongst the people by a word in perfectly common use, which is no more than the ordinary word for “heir.” Loyalty and great respect, it would seem, are quite consistent with great familiarity of thought and expression.

The Emperor is probably spoken of more frequently as Nicolai Alexandrovitch—“Nicholas, son of Alexander”—than by any other title, and I feel sure that the Grand Duke Nicholas, Commander-in-Chief, and his doings at head-quarters, have been spoken of all over Russian plains and Siberian steppes this winter as familiarly and as proudly as of some one who had gone from their own village. “Ah! Nicolai Nicolaievitch! What a man he is! How well he has fought this war! How proud we are of him!” etc., etc. I was told lately of a touching incident which occurred at a great service in Russia (the translation of the remains of a great saint) at which the Grand Duchess Serge was present, and, when she arrived, had gone quietly up to a gallery pew, arranged for her and other great ladies. Soon afterwards an old peasant woman, to whom she had once shown a kindness, arrived, and at once began to inquire:—

“Has Elizabeth come yet?”—the Grand Duchess’s Christian name—“I want Elizabeth. She told me when next I came where she was to be sure and ask for her. Where’s Elizabeth?”

The Grand Duchess in her exalted gallery caught something of what was going on, and, hearing her own name, at once came down.

“Here I am, little mother!” And then with “Dear Elizabeth!” the old woman threw her arms about her neck and began her story.

Such a thing is only possible in Russia, and yet it is the one country in the world where we have always been led to think that between the highest and the lowest there is that “great gulf fixed,” which if not bridged over in this life by sympathy and love, has little hope of being passed in the world to come.

Rank and position and high office if worthily filled need no buttressing up. Least of all need those who hold them give themselves airs. Their office is enough in itself; and last year, when I had a large party of German youths to take about London, and by the kindness of those concerned took them to see one or two great places where they were most courteously and graciously received—they were the sons of working men in Frankfurt—I was more than pleased to hear one of them say to his friend, “I notice that in England the higher the rank the less the pretence.” So it is in Russia. The more exalted the position the more unaffected and simple the one who fills it!

The Grand Duchess Elizabeth, daughter of our own Princess Alice, is probably the best known and the best loved woman in all Moscow, indeed in all Russia, and hereafter will, in all probability, have “Saint” prefixed to her name. Many do not hesitate to use it even now. Her sad experiences appealed most powerfully to the people’s sympathies when she was so tragically widowed a few years ago. Her husband, the Grand Duke Serge, Governor of Moscow, had become extremely unpopular with certain classes, and it was well known that his life was in danger; but he knew no fear, and drove out constantly in an open carriage in which the Grand Duchess insisted upon accompanying him. It is said that at length a letter was written to him advising him to leave her behind if he valued her life, and adding significantly, “We have no quarrel with her, nor anything against her.” She was, therefore, from that time left at home, his secretary asking to be allowed to go in her place. Again the same kind of letter was received, and he too was left behind; and the Grand Duke, who was no coward, determined to go alone. And then, on the first morning he did so, and not far from his own door, the fatal bomb was thrown, and did its work so effectually that there was nothing left to be seen! He was literally “blown to atoms.” Every one in Moscow is said to have heard the terrific explosion, and knew at once. “They have him at last!” The Grand Duchess heard also and rushed immediately to the scene. It may be questioned whether any other woman has ever had such an ordeal as that to face! She had just seen her husband drive away from his home, and in a few moments there was nothing left! I believe a finger with his signet ring was subsequently found, but that was all.

Moscow, which had always respected and admired her, at once gave her whole-hearted sympathy, which soon became a deep and true affection as they learnt that she had determined to give her whole life and income to their poor.

She founded the first order which has been introduced into Russia for women’s work amongst the sick and poor. When I was last in Moscow, she explained to me its character, and it seemed to me to be a blend of the Tertiaries of S. Francis and the deaconesses of the primitive church, though the latter is the model she has wished to follow. She told me she had ninety-six sisters in the order now, and that whilst some sick were brought into their own wards many were visited in their own homes. It is this visiting work that she hopes most to develop as time goes on. She is, of course, by Baptism and Confirmation a member of our own Church, and is full of interest and sympathy towards it, and usually attends the Abbey service when in London, though she joined the Orthodox Church of Russia during her married life. This, she told me, was without any influence being brought to bear upon her, and entirely from conviction that it was best for her own religious life in her adopted country.

She wore the simple and grey habit of her order, and it was difficult to realize that she was a princess of the blood, and sister-in-law to the Emperor himself, as she spoke so simply and humbly about her work, and what she hoped still with the blessing of God to do. She does not cut herself off, however, from life’s ordinary relationships, for when later at Tsarskoe Selo, I told the Emperor that I had been able to see her and hear about her work, he said, “She is coming to spend a fortnight with us this very afternoon.”

That is what one meets everywhere in Russia, the unconventional and the natural. The superior of a new order, which is an entirely fresh departure, would be expected in any other country to give up everything else in the way of social and family relationships. But in Russia, if a perfectly natural thing like a visit to near relations suggests itself as desirable the visit is duly paid.

It is so always! The splendid and the simple, high rank and humble birth seem to find themselves close together, the rich and the poor unite so easily in a common interest. “A gorgeous imperial procession was passing through the palace hall,” writes one who saw it at Tsarskoe Selo as a specially grand function, “and two or three maid-servants appeared at the head of a little staircase to look on, wearing print dresses. No one told them to go away.”[9] No one would think of it.

The Emperor loves the simple folk he governs, and showed it plainly when in the earlier part of his reign he moved freely amongst them, standing next to peasants and workmen in Moscow, when he stepped into a church to pray. And after he returned from our own country, from the marriage of King George, I read the other day, “somebody asked him what had impressed him most. ‘The crowd outside Buckingham Palace waiting to see Queen Victoria drive out,’ he said. ‘There they waited, hour after hour, and at last a little black carriage came out of the palace-gates. Very few of the people in the crowd could see the Queen, but they knew that she was there, and they went away satisfied. One day it will be like that in Russia.’” And the writer adds: “I do not think the Emperor’s prophecy is likely to be realized in his lifetime; but a day will come when his subjects will forget the mistakes that have been made in his name, and recognize that they owe to him great reforms.” I fancy in subsequent editions, for his book well deserves to have them, he will alter those words into “I feel sure that he will live to see it, and not have long to wait.”