Conquest, who are not phonies. Conquestrnin his latest book describes Stalinrnas an extreme dogmatist; Marxism “wasrnobviously well-tailored to Stalin’s ownrnpersonality.” Marxism was obviouslyrnwell-tailored not to the personality ofrnStalin but to the personalities of NewrnYork intelleetuals, so many of them neoconservativesrntoday.rnMarshal Mannerheim knew better.rnl ie was perhaps one of the two or threernmost admirable leaders of imperiled nationsrnin the 20th eentury (the other twornwere Churchill and De Gaulle). Ile wasrna Swedish baron, born in Finland, whornserved in the czar’s army, fought in thernRusso-Japanese War in 1904 and 1905,rnand was sent after that to survey the stillrnlargely unmapped borders of the RussianrnEmpire, a 2,000-mile journey, mostlyrnon horseback, that took two years. Inrn1917 he ceased to pledge allegiance tornthe czar and led the Finns in defeatingrnfirst their own communists and then thernRed Soviet army. In 1918 a Germanrnprince was about to become king of anrnindependent Finland. Mannerheim saidrnno. The British will win the war, notrnthe Germans, he foretold. Besides, werndon’t need a monarch who, in the 20thrncentury, is often not much more than arnfigurehead. What Finland needed was arnstrong president. Though Mannerheimrndid not fill the position, he did becomernconstable of the nation, the Marshal ofrnFinland. In 1939, at the age of 72, hernadvised the Finnish government to negotiaternseriously with Stalin about Finland’srnfrontiers; he knew that Stalinrnwanted to regain the old frontiers of Peterrnthe Great. He was overruled butrnthen led the Finnish Army during thernWinter War and during what becamernthe Continuation War. When therncrunch came in 1944, the Finns askedrnhim to become their President. ThernFenno-Swedish aristocrat made peacernwith the Georgian bandit Stalin. It wasrnnot the Socialists but the men of thernFinnish Conservative Party—Mannerheim,rnPaasikivi, Kekkonen—whomrnStalin and the Russians trusted. Truernconservatives, not neoconservatives,rnlight-years away in character and intelligencernfrom the latter bunch that is nowrnin charge of much of our intellectualrncommerce.rnMannerheim never owned a house.rnHe rented one on a flat hilltop in I lelsinki,rnin which the Mannerheim museum isrnnow. It has all the marks of the life of anrnold nobleman-soldier, including plentyrnof superb antlers, the skin of a tiger hernshot in Nepal, two tall silver-chasedrnhorns from Tibet, his medals and gunsrn(well, two of thein are Purdeys), etc.rnThese artifacts are not dominant or obtrusive.rnImpressive is his bedroom wherernhe slept on a narrow army cot, requestingrnthat the heat be kept at not higherrnthan 60 degrees. Most of the house isrncomfortably furnished, with a NorthrnEuropean upper-middle-class feel to it.rnIn l 9 l 8 Mannheim divorced his difficultrnRussian wife and lived alone. Therntwo Italian chandeliers he bought arernnot very good. The main boulevard ofrnHelsinki is named after him and his statuernis at the end of it, overlooking a soullessrnmodern glass box of a building, notrna prime place. The long living room hasrna view of the harbor. That view is myrnonly luxury, Mannerheim said. Thatrnkind of restraint and modesty bondedrnthis aristocrat to the democrats of Finland,rnlike him defenders of Western civilization,rnthe civilization that for the lastrn400 years has been a mix of aristocracyrnand democracy, not yet entirely leveledrnto the lowest common denominators ofrnpopularity, publicity, and populism.rnStatues of Russian czars stand in thernsquares of Helsinki. There is a St. Petersburgrnlook to the harbor quays, broadrnwith cobblestones, well-proportioned,rnlined with low-lying neoclassical buildingsrnof the Eastern European Empirernstyle. It is a provincial capital, underrngloomy grey skies in the winter, withrnbourgeois touches. I walk into a confiseriernwith stout Finnish ladies wearingrnlarge fur hats; then I sit in a brasseriernwhere the food is not particularly goodrnbut where through the windows I see thernstreet full of people walking around afterrneight on a weekday night, with thernstreetcar gliding by. I have the feelingrnthat this will remain so 10, 20, 30 yearsrnfrom now. There is a tremendous bookshop,rnthe Finns arc great readers. “ThernMonth in Helsinki” lists the various operasrnand concerts. In 1917 Finlandrnachieved her independence. In thernsame year the Philadelphia Orchestrarnwas organized. I fear that in 2017 thernPhiladelphia Orchestra will exist inrnname only: it will perform perhaps oncerna month at Wanamakers in a suburbanrnmall, while in Helsinki the bookshop,rnthe home-baked creamy cakes, therngrandmotherly Saturday afternoons, andrnthe I lelsinki Philharmonic will still exist.rnI fly to Tallinn, capital city of the reconstitutedrnRepublic of Estonia. At thernairport the first signs of the budding,rnuneasy, as yet thin authority of a newrnsovereign state: the hastily assembledrnuniforms of the border guards, the girl atrnthe visa checkpoint who cannot find thernofficial stamp, the prevalence of signsrnstill in Cyrillic Russian script, etc.rnTallinn still has a Russian touch: onestoryrnwooden houses, slightly askew,rnwith their large double windows. In thernlee of ugly, concrete, Soviet-style apartmentrnhouses is a yellow-painted RussianrnOrthodox Church, with its big bulbousrnpea-green onion dome; it is closed, suspicious,rninscrutable. Men and womenrnhurrying in the streets in their paddedrncoats, Russian fur caps, and hats. Insidernits buildings Tallinn has a Russian smell,rnwith the ingredients of damp greatcoats,rnboiled cabbage, and cold grease.rnI am lodged in Hotel Oliimpia, thernnewest and biggest hotel in Tallinn. Itrnwas built for the Olympics in 1980, 26rnstories high, all modern Soviet architecture.rnThe usual Eastern European oddities:rnfor some unknown reason there isrnan enormous empty refrigerator in myrnroom, clanking periodically throughoutrnthe night. One must hunt for the stopperrnin the bathroom. As one travels east,rntoilet paper gets coarser and coarser.rnThe elevators are gigantic, but they dornnot always work. Each may accommodaternas many as thirty people, but oncernin a while the Russian-speaking helprnorders the crowded passengers asidernto make way for steel carts filled withrnhundreds of dirty plates, exuding everrnstronger smells of lukewarm, leftoverrngrease. A hive of people at the bar; onerncannot get the bartender’s attention exceptrnby reaching out to grab a glass,rnwhile others are pounding and shouting.rnI stand in my American overcoat, myrnfur-lined gloves in my right pocket. Arnmiddle-aged Russian woman stalks uprnto me, with a crumpled face, exclaimingrnin English: “Come! Sit with us!”rnAcross that dim amphitheater her group,rnmustachioed Caucasians, grin and wave,rnbeckoning to me to join them. Pointingrnat my watch, I excuse myself. Later,rnout in the street, I find that the womanrnhas stolen my gloves. The hotel is full ofrnGeorgians and Armenians, as the youngrnEstonian woman at the desk tells me;rnmany of them are criminals; the hotelrndetectives cannot dislodge them; theyrnmake passkeys, empty their belongingsrnfrom their suitcases, and move into otherrnrooms they have cased beforehand.rnAre these the remnants of the Sovietrn40/CHRONICLESrnrnrn