Russian Memories — Themes and Context
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ory was repeating itself. As in 1875, a Slav nation was being oppressed, threatened with annihilation, and the great heart of Russia was moved. {19} I remember so well those days forty years ago when our Foreign Office tried all it could to stop the reckless chivalry of the Russian people--determined as all classes were to sacrifice everything, life itself even, for the sake of their oppressed co-religionists, the Bulgarians.
In that August thirty-eight years before (1876), Petrograd itself (always more cautious and reserved than Moscow) showed an enthusiasm for the cause of the Christian Slavs that daily gathered strength. It pervaded all classes from prince to peasant.
The sympathy of the masses had been evoked by the atrocities, committed in the usual unspeakable Turkish fashion, in Bulgaria. That sympathy, however, bore chiefly a religious, not a political character, and as in almost all great national movements our Emperor identified himself with his people. Public collections were being made for the sick and wounded.
Officers of the Red Cross and ladies of the Court and society went from house to house requesting subscriptions.
At railway stations, on the steam-boats, even on the tramways, the "Red Cross" was present everywhere, with a sealed box for donations. Every effort was made to animate feelings of compassion for the suffering Christians, and to swell the funds for providing ambulances for the sick and wounded.
And now in 1914 another great national emotion had swept over three hundred millions of people. This was not a war of greed or gain; it was not concerned with some insult levelled at Russia or the violation of her frontiers; it was the result of a {20} deep religious sense of justice in the hearts of the people. It was what in England would be called "the sporting instinct" which forbids a big man to hit another smaller than himself.
No power could have held back the chivalrous Russians from going to the aid of threatened Serbia. All recognised that a terrible and fateful day had dawned, and throughout the dark days of the autumn of 1915, the people never flinched from the task they had undertaken. They were pledged to save Serbia.
Russians believed, still believe and will always believe, in the sacredness of an oath given in the name of God. Certain words indeed are not meaningless sounds! To such sacred promises naturally belongs also the oath of allegiance.
For centuries confidence and harmony reigned between all the Russian subjects. Now, the blasphemous Kaiser was trying to abolish every moral and religious tie. Could anything be more cruel and mischievous?
Everywhere it was the same. When I visited the wounded in my Tamboff country place, our poor soldiers, in answer to my queries as to their wants and desires, answered quite simply, not in the least realising the nobleness of their feeling:
"If God would only make us strong enough to go and punish the infamous enemy. You do not know the harm done to our fields, our churches, our brothers."
The tone of this and similar remarks was very striking. One of the wounded was a Mohammedan. I do not know whether it is wise or not, but the {21} Mohammedans in Russia are treated exactly like other Russian subjects, and they know that in serving Russia they may attain the highest military positions, as did, for instance, General Ali Khanoff, and others of the same creed.
Russia, as a whole, has an unlimited faith in victory. The Russian Emperor's New Year's address echoed far and wide, like a clarion call, through the ranks of the Imperial army and fleet. All doubts vanished beyond recall, for the utterance of the Sovereign was more decided, definite and determined than any that had gone before. Here are words that must ring like a knell in the ears of exhausted Germany, trembling under the strain of her last efforts.
"A half-victory--an unfinished war"--this was the hideous phantom before which the hearts of our brave soldiers sank, and which, like a ceaseless nightmare, disturbed the rest, even of our most illiterate peasants. Far and wide, indeed, Russian hearts to-day thrill and respond to their beloved Emperor's call:
"Remember that without complete victory our dear Russia cannot ensure for herself and her people the independence that is her pride and her birthright, cannot enjoy and develop to the full the fruits of her labour and her natural wealth. Let your hearts be permeated with the consciousness that there can be no peace without victory. However great may be the sacrifice required of us, we must march onward unflinchingly, onward to triumph for our country and our cause."
Madame Olga Novikoff, known by her initials "O.K.," opens her memoir not with her own birth but with a declaration of purpose: the dream of an Anglo-Russian understanding. The narrative voice is that of a seasoned diplomatic hostess who moves between drawing rooms and state councils, yet she writes with a personal, almost conversational tone. Stephen Graham's introduction frames her as "Russia herself"—a living embodiment of her nation for British elites. The excerpts reveal a work that blends political advocacy with domestic observation, from the Tsar's temperance decree to a chance encounter at a Finnish railway station where a thirsty traveler is refused vodka. Novikoff's prose shifts between earnest persuasion and wry anecdote, reflecting her dual role as propagandist and memoirist.
Voice of a Diplomatic Hostess
Novikoff's narrative voice is that of a woman accustomed to being heard. She addresses readers directly, recalling conversations with Gladstone, who "learned from her to pronounce the phrase, 'Holy Russia.'" Her tone is intimate yet authoritative, often using reported speech to dramatize key encounters. In one passage, she describes a friend denouncing the hypocrisy of the British press: "Of all kinds of despotism—the worst," he concluded, and she adds, "I did not contradict my friend, as he was expressing exactly my own views." This blend of personal agreement and political commentary characterizes her style. She frequently shifts from general reflection to specific memory, as when she moves from discussing Russian dreamers to recounting a 1899 train journey to Terioki. The voice remains consistently that of a woman who has navigated elite circles and is not afraid to name names—Gladstone, Gringmuth, the Tsar—while maintaining a courteous, almost old-fashioned politeness.
Pace Shifts Between Advocacy and Anecdote
The memoir's pace varies markedly between its political arguments and its narrative scenes. In the introduction, Stephen Graham sets a measured, almost hagiographic tone, describing Novikoff as "one of the most interesting women in European diplomatic circles." But when Novikoff takes over, the rhythm quickens. She can spend paragraphs on the abstract evil of drink—"the secret enemy eating into our country's very vitals"—then suddenly drop into a comic set piece: the imperious traveler demanding gin at a dry station, the waiter calmly offering beer only with food. These anecdotal interludes provide relief from the earnest advocacy. The chapter on "The Sobering of Russia" moves from a general lament about drunkenness to a specific memory of a cabman begging her to intercede with the Tsar. This alternation between broad statement and concrete detail keeps the narrative from becoming a mere polemic.
Recurring Details: Tea, Travel, and the Tsar
Certain details recur across the excerpts, creating a texture of everyday life in elite Russian society. Tea appears repeatedly: Novikoff enjoys a cup at Terioki station, and she mentions her "Peasant Teas" as a temperance initiative. Travel is another constant—she is always journeying, whether to Finland or across the pages of her own memory. The Tsar is a looming presence, praised for "the greatest thing that any monarch has ever done" in banning alcohol. Yet the Tsar is also approached through intermediaries: a cabman asks Novikoff to "intercede" with him. These details ground the political narrative in sensory specifics—the cold September day, the half-bottle of beer, the rough voice of the traveler. They suggest that Novikoff's method is to make abstract causes tangible through remembered moments, a technique that gives her memoir its particular texture.
Readers should attend to the way Novikoff positions herself as both insider and outsider: a Russian woman writing for an English audience, a monarchist who champions reform, a dreamer who claims to have seen her dream realized through war. The memoir's value lies less in its historical claims than in the voice it preserves—a voice that negotiated between two empires over tea and argument. Approach the text as a performance of diplomacy as much as a record of it.
Madame Novikoff’s memoirs always make me think of quiet rooms where words carried weight—her hand brushing against history. There is a similar whisper in those Explanatory Notes of a Pack of Cavalier Playing Cards, Temp. Charles II. Forming a Complete Political Satire of the Commonwealth — Background and Themes, where every pip hides a jest or a jab. Both books seem to say politics is just a game of patience, played with a smile.
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