In this world absurdities lurk even in the most civilized regions, and to that category prevailing fashions often belong. Few, however, have the courage and common sense to resist them. Majorities generally prefer the easy method of imitation and obedience. That moral servility shows a want of real dignity and genuine pride which is somewhat contemptible. What an amount of writing, talking, and meditating would be spared had people less troubled themselves, for instance, about the Russian Panslavist party, which is “forcing the Emperor’s hand to send a declaration of war,” and Heaven knows what besides! Now, what is the Russian Panslavist party, I should like to know? When a great measure is discussed—as the liberation of tens of millions of serfs—when a great danger of European war threatens the country, as was the case in the year 1863, the world only sees one “party”—the whole nation!

Of course I do not pretend that every Russian is faultless, certainly not. We have never insisted upon having secured the patent of angelic perfection. Unfortunately there are amongst us people whose moral education has been neglected, who have been under foreign influences, and have been thus estranged from the path of patriotism. But I am speaking of the dominating feature of my country, and of the character of our leading men, like Aksakoff and Katkoff, though neither of them ever pretended to be “the head of his party.”

At the present time, when all kinds of absurdities are being written about Russian designs and Russian antipathies, it may be worth while to recall some facts and characteristics of Katkoff, who, although he has been dead some few months, is still regarded as the popular incarnation of that Russian patriotism which you never seem able to understand, confounding it with “Germanophobia,” “Francophobia,” or as many “phobias” as you like! Love and hatred ought to have nothing to do with politics; those should be left to private life! And just as no Englishman, no German, no Frenchman, will adore a foreign country at the expense of his own, no Russian, worthy of that name, will do so either. In international life, there is one prevailing principle, a donnant-donnant, which means in other words, “A gift for a gift.” Katkoff ardently loved his country, and as ardently hated everybody who was hostile to her interests. Thus, when Napoleon III. tried in 1863 to injure our most legitimate interests, Katkoff, with all the might of his talent and patriotism, opposed France, whilst recently France’s sympathetic and friendly attitude in Bulgaria elicited his warmest recognition. In 1863 Prussia alone stood aloof from the European coalition against us. Russia has too much dignity to forget her debts of honour; and, as was admitted by the Emperor William’s telegram, the unification of Germany has taken place largely owing to Russia’s strict observance of a sympathetic neutrality. On the other hand, when Germany allied herself, or seemed to have allied herself, to Austria, with hostile objects, he protested with his accustomed vigour.

Michael Nikiforowitch Katkoff was a thorough statesman. He had nothing of the journalist except his great literary gift. He despised, he hated, all the journalistic tricks and rattle which bamboozle the ignorant. To that he never condescended—not once! Thus, his Moscow Gazette never pretended to have “the widest circulation in the world.” But all the leading men of the country, beginning with the Emperor himself, listened to his voice and admired his reckless straightforwardness. The infamous letter about him, written by one of our Nihilists and eagerly reproduced by the English press, is a series of lies, nothing more and nothing less. Katkoff was not a lunatic. He never “suggested to re-enslave the peasant,” or “reintroduce the knout.” Why! the knout is almost as bad as your cat-o’-nine-tails. Just fancy!—nine times less bad, that’s all. Who can care to bring it back? Ask your own sailors! The other day the Standard published a forged letter addressed to the Fenians, giving them revolutionary advice, and asking their help and offering them ours! It was signed by Katkoff. A letter from the Pope to Louise Michel would be less extraordinary and less obviously a forgery!

Katkoff, born on November 1, in 1818, was just coming of age when he first gave proof of his literary ability by sending to one of the St. Petersburg periodicals a translation of a German article on our Poushkine by Varnhagen von Ense.

“Our great poet,” says he, in his introductory lines, “has found at last an echo in the hearts of Germany, of Prussia. Can the heart of any Russian not throb with a sweet delight, with a manly pride, in perusing that tribute of admiration, coming from a German biographer and critic? There are few moments of such intense delight in our life as those we experienced in reading this noble response to Poushkine—to our own great Poushkine. It may, I dare say, make some people smile if we assert that Poushkine was a universal poet; one of those upon whom the whole of humanity looks with devoted reverence. Let them know that these enthusiastic views are not expressed by us only, but by a foreigner, not biassed by national partiality or prejudice. The article we offer you is published in a Berlin Review, called ‘Jahrbücher für Wissenschaftliche Kritik,” founded by Hegel, that greatest philosopher, who realized the strong intellectual current, the aspirations of reason. Now it is edited by men worthy of their teacher. In the person of Hegel, Germany stretches out her hand to Russia, Germany representing the whole of Europe, the whole of humanity.”

Young Katkoff soon became a distinguished professor of philosophy at the University of Moscow, after having passed a couple of years at the Berlin University. His unaffected speech, his deep learning, his devotion to lofty ideas and doctrines soon gathered round him many enthusiastic pupils. Unfortunately, some foolish limitations having been introduced in the teaching of philosophy, Katkoff unhesitatingly gave up his post, accepting no compromise with his conscience. But a man of his gifts and energy could and would not remain idle. In 1856 he was the brilliant editor of the best Moscow review, the Russky Vestnik (Russian Messenger). His English proclivities became one of its leading features. Macaulay and the Anglophil Tocqueville were often quoted. It was at this time that he was, for the above reason, nicknamed “Lord Katkoff.” The inevitable development of the English parliamentary system, tending to the Swiss “ad Referendum,” the want of stability of English Governments, the extraordinary deluge of speechmaking, the nervous desire to flatter electors, modified the enthusiastic Anglomania of his youth even before the reign of Lord Beaconsfield had naturally quenched Russian sympathies and belief in English fair play. At that time there was in Russia a great tendency towards childishly extreme views. Macaulay was not thought “half advanced enough,” Tocqueville was far too English in his “moderation.”

Agnosticism and Positivism seemed more in accordance with “the latest dictum of science,” as they used to term it. Katkoff was horrified at the deplorable ignorance of such views. He at a glance understood that such Radicalism could only bring his country to the verge of ruin. He seemed to foresee the Nihilistic movement, which came later, not in Russia only, but in the whole world, and it grieved and frightened him particularly, because he knew his country well. Reckless, self-sacrificing Russians never stop half-way. This may be a noble feature, but, when badly guided, it may become monstrously fatal. You often see people, both in England and Germany, without any religious or moral belief; but they are kept in good order, and are harmless in their intercourse with others, simply because they are checked by all sorts of imaginary powers—be it Mrs. Grundy, be it the craving for respectability, or the prejudices of the Upper Ten. We Russians never kneel to deities of that kind. We must have something solid, a “categorical imperative,” as the Germans say. Ultra-Radical doctrines with us are most dangerous. Katkoff quickly realized that, and fought bravely, defiantly, passionately, as men of strong convictions and of great moral valour only do. Naturally, he very soon became hated, accused of obscurantism, and vehemently calumniated. He continued his work, in spite of all— attacking wrongs, and sometimes horrifying our short-sighted censors, who vainly tried to stop him. The late Emperor, Alexander II.—be this said to his honour—declared at last that he himself alone would be Katkoff’s censor. Katkoff felt the Imperial kindness, but continued to speak out his mind, sparing neither Ministers nor institutions.

(To be continued.)