There is a fine portrait also of the ancient village priest of Kuokkala, now somewhat of a crony of Repin's, a weather-beaten, suffering greybeard whose lined and pink face rises from the mass of a cope of gold brocade.

Portraits of priests are not bestowed on churches, otherwise this might fittingly decorate the wooden church on the hillock among the Kuokkala pines. Repin is a devoted worshipper there, is always at church service, stands in the choir and, despite his eighty years, raises his voice quite audibly in the anthems and responses. Repin loves his Church for its colour and its music, and because it is a great national treasure.

Some one once said Russia has three very great inheritances her language, her folk-lore, and her Church. How much the Church means to a Russian one cannot quite understand in the West. One needs to be a Christian Russian to understand it.

V

IN THE REPUBLIC OF ESTHONIA

WANDERING one wet afternoon in the Kadriorg Park, outside Reval, or rather Tallin, as the Esthonian capital is now called, I saw a strange sight. Mounting some stone steps leading from a soaked avenue, I glimpsed a gigantic gleaming head of metal hiding, as it were, behind a shed. A thought of recognition crossed my mind. An old man was coming down the steps towards me, so I hailed him.

"Is that not the monument of Peter the Great?" I asked.

"Yes," said he solemnly, and lifted his hat.

Returning on my steps, I then walked into the yard where the monument lay. It was on the same lorry which had brought it some years ago, coat-tails higher than its head, sword-point clumsily sticking up in air, face to the wooden wall of a house which was built perhaps by Peter's men themselves. The wheels of the lorry had sunk into the soft ground; the great sides of the monarch were all wet; the rain ran off his face, off his nose, into a wooden rain-water barrel at his head. It is Reval's finest monument, I am told. The Esthonian politicians could not stand it in the midst of their capital. One thing, however, rather touched me. The statue was not wilfully damaged, and it was left on the lorry in the evident expectation of having to be taken back again in a hurry to its former place of honour in the Peetri Place.

It is curious that the Finns left Alexander II. standing in the Nikolai Place at Helsingfors, but their Esthonian cousins turned Peter out-of-doors. The Esthonians are much more friendly to the Russians than the Finns are. Indeed, the majority of the inhabitants of Esthonia would be more than content to live under decent Russian rule; they would not tolerate Bolshevism, but they would be at peace federated to a democratic

Russia. The same cannot be said of the Finns or the Poles or the Letts.

It is repeatedly said by the Russians that of all the new countries lying across the centre of Europe, Esthonia is the one which treats them best. Russian is spoken freely everywhere; there is a vigorous and unfettered Russian newspaper, the Poslednia Izvestia; tram-conductors, railway servants and police do not object to answering questions in Russian. It is true all the streets and many villages and towns have been re-named in Esthonian. Some places have three names, like Tartu, which is also Dorpat and also Yurief, causing more confusion, however, than personal unpleasantness.

the

Landing at Reval (Tallin), one steps upon European mainland and realises our new sense of instability. There is a tremor under foot which you do not feel in Finland. "We are living on a volcano" is a bromide in Reval. Esthonia is an accidental and experimental country. The Germans expected to rule over it and had deep German roots there; the Russians in the old days governed it efficiently though they denied the Esthonians all part in the administration. It belongs economically to Russia, and perhaps cannot continue to exist without broad affiliations.

An inexperienced race has achieved nationhood; clerks have become Ministers of State, servers masters, tenants landlords. It has no white bread and little black. Its shops and warehouses are stacked with goods for which it can find no market. It is isolated, with enemies or rivals on each hand, and has to exist on one and a half old Russian provinces. Like a weak dwarf with a large head, it can hardly support its capital. The fine old city of Reval languishes at the end of its railways.

In the expectation of becoming a unique channel for trade with Soviet Russia, Reval has been a great centre of activity. Import-export offices were opened in every street. Factories over-produced. Banks extended large credits. The huge, blood-coloured silken flag of the S.S.S.R. waved in front of the Bolshevik Mission. But then it began also to wave in other parts of the world, and the Bolsheviks bought what they required, not in Esthonia, but in countries where it was more politically useful. Thence the unparalleled depression in the country.

Esthonian marks had one price in a bank and another on the street; on the black birzha, as it is called, you got much more for your pound or your five-dollar bill. The supposedly gold