A ride to Yasnaya Polyana

Off the back of my research into Constance Garnett, and her connections to both the Russian exile community in 1890’s London, I came across the story of her contempories, and competing translators, Louise and Aylmer Maude.

The Maudes were supporters of the Tolstoyan movement, a form of Christian Anarchism inspired by the religious and mystic writings of Leo Tolstoy, and which attracted a not insubstantial number of adherents in late 1890s Britain.

The Maudes initially lived in a Tolstoyan commune in Chelmsford, and were involved in other Tolstoyan groups in England, as well as helping the Dukhobors migrate from Russia to Canada.

And then I went down an internet rabbit hole.

The claim was that two members of the Purleigh commune suffered a crisis of faith and decided to ride their bicycles across Europe to Yasnaya Polyana to discuss matters of belief with Tolstoy in person.

It was such a completely mad story that I had to investigate.

Strangely, at first sight it didn’t seem impossible. Yasnaya Polyana is roughly 2500 km due east of the Hoek van Holland and across the north European plain.

From experience, you can easily ride between 80 and 100km in a day on flattish roads on an old style single-speed, or better, a three-speed bicycle, at an average speed of around 20 km/h, and the roads across the Netherlands would have been famously flat and doubtless the roads across the German empire would have been well maintained and gravelled.

Russia would have been a different case.

In the summer of1941, when the Nazis invaded, the roads were dirt, but the Nazi forces found them navigable as they had dried out to a firm surface. Autumn and winter were a different story.

I doubt that the roads would have been any better in Tsarist times, but were probably no worse, meaning that they would have been able to ride most of the way.

So, allowing them an average 60km a day, more or less, to account for punctures, breakdowns and rest days, they could probably have made the ride in under two months, and this could account for them turning up in late summer at Yasnaya Polyana in shorts – basically they would have spent the warm dry months riding across Europe.

It’s a great story, but it may well not be true.

My only source for the story is an article from an anarchist magazine about the origins of the Stapleton Colony, a Tolstoyan commune outside of Leeds.

The only other reference a websearch turns up is from the Cornwall family history magazine from someone who was researching the life of Bertie Rowe and his involvement in the anarchist movement at the beginning of the twentieth century.

Many of the details are the same including a friendship with Tom Ferris but the journey to Yasanaya Polyana is different.

Ferris and Rowe work their passage on a ship to Riga, and the ride freight trains by climbing into open box cars to Yasnaya Polyana, where they arrive wearing light summer clothing.

Which one is true?

I don’t know, but the cargo ship to Riga route was well used by Russian exiles and dissidents sneaking home, so it’s possible Rowe and Ferris asked for advice and were put in contact with people who could facilitate a clandestine journey to and from Russia.

And the clandestine nature of the journey may be the key.

While  it’s true that before the first world war people could travel western Europe with little or nothing in the way of passports and permits, both Tsarist Russia and the Ottoman Empire required visitors to have passports and supporting documentation.

As anarchists, and Rowe and Ferris appear to have made an attempt to avoid the 1901 census, along with other members of the commune, making it unlikely that they would apply for passports and permits, and let’s face it, two penniless English anarchists wearing shorts and riding bicycles are unlikely to have been waved through border control by Tsarist officialdom.

So why the two stories?

Honest answer, I’ve no idea.

I could make up all sorts of scenarios, such as they actually tried to ride to Yasnaya Polyana, were turned back, and took the more clandestine route via Riga.

Tolstoy’s correspondence suggests that he met with Rowe and Ferris on 01 January 1903, which would have been the depths of the Russian winter.

Tolstoy, really wasn’t very interested in Ferris’s religious view but did courteously wish them a safe journey home on 19 January 1903.

This is still, of course the depths of winter, and makes the ship and box car route far more likely. It also explains Tolstoy’s gift of winter clothing to Rowe and Ferris.

Certainly, the did make it back to England. We can place Rowe in Leeds in August 1904 where he was arrested for protesting on behalf of the unemployed

The interesting thing about the court report is not his conviction but that he had previous convictions, one assumes for similar acts of protest.

Of Ferris, I can find no trace, he doesn’t appear in any of the sources I have access to.

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Tolstoy, translators and English utopianism

While spending a little more time with Constance (and the Russian revolutionary community in London at the end of the nineteenth century), I kept coming across the names of Louise and Aylmer Maude who were also translators of Tolstoy’s work at roughly the same time.

Louise and Aylmer Maude were British expatriates in Moscow at the end of the nineteenth century.

Louise was the daughter of a family of Scottish jewellers working in Moscow, Aylmer had originally started out working for Muir and Mirrilees, a large Scottish owned department store in Moscow (which survives to this day under different ownership and is now known by it’s Soviet era name of ЦУМ (TsUM, tsentralni universalni magazin, the Central Department Store, not to be confused with GUM, gosudarstvenni universalni magazin, the State Department Store).

In time Aylmer branched out on his own, set up a successful carpet business, which he subsequently sold. The money allowed Louise and Aylmer to move back to England and devote themselves to the translation of Tolstoy’s works, including his more mystical religious books.

Both Louise and Aylmer had met Tolstoy at Yasnaya Polyana, before they left Russia, and were obviously highly impressed with him, and initially lived in a quasi Tolstoyan commune in Essex outside of Chelmsford, and worked on producing the definitive translations of Tolstoy in English.

(Utopian Tolstoyan communes, such as the Stapleton Colony and the Whiteway Colony were surprisingly common and surprisingly long lived in early twentieth century England.)

While Constance Garnett had met Tolstoy on one of her visits to Russia, and had received his permission to translate his works, the Maudes concentrated on producing more technically accurate translations of his works. Some experts (and I am most definitely no expert) prefer the Maudes’ slightly dry translations over Constance’s at times slightly wooden translations, which might result from her really only knowing Russian as a written language, while the Maudes had of course lived and worked in Russia.

At the same time, some people continued to prefer Constance’s translations over the Maudes’ drier versions. The situation was further confused by Tolstoy waiving his rights to translations of his books, which meant there were various competing translations of his more popular novels around, including those translated at second hand from French and German translations.

Both Constance and the Maudes were members of the Fabian society, though I suspect, given their Tolstoyan views, the Maudes were more enamoured of William Morris faux medieval model of socialism with sturdy artisans producing goods and trading among themselves, than the more revolutionary model espoused by the exiled Russian revolutionaries in England.

Despite their Tolstoyan views, Aylmer Maude did serve as a translator with the British Empire forces (including some ANZACs) in North Russia during Churchill’s ill starred intervention on the side of the White forces during the Russian civil war, but seemed to be more interested in philosophy than the conflict itself, and perhaps identifying more with the people trying to simply bring about social change than with pure ideology.

Both Aylmer and Louise died in England in the late 1930s.

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Sergei Stepniak

Sergei Stepniak is obviously key to the story of the Friends of Russian Freedom, in 1890s London, as well as to the life of Constance Garnett.

So, as an exercise, I thought I’d try and see what we could learn about Sergei Stepniak’s life in London from publicly available documents.

But by what name was he known by to the British authorities?

He was born Sergei Mikhailovitch Kravchinski, but like many Russian revolutionaries of the time habitually used a pseudonym, in his case Stepniak, which means something like “steppe dweller”. 

At the time most people in England were unfamiliar with Russian names and naming conventions, which made identifying him a tad difficult.

However, in the newspaper reports of his death he was usually referred to a M. Serguis Stepnyak or sometimes Stepniak, so I went with that.

The M is of course short for monsieur, and was used at the time in English to signify that the foreigner was a gentleman or someone of equivalent class to a gentleman – his title would most likely  have been gospodin – having learned Russian in Soviet times I am incredibly vague about pre revolutionary styles and titles, and who would have been referred to as what.

Using familysearch.org, it was easy enough to find his death certificate and probate records, and to find that his wife was indeed known in English as Fanny Stepniak.

Fanny is not really a Russian name, but because it was used for the name of Fanya Kaplan, who tried to assassinate Lenin I assumed that Fanny Stepniak used Fanny as an anglicisation of Fanya.

Unfortunately, Fanya is not really a common Russian name either, and that leads to a problem.

I tried searching for the Stepniaks in the 1891 census, and they are not there, whether because they deliberately dodged the census by wishing to remain anonymous, or were abroad. Fanny Stepniak appears in the 1901 and 1911 censuses as a widow engaged in literary work, so perhaps she really did use the name Fanny in England, and not Fanya as I assumed,  and she is also referred to as Fanny on her death certificate.

Unusually for a Russian, she does not give a patronymic – for example, Sergei was formally Sergei Mikhailovitch as his father’s forename was Mikhail. 

For the moment her actual identity is a mystery to me.

I did try searching for Kravchinski, Sergei’s  original surname, as opposed to his pseudonym, and came up with a complete blank.

While some orthodox church records from Ukraine have been digitised – Sergei was born in the Kherson governate of the Russian empire which is now part of Ukraine –  many have not, and of course as war and revolution have meant that many records have been lost.

More importantly for our purposes, Kravchinski does not appear in the 1891 census, suggesting that if they were in Britain at the time they must have been using yet another pseudonym…

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The Society of Friends of Russian Freedom

Sometimes a diagram is best.

Fabian Society and Russian Freedom members

On the back of my looking into the life of Ethel Voynich, I kept on coming across the same names, sometimes in different contexts, so to try and make sense out of it I drew my self a very rough mud map.

  • Ethel Voynich was a governess to Sergei Stepniak’s sister in law’s children in Russia, and was a translator and a member of the Friends of Russian Freedom.
  • Constance Garnett learned Russian from Feliks Volkhovsky, was a member of the Friends of Russian Freedom
  • Feliks Volkhovsky was a friend of Sergei Stepniak and a fellow exile in London, and a member of the Friends of Russian Freedom
  • Olive Garnett was a sister in law to Constance Garnett, was apolitical, learned Russian from Feliks Volkhovsky. She appears to have had a crush on Sergei Stepniak, cutting off her hair when he died in a railway accident. She later worked as a governess in Russia, before returning to England.
  • Charlotte Wilson knew both Stepniak and Ethel Voynich and also worked as translator of Russian, and was a members of the Friends of Russian Freedom.

As well as the links to the Friends of Russian Freedom, most of the women concerned – apart from the apolitical Olive Garnett – were also connected with the Fabian Society, and in the case of Charlotte Wilson various Russian influenced marxist reading reading groups.

Many of the women involved perfected their Russian by spending time working as governesses in Russia, probably because it was really the only way a young woman could gain experience of real spoken Russian at the time.

It’s an oddity of the times that the only way English speakers could learn Russian in the late Victorian era was via exiled revolutionaries. (Actually it’s not that odd – when I first learned Russian in the early 1970s, the only way one could get experience of spoken Russian was via exile groups, and there used to be these sessions at Strathclyde University where we got to speak to both recent exiles and some people who seemed very old, but who had probably been children or teenagers at the time of the 1917 revolutions)

And while we might laugh at Constance Garnett’s slightly prudish translations today, the women involved in the Friends of Russian Freedom were responsible to introducing Russian literature to a late Victorian and Edwardian audience, including such literary figures as Katherine Mansfield, who became fascinated by Chekhov through translation,

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Lenin in Torquay

Strange one this.

There’s apparently an unsubstantiated story that while Lenin was in London in 1907 he had himself a little cycling holiday in Torquay in Devon.

Well, maybe he did, or maybe he didn’t, but it is true that Lenin did ride a bike while in exile in Paris later on, and even successfully took a motorist to court for crashing into him and wrecking his bicycle, so I guess it’s possible he rode a bike in England as well, and just as in Paris, may have gone for some pretty substantial day rides

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So what did the elusive Madeleine Smith call herself later in life?

Madeleine Smith is commonly said to have been known as Lena Wardle, and certainly after her second marriage to William Sheehy, she was known as Lena Sheehy, but on the 1881 England an Wales census her name is given as Madaleine Wardle.

So what name did she use?

Well on her 1861 marriage certificate she defiantly scrawls her name as Madeleine Hamilton Smith, but if you search the 1861 census records for England and Wales, there is no Madeleine Smith listed who seems a plausible fit, and exactly one Lena Smith, who also happens to be the correct age, except that she is listed as being in Devon at Stoke Demerel, where she is listed as a visitor – from Middlesex.

I guess it’s just possible that the census details are garbled, but I think we have to say we can’t identify her in the 1861 census with any certainty.

The 1871 census is a different matter.

We know from the census that George Wardle was visiting family in Leek, Staffordshire, and that Madeleine was not with him, perhaps having decided to stay with the children in London.

As George was not at home Madeleine would have completed the census return

And while she’s shaved a year or two off her age it’s clearly her, even if the census return was a bit garbled and will need to be checked against the original scan.

My guess is that she usually called herself Lena, but occasionally reverted to Madeleine.

Why does this matter?

Well if I’m to search the passenger lists for her arrival in New York, knowing she almost certainly called herself Lena Wardle is a help, even if she was a bit elastic with her age and date of birth …

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Madeleine and George

A few years ago, I got interested in the story of Madeleine Smith, a youg woman in Glasgow who was put on trial for murdering her clingy boyfriend by putting arsenic in his cocoa when he refused to break off the relationship and return her letters to him.

The story particularly notorious at the time because, among other things, Madeleine’s letters included a graphic description of alfresco sex with her boyfriend in the woods at Rowardennan.

The letters were read into the court transcript – literally as a court official read them out in open court. The letters were hot stuff in 1857 and were a source of mid Victorian tittilation and were reprinted in various pseudo legal works for the perusal of learned gentlemen.

I was interested in the case for two reasons – the use of arsenic, which was everywhere in the mid ninteteenth century, and the way the story was spread round the world by the first long distance telegrams. (Australia wasn’t connected until 1872, but the telegrams sent to India were sent on on steamships bound for Australia where they were retelegraphed to the east coast newspapers.)

Now, I knew that after her acquittal Madeleine had gone to ground, and later married George Wardle, who was William Morris’s workshop manager printing his wallpapers etc, and a minor artist in his own right.

Recently, when I’ve been researching early British socialists such as Walter Crane and Ethel Voynich, I’ve come across hints that Madeleine Smith, now usualy called Lena Wardle was involved in the early days of the Fabian Society before she separated from George Wardle in 1889.

But I hadn’t been able to find any trace of her, and then I had a brainwave, search for George Wardle and there he was in the 1881 census

And guess what, there was Madeleine Smith with her name mis-spelt

Neither Madeleine or George seem to appear in the 1891 census.

George Wardle, I know spent time painting in Italy after his 1889 separation and Madeleine moved to New York.

My next step is, I guess to search the US passenger records to see if I can find when she arrived.

She doesn’t seem to be in the 1890 US census records, but they are fragmentary due to most of them being lost in a fire in 1921. While some of the New York census returns have survived, by no means all of them have, so it’s not impossible she was already living in the US in 1890…

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The afterlife of Katherine Scragg

As I often do, I decided to find out a little of Katherine Scragg’s life after her 1887 assault.

I’d already established that in both the 1891 and 1901 censuses she was listed as a school teacher living in Cheslyn Hay in Staffordshire.

But then?

Well, the 1911 census for England and Wales shows her still living in Cheslyn Hay, but she is now a school head mistress, and has her 19 year old niece, Annie Aline, living with her.

Unlike in previous censuses, Katherine appears to own her own home rather than lodging with other people

Annie is listed as a student, but of what, the records don’t say.

As would be expected by 1921 Annie was no longer living with Katherine, but Katherine, still a headmistress is obviously doing quite well as she can afford to employ a live in servant cum housekeeper.

And then in 1926, we get into handwaving territory – a marriage between a Katherine Scragg and a Daniel Whitehouse is recorded in Cannock in Staffordshire (Cannock is the district in which Cheslyn Hay is located.)

Unfortunately, the online information available is minimal, to say the least, and without paying for a copy of the marriage certificate, I’m unable to say if it was definitely Katherine’s marriage.

However, there’s some circumstantial evidence to support Katherine marrying late in life.

In 1939, as part of war time emergency regulations the government created a register of everyone living in the United Kingdom as part of the process of issuing identity cards to the civilian population, and in the register for Cannock, there’s a Katherine Whitehouse listed with the same birth date as Katherine Scragg.

She appears to be living on her own, suggesting that her husband had died, and is described as a retired school teacher.

In 1941, the death of Katherine Whitehouse is recorded in Cannock. Again, there is a fee payable for a digital copy of the death certificate to definitively confirm the details, but circumstantial evidence suggests that Katherine Whitehouse is the same person as Katherine Scragg.

I’m pleased to find that despite the trauma of her 1887 assault she appears to have been successful in life and hopefully had a happy few years with her husband, Daniel Whitehouse.

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Ethel Voynich’s early life as revealed by the census…

As I’ve said elsewhere I spent part of yesterday afternoon in the library researching Ethel Voynich’s early life to see what I could glean from the England Wales census records

Ignoring the 1871 census which unsurprisingly confirms she was living at home and was a ‘scholar at college’, in the England and Wales1881 census , when she was 16, she is described as a music teacher, which fits, as once she secured a small legacy when she was 18, she took herself off to the Hochschule fűr Muzik in Berlin.

I can’t tell you if she was living at home, as she is listed as a ‘visitor’ which means exactly what it says, but there are two other visitors in the house, also from Ireland but  considerably older, so there’s the possibility that visitor was used as a euphemism to cover the fact she was living there long term – one wouldn’t of course want the census people to know you were taking in lodgers, however genteel.

It was in Berlin where she became involved with the Russian dissident community and learned Russian, smuggled banned books into Russia, and spent time as a governess to the family of Sergei Kravchinski’s sister in law in Russia.

By 1891 she was back in London, working for a group supporting Russian dissidents. She still gave her name as Ethel Boole, although she was possibly in a relationship with Wilfrid Voynich by then, and listed her profession as that of journalist and translator.

She was not living at the same address as Wilfrid, but is again listed as a visitor, and was staying with Arthur and Charlotte Wilson.

Interestingly Charlotte Wilson is also listed as a journalist and translator, so it is possible that they both worked together on translating material. Charlotte Wilson is today principally known for her work with the Fabian Society, she was involved with various proto Marxist and anarchist groups, as well as her work supporting Russian dissidents.

It’s also an intriguing thought, to me at least, that Madeleine Smith, who was by then known as Lena Wardle, would have met both Charlotte Wilson and Ethel Voynich through her involvement in the Fabian society.

Fast forward another ten years, and after her 1895 affair with Sidney Reilly, she was listed as Ethel Voynich in the 1901 census and her profession is listed as a novelist. Wilfrid is also listed as living at the same address and his profession is listed as a bibliographer and bookseller.

Despite what they told the census people, they weren’t actually married – that happened a year later in 1902, when Wilfrid listed his profession as an analytical chemist.

However the Voyniches claimed to have been married in 1892, which was clearly a lie, and probably dates the start of their relationship.

In the 1901 census both she and Wilfrid have their surname as Voynich, but in1911, she was listed as Ethel Voynicz, which would be the Polish rendering of Voynich and is still listed as a novelist and author.

There’s possibly quite a simple explanation for this apparent change in the spelling of the surname – as you can see from this listing for a second hand Russian language edition of the Gadfly (Овод in Russian) Ethel’s name is given as Этель Лилиан Войнич, which would normally be transliterated into English as Etel’ Lilyan Voynich.

Perhaps Wilfred was a little unsure of the English names of the letters and asked Ethel to spell the names out, and she would of course spell the name the transliterated Russian way.

Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t feature in the 1921 census, as Wilfred had moved the antiquarian book business to New York by then and Ethel had followed him to New York.’

She does feature in the passenger lists on ships to and from Europe after Wilfred’s death in 1930, but I havn’t investigated them extensively, but a list of the voyages can be found on Colin Mackinnon’s website.

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The Lunatic Asylum Soviet …

When I was researching the story of Ethel Voynich, I came across the following link

I couldn’t of course access it as I’m not a UCC student or staff member, but fortunately the State Library of Victoria also provides access to the Irish Times archive.

When I found the article in the archive, it turned out to be about a new production of Овод an opera based on the Russian translation on Ethel Voynich’s novel, and didn’t add much to what I already knew.

But while I was searching the archive, I came (I was a bit sloppy, I thought ‘soviet opera ireland’ would be a good enough search string) across the following

And that led me down an interesting internet rabbit hole:

In 1919 British rule in much of Ireland had collapsed, and in many places, in the absence of any competent authority, the local trades unions formed councils to run various towns, the most famous being the Limerick Soviet.

These councils were usually called called ‘soviets’ in emulation of the revolutionary events in Russia.

Soviet – совет – in Russian originally simply meant ‘council’ although post revolution it acquired the specific meaning of ‘workers council’.

Bruree Workers Soviet – public domain image

But the Limerick Soviet was by no means the first.

In January 1919 the staff of the Monaghan Lunatic Asylum, in protest at poor working conditions, formed a workers council and occupied the asylum, hoisting the red flag on the roof, and barricading it with the assistance of some of the less disturbed inmates.

A squad of armed police were sent and there was a standoff. Questions were asked in the British House of Commons.

At first the authorities offered better conditions for the male staff numbers and not the women, but the staff stuck together and demanded better conditions for all.

After twelve days the authorities caved in and the workers, both male and female, were granted better working conditions.

The red flag was hauled down, the barricades removed and the workers victory was celebrated with a dance party…

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