The Beginning of my Life at Vladímir.
§1
WHEN we had reached Kosmodemyansk and I came out to take my seat in the
sledge, I saw that the horses were harnessed three abreast in Russian
fashion; and the bells jingled cheerfully on the yoke worn by the
wheeler.
In Perm and Vyatka they harness the horses differently—either in single
file, or one leader with two wheelers.
My heart beat fast with joy, to see the Russian fashion again.
“Now let us see how fast you can go!” I said to the lad sitting with a
professional air on the box of the sledge. He wore a sheepskin coat with
the wool inside, and such stiff gloves that he could hardly bring two
fingers together to clutch the coin I offered him.
“Very good, Sir. Gee up, my beauties!” said the lad. Then he turned to
me and said, “Now, Sir, just you hold on; there’s a hill coming where I
shall let the horses go.” The hill was a steep descent to the Volga,
along which the track passed in winter.
He did indeed let the horses go. As they galloped down the hill, the
sledge, instead of moving decently forwards, banged like a cracker from
side to side of the road. The driver was intensely pleased; and I
confess that I, being a Russian, enjoyed it no less.
In this fashion I drove into the year 1838—the best and brightest year
of my life. Let me tell you how I saw the New Year in.
§2
About eighty _versts_ from Nizhni, my servant Matthew and I went into a
post-house to warm ourselves. The frost was keen, and it was windy as
well. The post-master, a thin and sickly creature who aroused my
compassion, was writing out a way-bill, repeating each letter as he
wrote it, and making mistakes all the same. I took off my fur coat and
walked about the room in my long fur boots. Matthew warmed himself at
the red-hot stove, the post-master muttered to himself, and the wooden
clock on the wall ticked with a feeble, jerky sound.
“Look at the clock, Sir,” Matthew said to me; “it will strike twelve
immediately, and the New Year will begin.” He glanced half-enquiringly
at me and then added, “I shall bring in some of the things they put on
the sledge at Vyatka.” Without waiting for an answer, he hurried off in
search of the bottles and a parcel.
Matthew, of whom I shall say more in future, was more than a servant—he
was my friend, my younger brother. A native of Moscow, he had been
handed over to our old friend Sonnenberg, to learn the art of
bookbinding, about which Sonnenberg himself knew little enough; later,
he was transferred to my service.
I knew that I should have hurt Matthew by refusing, and I had really no
objection myself to making merry in the post-house. The New Year is
itself a stage in life’s journey.
He brought in a ham and champagne.
The wine was frozen hard, and the ham was frosted over with ice; we had
to chop it with an axe, but _à la guerre comme à la guerre_.
“A Happy New Year,” we all cried. And I had cause for happiness. I was
travelling back in the right direction, and every hour brought me nearer
to Moscow—my heart was full of hope.
As our frozen champagne was not much to the taste of the post-master, I
poured an equal quantity of rum into his glass; and this new form of
“half and half” was a great success.
The driver, whom I invited to drink with us, was even more thoroughgoing
in his methods: he poured pepper into the foaming wine, stirred it up
with a spoon, and drank the glass at one gulp; then he sighed and added
with a sort of groan, “That was fine and hot.”
The post-master himself helped me into the sledge, and was so zealous in
his attentions that he dropped a lighted candle into the hay and failed
to find it afterwards. He was in great spirits and kept repeating, “A
Happy New Year for me too, thanks to you.”
The “heated” driver touched up the horses, and we started.
§3
At eight on the following evening I arrived at Vladímir and stopped at
an inn which is described with perfect accuracy in _The Tarantas_,[113]
with its queer menu in Russian-French and its vinegar for claret.
Footnote 113:
_I.e._, _The Travelling Carriage_, a novel by Count Sologub.
“Someone was asking for you this morning,” said the waiter, after
reading the name on my passport; “perhaps he’s waiting in the bar now.”
The waiter’s head displayed that dashing parting and noble curl over the
ear which used to be the distinguishing marks of Russian waiters and are
now peculiar to them and Prince Louis Napoleon.
I could not guess who this could be.
“But there he is,” added the waiter, standing aside. What I first saw
was not a man at all but an immense tray piled high with all sorts of
provisions—cake and biscuits, apples and oranges, eggs, almonds and
raisins; then behind the tray came into view the white beard and blue
eyes belonging to the bailiff on my father’s estate near Vladimir.
“Gavrilo Semyónitch!” I cried out, and rushed into his arms. His was the
first familiar face, the first link with the past, that I had met since
the period of prison and exile began. I could not look long enough at
the old man’s intelligent face, I could not say enough to him. To me he
represented nearness to Moscow, to my home and my friends: he had seen
them all three days before and brought me greetings from them all. How
could I feel that I was really far from them?
§4
The Governor of Vladimir was a man of the world who had lived long
enough to attain a temper of cool indifference. He was a Greek and his
name was Kuruta. He took my measure at once and abstained from the least
attempt at severity. Office work was never even hinted at—the only duty
he asked me to undertake was that I should edit the Provincial Gazette
in collaboration with the local schoolmaster.
I was familiar with this business, as I had started the unofficial part
of the Gazette at Vyatka. By the way, one article which I published
there nearly landed my successor in a scrape. In describing the festival
on the Big River, I said that the mutton offered to St. Nicholas used to
be given away to the poor but was now sold. This enraged the Abbot, and
the Governor had some difficulty in pacifying him.
§5
Provincial Gazettes were first introduced in the year 1837. It was
Bludov, the Minister of the Interior, who conceived the idea of training
in publicity the land of silence and dumbness. Bludov, known as the
continuator of Karamzín’s History—though he never added a line to it—and
as the author of the Report on the Decembrist Revolution—which had
better never have been written—was one of those doctrinaire statesmen
who came to the front in the last years of Alexander’s reign. They were
able, educated, honest men; they had belonged in their youth to the
Literary Club of Arzamas;[114] they wrote Russian well, had patriotic
feelings, and were so much interested in the history of their country
that they had no leisure to bestow on contemporary events. They all
worshipped the immortal memory of Karamzín, loved Zhukovski, knew
Krylóv[115] by heart, and used to travel to Moscow on purpose to talk to
Dmítriev[116] in his house there. I too used to visit there in my
student days; but I was armed against the old poet by prejudices in
favour of romanticism, by my acquaintance with N. Polevói, and by a
secret feeling of dissatisfaction that Dmítriev, being a poet, should
also be Minister of Justice. Though much was expected of them, they did
nothing; but that is the fate of doctrinaires in all countries. Perhaps
they would have left more lasting traces behind them if Alexander had
lived; but Alexander died, and they never got beyond the mere wish to do
the state some service.
Footnote 114:
Zhukovski and Púshkin both belonged to this club. It carried on a
campaign against Shishkóv and other opponents of the new developments
in Russian style.
Footnote 115:
Krylóv (1768-1844), the famous writer of fables.
Footnote 116:
Dmítriev, a poet once famous, who lived long enough to welcome
Púshkin.
At Monaco there is a monument to one of their Princes with this
inscription. “Here rests Prince Florestan”—I forget his number—“who
wished to make his subjects happy.” Our doctrinaires also wished to make
Russia happy, but they reckoned without their host. I don’t know who
prevented Florestan; but it was our Florestan[117] who prevented them.
They were forced to take a part in the steady deterioration of Russia,
and all the reforms they could introduce were useless, mere alterations
of forms and names. Every Russian in authority considers it his highest
duty to rack his brains for some novelty of this kind; the change is
generally for the worse and sometimes leaves things exactly as they
were. Thus the name of ‘secretary’ has given place to a Russian
equivalent in the public offices of the provinces, but the duties are
not changed. I remember how the Minister of Justice put forward a
proposal for necessary changes in the uniform of civilian officials. It
began with great pomp and circumstance—“Having taken special notice of
the lack of uniformity in the cut and fashion of certain uniforms worn
by the civilian department, and having adopted as a principle ...,” etc.
Footnote 117:
_I.e._, the Emperor Nicholas.
Beset by this itch for novelty the Minister of the Interior made changes
with regard to the officers who administer justice in the rural
districts. The old judges lived in the towns and paid occasional visits
to the country; their successors have their regular residence in the
country and pay occasional visits to the towns. By this reform all the
peasants came under the immediate scrutiny of the police. The police
penetrated into the secrets of the peasant’s commerce and wealth, his
family life, and all the business of his community; and the village
community had been hitherto the last refuge of the people’s life. The
only redeeming feature is this—there are many villages and only two
judges to a district.
§6
About the same time the same Minister excogitated the Provincial
Gazettes. Our Government, while utterly contemptuous of education, makes
pretensions to be literary; and whereas, in England, for example, there
are no Government newspapers at all, every public department in Russia
publishes its own organ, and so does the Academy, and so do the
Universities. We have papers to represent the mining interest and the
pickled-herring interest, the interests of Frenchmen and Germans, the
marine interest and the land-carriage interest, all published at the
expense of Government. The different departments contract for articles,
just as they contract for fire-wood and candles, the only difference
being that in the former case there is no competition; there is no lack
of general surveys, invented statistics, and fanciful conclusions based
on the statistics. Together with a monopoly in everything else, the
Government has assumed a monopoly of nonsense; ordering everyone to be
silent, it chatters itself without ceasing. In continuation of this
system, Bludov ordered that each provincial Government should publish
its own Gazette, and that each Gazette should include, as well as the
official news, a department for history, literature and the like.
No sooner said than done. In fifty provincial Governments they were soon
tearing their hair over this unofficial part. Priests from the
theological seminaries, doctors of medicine, schoolmasters, anyone who
was suspected of being able to spell correctly—all these were pressed
into the service. These recruits reflected, read up the leading
newspapers and magazines, felt nervous, took the plunge, and finally
produced their little articles.
To see oneself in print is one of the strongest artificial passions of
an age corrupted by books. But it requires courage, nevertheless, except
in special circumstances, to venture on a public exhibition of one’s
productions. People who would not have dreamed of publishing their
articles in the _Moscow Gazette_ or the Petersburg newspapers, now began
to print their writings in the privacy of their own houses. Thus the
dangerous habit of possessing an organ of one’s own took root, and men
became accustomed to publicity. And indeed it is not a bad thing to have
a weapon which is always ready for use. A printing press, like the human
tongue, has no bones.
§7
My colleague in the editorship had taken his degree at Moscow University
and in the same faculty as myself. The end of his life was too tragical
for me to speak of him with a smile; but, down to the day of his death,
he was an exceedingly absurd figure. By no means stupid, he was
excessively clumsy and awkward. His exceptional ugliness had no
redeeming feature, and there was an abnormal amount of it. His face was
nearly twice as large as most people’s and marked by small-pox; he had
the mouth of a codfish which spread from ear to ear; his light-grey eyes
were lightened rather than shaded by colourless eye-lashes; his scalp
had a meagre covering of bristly hair; he was moreover taller by a head
than myself,[118] with a slouching figure and very slovenly habits.
Footnote 118:
Herzen himself was a very tall, large man.
His very name was such that it once caused him to be arrested. Late one
evening, wrapped up in his overcoat, he was walking past the Governor’s
residence, with a field-glass in his hand. He stopped and aimed the
glass at the heavens. This astonished the sentry, who probably reckoned
the stars as Government property: he challenged the rapt star-gazer—“Who
goes there?” “Nebába,”[119] answered my colleague in a deep bass voice,
and gazed as before.
Footnote 119:
The word means in Russian “Not a woman.”
“Don’t play the fool with me—I’m on duty,” said the sentry.
“I tell you that I am Nebába!”
The soldier’s patience was exhausted: he rang the bell, a serjeant
appeared, the sentry handed the astronomer over to him, to be taken to
the guard-room. “They’ll find out there,” as he said, “whether you’re a
woman or not.” And there he would certainly have stayed till the
morning, had not the officer of the day recognised him.
§8
One morning Nebába came to my room to tell me that he was going to
Moscow for a few days, and he smiled with an air that was half shy and
half sentimental. Then he added, with some confusion, “I shall not
return alone.” “Do you mean that ...?” “Yes, I am going to be married,”
he answered bashfully. I was astonished at the heroic courage of the
woman who was willing to marry this good-hearted but monstrously ugly
suitor. But a fortnight later I saw the bride at his house; she was
eighteen and, if no beauty, pretty enough, with lively eyes; and then I
thought him the hero.
Six weeks had not passed before I saw that things were going badly with
my poor Orson. He was terribly depressed, corrected his proofs
carelessly, never finished his article on “The Migration of Birds,” and
could not fix his attention on anything; at times it seemed to me that
his eyes were red and swollen. This state of things did not last long.
One day as I was going home, I noticed a crowd of boys and shopkeepers
running towards the churchyard. I walked after them.
Nebába’s body was lying near the church wall, and a rifle lay beside
him. He had shot himself opposite the windows of his own house; the
string with which he had pulled the trigger was still attached to his
foot. The police-surgeon blandly assured the crowd that the deceased had
suffered no pain; and the police prepared to carry his body to the
station.
Nature is cruel to the individual. What dark forebodings filled the
breast of this poor sufferer, before he made up his mind to use his
piece of string and stop the pendulum which measured out nothing to him
but insult and suffering? And why was it so? Because his father was
consumptive or his mother dropsical? Likely enough. But what right have
we to ask for reasons or for justice? What is it that we seek to call to
account? Will the whirling hurricane of life answer our questions?
§9
At the same time there began for me a new epoch in my life—pure and
bright, youthful but earnest; it was the life of a hermit, but a hermit
thoroughly in love.
But this belongs to another part of my narrative.
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that:
was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).