ted minds, the same striving
after the spiritual is everywhere to be seen. Books like Treitschke's,
Nietzsche's, and Bernhardi's would be impossible in Russia, not, heaven
knows, because of their "intellectual superiority," which is another
name for braggadocio, but because of their moral insensibility, their
glorification of the physical forces of the body of man, which the
Russian mind sets lower than the unseen powers of his soul.

THE RUSSIAN MOUJIK MOBILIZING

So the flashes as of lightning that have shown us the part Russia has
played in the drama of the past 365 days have revealed a people acting
under something very like a religious impulse. We have seen the moujiks
being mobilized in remote parts of the vast country, and have found it a
moving picture. It is probable that the war had been going on for weeks
before they heard anything about it. Almost certainly they had no clear
idea of where the fighting was, or what it was about, the theatre of
the struggle being so far away and their ignorance of the world outside
their own little communities so profound and impenetrable. We may be
sure that when the echo of the great war did at length reach them it
was quite undisturbed by any foolish pretence associated with the
assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand (that lie could only be expected
to impose on the enlightened peoples of the West) and concerned itself
solely with the safety of Russia. The humblest Russian is proud of
Russia; proud that it is so big and powerful among the nations of the
world. He will gladly die rather than see it made less, so deep is his
devotion to the long-suffering giant whose blood is throbbing in his
veins.

Therefore when the call of war came to the moujiks in their far-off
homes, we saw them answering it as if it had been the call of their
faith. First a service in the village church; then a procession behind
the village pope to the village shrine ("Now go away and fight for
Russia, my children"), then the setting off for the distant railway
station, the mothers and young wives of the soldiers marching for miles
by their sides, carrying their rifles and haversacks along the wide
roads white with dust. What scenes of human pathos! For a long time the
officers are indulgent to irregularities--have they not just left their
own dear women behind them?--but at length the word of command rings
out, and everybody not connected with the army has to go back. Ah, those
partings! St