CHAPTER I

A Prophecy—Ogaryóv’s Arrest—The Fires—A Moscow Liberal—Mihail Orlóv—The Churchyard.

ONE morning in the spring of 1834 I went to Vadim’s house. Though neither he nor any of his brothers or sisters were at home, I went upstairs to his little room, sat down, and began to write.

The door opened softly, and Vadim’s mother came in. Her tread was scarcely audible; looking tired and ill, she went to an armchair and sat down. “Go on writing,” she said; “I just looked in to see if Vadya had come home. The children have gone out for a walk, and the downstairs rooms are so empty and depressing that I felt sad and frightened. I shall sit here for a little, but don’t let me interfere with what you are doing.”

She looked thoughtful, and her face showed more clearly than usual the shadow of past suffering, and that suspicious fear of the future and distrust of life which is the invariable result of great calamities when they last long and are often repeated.

We began to talk. She told me something of their life in Siberia. “I have come through much already,” she said,shaking her head, “and there is more to come: my heart forebodes evil.”

I remembered how, sometimes, when listening to our free talk on political subjects, she would turn pale and heave a gentle sigh; and then she would go away to another room and remain silent for a long time.

“You and your friends,” she went on, “are on the road that leads to certain ruin—ruin to Vadya and yourself and all of you. You know I love you like a son”—and a tear rolled down her worn face.

I said nothing. She took my hand, tried to smile, and went on: “Don’t be vexed with me; my nerves are upset. I quite understand. You must go your own way; for you there is no other; if there were, you would be different people. I know this, but I cannot conquer my fears; I have borne so much misfortune that I have no strength for more. Please don’t say a word of this to Vadya, or he will be vexed and argue with me. But here he is!”—and she hastily wiped away her tears and once more begged me by a look to keep her secret.

Unhappy mother! Saint and heroine! Corneille’squ’il mourût[60]was not a nobler utterance than yours.

60.Said of his son by the father in Corneille’s play,Horace.

Her prophecy was soon fulfilled. Though the storm passed harmless this time over the heads of her sons, yet the poor lady had much grief and fear to suffer.

“Arrested him?” I called out, springing out of bed, and pinching myself, to find out if I was asleep or awake.

“Two hours after you left our house, the police and aparty of Cossacks came and arrested my master and seized his papers.”

The speaker was Ogaryóv’s valet. Of late all had been quiet, and I could not imagine what pretext the police had invented. Ogaryóv had only come to Moscow the day before. And why had they arrested him, and not me?

To do nothing was impossible. I dressed and went out without any definite purpose. It was my first experience of misfortune. I felt wretched and furious at my own impotence.

I wandered about the streets till at last I thought of a friend whose social position made it possible for him to learn the state of the case, and, perhaps, to mend matters. But he was then living terribly far off, at a house in a distant suburb. I called the first cab I saw and hurried off at top speed. It was then seven o’clock in the morning.

Eighteen months before this time we had made the acquaintance of this man, who was a kind of a celebrity in Moscow. Educated in Paris, he was rich, intelligent, well-informed, witty, and independent in his ideas. For complicity in the Decembrist plot he had been imprisoned in a fortress till he and some others were released; and though he had not been exiled, he wore a halo. He was in the public service and had great influence with Prince Dmitri Golitsyn, the Governor of Moscow, who liked people with independent views, especially if they could express them in good French; for the Governor was not strong in Russian.

V.—as I shall call him—was ten years our senior and surprised us by his sensible comments on current events,his knowledge of political affairs, his eloquent French, and the ardour of his liberalism. He knew so much and so thoroughly; he was so pleasant and easy in conversation; his views were so clearly defined; he had a reply to every question and a solution of every problem. He read everything—new novels, pamphlets, newspapers, poetry, and was working seriously at zoology as well; he drew up reports for the Governor and was organising a series of school-books.

His liberalism was of the purest tricolour hue, the liberalism of the Left, midway between Mauguin and General Lamarque.[61]

61.French politicians prominent about 1830.

The walls of his study in Moscow were covered with portraits of famous revolutionaries, from John Hampden and Bailly to Fieschi and Armand Carrel,[62]and a whole library of prohibited books was ranged beneath these patron saints. A skeleton, with a few stuffed birds and scientific preparations, gave an air of study and concentration to the room and toned down its revolutionary appearance.

62.Bailly, Mayor of Paris, was guillotined in 1793. Fieschi was executed in 1836 for an attempt on the life of Louis Philippe. Armand Carrel was a French publicist and journalist who fell in a duel in 1836.

We envied his experience and knowledge of the world; his subtle irony in argument impressed us greatly. We thought of him as a practical reformer and rising statesman.

V. was not at home. He had gone to Moscow the evening before, for an interview with the Governor; his valetsaid that he would certainly return within two hours. I waited for him.

The country-house which he occupied was charming. The study where I waited was a high spacious room on the ground-floor, with a large door leading to a terrace and garden. It was a hot day; the scent of trees and flowers came from the garden; and some children were playing in front of the house and laughing loudly. Wealth, ease, space, sun and shade, flowers and verdure—what a contrast to the confinement and close air and darkness of a prison! I don’t know how long I sat there, absorbed in bitter thoughts; but suddenly the valet who was on the terrace called out to me with an odd kind of excitement.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Please come here and look.”

Not wishing to annoy the man, I walked out to the terrace, and stood still in horror. All round a number of houses were burning; it seemed as if they had all caught fire at once. The fire was spreading with incredible speed.

I stayed on the terrace. The man watched the fire with a kind of uneasy satisfaction, and he said, “It’s spreading grandly; that house on the right is certain to be burnt.”

There is something revolutionary about a fire: fire mocks at property and equalises fortunes. The valet felt this instinctively.

Within half an hour, a whole quarter of the sky was covered with smoke, red below and greyish black above. It was the beginning of those fires which went on for five months, and of which we shall hear more in the sequel.

At last V. arrived. He was in good spirits, very cordialand friendly, talking of the fires past which he had come and of the common report that they were due to arson. Then he added, half in jest: “It’s Pugatchóv[63]over again. Just look out, or you and I will be caught by the rebels and impaled.”

63.The leader of a famous rebellion in Catherine’s reign. Many nobles were murdered with brutal cruelty.

“I am more afraid that the authorities will lay us by the heels,” I answered. “Do you know that Ogaryóv was arrested last night by the police?”

“The police! Good heavens!”

“That is why I came. Something must be done. You must go to the Governor and find out what the charge is; and you must ask leave for me to see him.”

No answer came, and I looked at V. I saw a face that might have belonged to his elder brother—the pleasant colour and features were changed; he groaned aloud and was obviously disturbed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“You know I told you, I always told you, how it would end. Yes, yes, it was bound to happen. It’s likely enough they will shut me up too, though I am perfectly innocent. I know what the inside of a fortress is like, and it’s no joke, I can tell you.”

“Will you go to the Governor?”

“My dear fellow, what good would it do? Let me give you a piece of friendly advice: don’t say a word about Ogaryóv; keep as quiet as you can, or harm will come of it. You don’t know how dangerous affairs like this are. I frankly advise you to keep out of it. Make what stir you like, you will do Ogaryóv no good and you will getcaught yourself. That is what autocracy means—Russian subjects have no rights and no means of defence, no advocates and no judges.”

But his brave words and trenchant criticisms had no attractions for me on this occasion: I took my hat and departed.

I found a general commotion going on at home. My father was angry with me because Ogaryóv had been arrested; my uncle, the Senator, was already on the scene, rummaging among my books and picking out those which he thought dangerous; he was very uneasy.

On my table I found an invitation to dine that day with Count Orlóv. Possibly he might be able to do something? Though I had learned a lesson by my first experiment, it could do no harm to try.

Mihail Orlóv was one of the founders of the famous Society of Welfare;[64]and if he missed Siberia, he was less to blame for that than his brother, who was the first to gallop up with his squadron of the Guards to the defence of the Winter Palace, on December 14, 1825. Orlóv was confined at first to his own estates, and allowed to settle in Moscow a few years later. During his solitary life in the country he studied political economy and chemistry. The first time I met him he spoke of a new method of naming chemical compounds. Able men who take up some science late in life often show a tendency to rearrange the furniture, so to speak, to suit their own ideas. Orlóv’s system was more complicated than the Frenchsystem, which is generally accepted. As I wished to attract his attention, I argued in a friendly way that, though his system was good, it was not as good as the old one.

64.An imitation of theTugenbundformed by German students in 1808. In Russia the society became identified with the Decembrists.

He contested the point, but ended by agreeing with me.

My little trick was successful, and we became intimate. He saw in me a rising possibility, and I saw in him a man who had fought for our ideals, an intimate friend of our heroes, and a shining light amid surrounding darkness.

Poor Orlóv was like a caged lion. He beat against the bars of his cage at every turn; nowhere could he find elbow-room or occupation, and he was devoured by a passion for activity.

More than once since the collapse of France[65]I have met men of this type, men to whom political activity was an absolute necessity, who never could find rest within the four walls of their study or in family life. To them solitude is intolerable: it makes them fanciful and unreasonable; they quarrel with their few remaining friends, and are constantly discovering plots against themselves, or else they make plots of their own, in order to unmask the imaginary schemes of their enemies.

65.I.e., after December 2, 1851.

A theatre of action and spectators are as vital to these men as the air they breathe, and they are capable of real heroism under such conditions. Noise and publicity are essential to them; they must be making speeches and hearing the objections of their opponents; they love the excitement of contest and the fever of danger, and, if deprived of these stimulants, they grow depressed and spiritless, run to seed, lose their heads, and make mistakes.Ledru-Roilin[66]is a man of this type; and he, by the way, especially since he has grown a beard, has a personal resemblance to Orlóv.

66.Alexandre Ledru-Rollin (1807-1874), a French liberal politician and advocate of universal suffrage.

Orlóv was a very fine-looking man. His tall figure, dignified bearing, handsome manly features, and entirely bald scalp seemed to suit one another perfectly, and lent an irresistible attraction to his outward appearance. His head would make a good contrast with the head of General Yermólov, that tough old warrior, whose square frowning forehead, penthouse of grey hair, and penetrating glance gave him the kind of beauty which fascinated Marya Kochubéi in the poem.[67]

67.See Púshkin’sPoltáva. Marya, who was young and beautiful, fell in love with Mazeppa, who was old and war-worn and her father’s enemy.

Orlóv was at his wits’ end for occupation. He started a factory for stained-glass windows of medieval patterns and spent more in producing them than he got by selling them. Then he tried to write a book on “Credit,” but that proved uncongenial, though it was his only outlet. The lion was condemned to saunter about Moscow with nothing to do, and not daring even to use his tongue freely.

Orlóv’s struggles to turn himself into a philosopher and man of science were most painful to watch. His intellect, though clear and showy, was not at all suited to abstract thought, and he confused himself over the application of newly devised methods to familiar subjects, as in the case of chemistry. Though speculation was decidedly not his forte, he studied metaphysics with immense perseverance.

Being imprudent and careless in his talk, he was constantlymaking slips; he was carried away by his instincts, which were always chivalrous and generous, and then he suddenly remembered his position and checked himself in mid-course. In these diplomatic withdrawals he was even less successful than in metaphysics or scientific terminology: in trying to clear himself of one indiscretion, he often slipped into two or three more. He got blamed for this; people are so superficial and unobservant that they think more of words than actions, and attach more importance to particular mistakes than to a man’s general character. It was unfair to expect of him a high standard of consistency; he was less to blame than the sphere in which he lived, where every honourable feeling had to be hidden, like smuggled goods, up your sleeve, and uttered behind closed doors. If you spoke above your breath, you would spend the whole day in wondering whether the police would soon be down upon you.

It was a large dinner. I happened to sit next General Raevski, Orlóv’s brother-in-law. Raevski also had been in disgrace since the famous fourteenth of December. As a boy of fourteen he had served under his distinguished father at the battle of Borodino; and he died eventually of wounds received in the Caucasus. I told him about Ogaryóv and asked whether Orlóv would be able and willing to take any steps.

Raevski’s face clouded over, but it did not express that querulous anxiety for personal safety which I had seen earlier in the day; he evidently felt disgust mixed with bitter memories.

“Of willingness there can be no question in such acase,” he said; “but I doubt if Orlóv has the power to do much. Pass through to the study after dinner, and I will bring him to you there.” He was silent for a moment and then added, “So your turn has come too; those depths will drown you all.”

Orlóv questioned me and then wrote to the Governor, asking for an interview. “The Prince is a gentleman,” he said; “if he does nothing, at least he will tell us the truth.”

I went next day to hear the answer. Prince Dmitri Golitsyn had replied that Ogaryóv had been arrested by order of the Tsar, that a commission of enquiry had been appointed, and that the charge turned chiefly on a dinner given on June 24, at which seditious songs had been sung. I was utterly puzzled. That day was my father’s birthday; I had spent the whole day at home, and Ogaryóv was there too.

My heart was heavy when I left Orlóv. He too was unhappy: when I held out my hand at parting, he got up and embraced me, pressed me tight to his broad chest and kissed me. It was just as if he felt that we should not soon meet again.

I only saw him once more, just six years later. He was then near death; I was struck by the signs of illness and depression on his face, and the marked angularity of his features was a shock to me. He felt that he was breaking up, and knew that his affairs were in hopeless disorder. Two months later he died, of a clot of blood in the arteries.

At Lucerne there is a wonderful monument carved by Thorwaldsen in the natural rock—a niche containing the figure of a dying lion. The great beast is mortallywounded; blood is pouring from the wound, and a broken arrow sticks up out of it The grand head rests on the paw; the animal moans and his look expresses agony. That is all; the place is shut off by hills and trees and bushes; passers-by would never guess that the king of beasts lies there dying.

I sat there one day for a long time and looked at this image of suffering, and all at once I remembered my last visit to Orlóv.

As I drove home from Orlóv’s house, I passed the office of General Tsinski, chief of the police; and it occurred to me to make a direct application to him for leave to see Ogaryóv.

Never in my life had I paid a visit to any person connected with the police. I had to wait a long time; but at last the Chief Commissioner appeared. My request surprised him.

“What reason have you for asking this permission?”

“Ogaryóv and I are cousins.”

“Cousins?” he asked, looking me straight in the face.

I said nothing, but returned His Excellency’s look exactly.

“I can’t give you leave,” he said; “your kinsman is in solitary confinement. I am very sorry.”

My ignorance and helplessness were torture to me. Hardly any of my intimate friends were in Moscow; it was quite impossible to find out anything. The police seemed to have forgotten me or to ignore me. I was utterly weary and wretched. But when all the sky was covered with gloomy clouds and the long night of exile and prisonwas coming close, just then a radiant sunbeam fell upon me.

A few words of deep sympathy, spoken by a girl[68]of sixteen, whom I regarded as a child, put new life in me.

68.This was Natálya Zakhárin, Herzen’s cousin, who afterwards became his wife.

This is the first time that a woman figures in my narrative; and it is practically true that only one woman figures in my life.

My young heart had been set beating before by fleeting fancies of youth; but these vanished like the shapes of cloudland before this figure, and no new fancies ever came.

Our meeting was in a churchyard. She leant on a grave-stone and spoke of Ogaryóv, till my sorrow grew calm.

“We shall meet to-morrow,” she said, and gave me her hand, smiling through her tears.

“To-morrow,” I repeated, and looked long after her retreating figure.

The date was July 19, 1834.

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