hurried into the drawing-room to have a look at the illustrious
fellow-countryman, who was being read by all Russia. When
we went in Count Tolstoy was carrying on a heated argument
with Turgenev. Ogaryov and Herzen, too, were taking part in
the discussion. At that time (1861) Tolstoy looked about
thirty-five; he was of medium height, his features were ugly,
there was a piercing and yet dreamy look in his little grey
eyes. It was odd that his face never wore that expression of
childlike good-nature sometimes seen in Turgenev’s smile, and
so attractive in him.
As we went in, the usual introductions began. Of course,
Tolstoy had no idea that we were so excited at seeing him that
we hardly dared to speak to him, but only listened to what he
said to other people. He came to see us every day. It was soon
obvious that he was far more sympathetic as a writer than as
a thinker, for he was sometimes illogical; in defence of his
fatalism, he often had heated arguments with Turgenev, in the
course of which they said extremely disagreeable things to each
other. When there was no discussion going on, and when Tolstoy
was in a good humour, he would sit down at the piano and sing
us the soldiers’ songs composed in the Crimea during the war:
‘On the eighth day of September,
How the devil brought us here
To camp upon the mountains,’ etc.
We laughed as we listened, but in reality it was painful to
hear of what was done in the Crimea—the light-hearted way
in which the fate of thousands of soldiers was entrusted to
incompetent generals, and the incredible amount of thieving
that went on. Even lint was stolen and sold to the enemy, while
our long-suffering soldiers were dying.”
“Every year Turgenev paid one or two visits to London.
Once he came to see us soon after writing _Faust_. He read
it aloud to us, but neither Ogaryov nor Herzen liked it; the
latter was, however, very reserved in his observations, while
the former criticised it very severely. From that day Turgenev
lost all liking for Ogaryov.
I remember on one visit to London Turgenev was particularly
good-humoured and sweet to Herzen.
‘Do you know,’ he said to him, ‘I have not come alone this
time. Simply to see you, a queer fellow has set off on his
travels, without knowing a word of any foreign language, and
begged me to take him to London. Isn’t that heroic? Guess who
it is. But I tell you what,’ he went on, ‘perhaps you had
better call on him first: Ogaryov may not care much about
seeing him; there were some misunderstandings....’
‘Goodness,’ said Herzen, ‘surely it’s not Nekrassov? He knows
no foreign language. What makes him suppose I should care to
see him after the message he sent Ogaryov through you, Sergey
Ivanovitch?’
‘But you know he has come all the way from Russia on purpose to
see you!’
‘He can go back again,’ said Herzen, and he was not to be
moved. He was always far more ready to resent a slight to
Ogaryov than to himself.
For three days Turgenev went on trying to persuade Herzen to
see Nekrassov, but he was forced in the end to submit, and to
take the latter back without obtaining an interview.”
“When they met in Paris in 1869, they talked about literature,
and Herzen asked Turgenev what he was writing.
‘I am writing nothing,’ he answered, ‘I am no longer read
in Russia; I have begun writing in German for Germans, and
publishing in Berlin....’
Turgenev joked, but he was inwardly sore at the estrangement
of his fellow-countrymen. From the age of five-and-twenty he
had been the spoilt darling of fortune; his fame had grown
steadily; later on, thanks to Viardot’s translations, he became
no less famous in Europe, and the doors of all the best salons
of Paris and London were thrown open to him; he was being
spoilt by success, when his own country suddenly drew back and
turned away from him, and what for? His faithful picture of
Nihilism in _Fathers and Children_. He wrote as the nightingale
sings, with no idea of wounding any one’s vanity; he wrote
because writing was his vocation, but the younger generation in
Russia saw a spiteful intention in it, were resentful, and were
up in arms against Turgenev. These strained relations with his
own people lasted for several years.
Herzen disliked the anti-aesthetic side of Nihilism, and was
surprised at the indignation of young Russia with Turgenev. He
used to say to Russians: ‘Why, Bazarov is the apotheosis of
Nihilism; the Nihilists never rise to his level. There is a
great deal of humanity in Bazarov; what is there for them to be
offended at?’
Herzen and Turgenev had both fallen on evil days; they were
both ostracised by social opinion in Russia at that time,
Turgenev for his vivid presentation of Nihilism, Herzen for his
sympathy with Poland. The latter’s views and principles always
led him, of course, to espouse the cause of the weaker, but
he had taken no part in Polish affairs. There were, however,
evil-disposed persons who hinted that he had done so, and this
was enough to make almost every one abandon him.”
“In 1861, not long before the Emancipation of the Serfs, Herzen
had a letter with the London postmark, and from a Russian,
asking permission to call on him. The letter was simply written
and dignified, though not free from mistakes in spelling.
Herzen, as always, answered that he would be glad to see a
fellow countryman. A young man appeared and explained that he
was a peasant of the Simbirsk province, and that his name was
Martyanov. He was a tall, graceful, fair man, with regular
features and a rather cold-looking, ironical expression that
seemed full of a sense of his own dignity. He was engaged
on translation of some sort, and had been for some time in
London. At first Herzen was rather mistrustful of him, but
soon Martyanov’s character showed itself so clearly that it
was unthinkable to suspect him of being a spy. He was of an
unusually straightforward disposition and of sharply-defined
views; he believed in the Russian peasantry and in the Russian
Tsar. He was not very talkative as a rule, but at times he
spoke with great enthusiasm.
Sad to relate, this perfectly loyal Russian citizen came to
a sad end. After the Emancipation of the Serfs, the Polish
demonstrations and the pacification of Poland, Martyanov
decided to return to Russia. At the frontier he was detained
and sent to Siberia. What for he never knew.
The rumours of the Emancipation of the Serfs were at last
confirmed, ceased to be rumours and became truth, the great
and joyful truth. As he was reading the _Moscow News_ in his
study one day, Herzen ran his eyes over the preamble of the
manifesto, gave a violent tug at the bell, and, keeping the
paper in his hand, ran out with it on to the stairs, shouting
loudly in his resonant voice:
‘Ogaryov, Natalie, Natasha, come, make haste!’
Jules was the first to run out, asking:
‘Monsieur a sonné?’
‘Je ne sais pas, peut-être, mais que diable, Jules, allez les
chercher tous, vite—vite; qu’est-ce qu’ils ne viennent pas?’
Jules looked at him with surprise and pleasure.
‘Monsieur a l’air bien heureux,’ he said.
‘Ah! diable! je crois bien,’ Herzen answered carelessly.
At that instant we all ran up from different directions,
expecting something out of the ordinary, and from Herzen’s
voice something good. He waved the paper at us, but would not
answer our questions till he was back in his study with us
following him.
‘Sit down and listen,’ he said, and he began reading the
manifesto. His voice broke with emotion; at last, he passed the
paper to Ogaryov. ‘You read it,’ he said, ‘I can’t go on.’
Ogaryov read the manifesto through in his quiet, gentle voice,
though he was inwardly as rejoiced as Herzen; but his feelings
were always differently expressed.
Then Herzen suggested that they should go together for a walk
in the town; he wanted air and movement. Ogaryov preferred his
solitary walks, but on this occasion he readily agreed. At
eight o’clock they came back to dinner. Herzen put a little
bottle of curaçao on the table and we all drank a glass,
congratulating each other on the great and joyful news.
‘Ogaryov,’ said Herzen, ‘I want to celebrate the great event.
Perhaps,’ he went on with feeling, ‘there may be no happier day
in our lives. You know we live like workmen, nothing but toil
and labour; we ought sometimes to rest and look back over the
distance we have come, and to rejoice at the happy solution of
the question so near our hearts; perhaps we, too, have done our
bit towards it.’
‘And you,’ he went on, turning to Natasha and me, ‘must get
ready some coloured flags and sew big letters in white calico
on them; on one, “Emancipation of the Peasants in Russia,
February 19, 1861,” on another, “Russian Free Press in London,”
and so on. We will have a dinner for Russians; I’ll write an
article about it and read it aloud; I have the heading already:
“Thou hast conquered, Galilean.” Yes, the Tsar has conquered
me by accomplishing the great task. At the Russian dinner I
will propose in my own house a toast to the health of the
Tsar. Whoever removes the obstacles that hinder the advance of
Russia towards progress and prosperity is not acting against
us. In the evening we will invite not only Russians, but all
foreigners who sympathise with this great event, all who are
rejoicing with us.’
At last the day for this festival was fixed.... Flags were
made, English words were sewn on them, and little glass lamps
of different colours were procured for illuminating the house.
Prince Golitsyn,[10] hearing of Herzen’s plan, undertook to
write a quartet, which he called ‘Emancipation,’ and performed
it on the occasion.
On the morning of the festive day we had not very many guests,
only Russians and Poles. Among others there were Martyanov,
Prince Pyotr Dolgorukov, and Count Uvarov. Tchorszewski came
later than the rest; I remember we were all in the drawing-room
when he arrived.
‘Alexandr Ivanovitch, it is not a day for rejoicing; Russians
are shedding Polish blood in Warsaw!’ said Tchorszewski,
breathless.
‘What?’ cried Herzen.
‘Impossible!’ exclaimed the others. Tchorszewski took out of
his pocket photographs of the slain which he had just received
from Warsaw.
‘There have been demonstrations there,’ he told us; ‘the Poles
were praying in the street; all of a sudden the word of command
rang out, and Russian bullets felled several men who were
kneeling in prayer.’
All pressed round Tchorszewski and examined the photographs.
Herzen was pale and silent. His face was overcast, the serene
and happy expression was replaced by a look of anxiety,
trouble, and sadness.
Jules announced that dinner was served. We all went down to the
dining-room, every face looked troubled.... When champagne was
handed round, Herzen stood up and proposed a toast to Russia,
to its prosperity, its progress, and so on. We all stood glass
in hand, every one responded warmly, and other toasts were
proposed.... Herzen made a short speech, of which I remember
the first sentence: ‘Friends, our day of rejoicing is darkened
by unexpected news; blood is flowing in Warsaw, Slav blood, and
it is shed by brother Slavs!’
There was a hush, and all sat down again in silence.
In the evening the house was lighted up; flags fluttered on
it; Prince Golitsyn conducted his quartet in the drawing-room.
In response to Herzen’s invitation in the _Bell_, there was a
great gathering not only of our Russian and Polish friends, but
also of the Italian _émigrés_, Mazzini and Saffi among them,
the French exiles, among whom Louis Blanc and Talandier were
conspicuous, as well as Germans, English people, and numbers of
Poles and Russians whom we did not know.
At moments it seemed as though Herzen had forgotten the
events at Warsaw and recovered his gaiety. Once he even stood
on a chair, and with great feeling said: ‘A new era is coming
for Russia, and we shall be in Russia again, friends; I do
not despair of it, the nineteenth of February is a great
day!’ Kelsiev and some fellow-countrymen whom we did not know
responded. There were so many people that nobody could sit
down. Even outside our house there was such a huge crowd that
policemen had to stand there all the evening to protect the
place from thieves.
A photographer took a view of our house lighted up and decked
with flags. The figure of Prince Yury Golitsyn was seen on
the steps. This photograph was reproduced on the cover of the
published quartet ‘Emancipation.’ I preserved a copy, but it
was taken from me, together with my books, at the Russian
frontier.
A few days after this celebration, Herzen wrote the article
headed ‘Mater Dolorosa,’ in which he expressed his sympathy
with the oppressed Poles, and published it in the following
number of the _Bell_.
Martyanov came to Herzen after reading this article and said:
‘You have buried the _Bell_ to-day, Alexandr Ivanovitch; no,
you can’t revive it now, you have laid it in its grave.’
And so the first blow to the _Bell_ was given it by Herzen
himself through showing sympathy to suffering Poland. Russian
_amour-propre_ was wounded, and little by little every one
turned away from the London publications. The second blow to
the _Bell_ was dealt later by Bakunin.
One day after dinner the postman rang the bell, and Herzen
opened a huge letter. It was from Bakunin, who wrote describing
his escape from Siberia and the sympathy shown him in America.
Bakunin expressed a hope that he would soon be in London and
helping his friends in their propaganda, writing for the
_Bell_, and so on. Herzen pondered after reading the letter,
then said to Ogaryov:
‘I must own I am afraid of Bakunin’s coming, he will be sure
to ruin our work. You remember what Caussidière—or Lamartine,
was it?—said of him in 1848: “Notre ami Bakounine est un homme
impayable le jour de la Révolution, mais le lendemain il faut
absolument le faire fusiller, car il sera impossible d’établir
un ordre quelconque avec un pareil anarchiste.”’
Ogaryov agreed. He, too, thought that Bakunin would not be
satisfied with their propaganda, but would insist on activity
after the pattern of Western European revolutionary movements.
Moreover, Bakunin had always figured abroad as the champion of
Poland. Herzen and Ogaryov sympathised with the sufferings of
Poland, but disliked the aristocratic character of the Poles,
their attitude to the lower classes, and so on. As for Bakunin,
he saw nothing....
I very well remember Bakunin’s first appearance in our house.
It was between eight and nine in the evening, every one was
sitting at table, but, as I was not very well, I was having
dinner lying on the sofa. There was a loud ring at the bell,
Jules ran upstairs to the front door, and in a few minutes came
back with the visitor: it was Mihail Alexandrovitch Bakunin. I
don’t remember whether I have spoken before of his appearance.
He was very tall, with an intelligent and expressive face; in
his features there was a great likeness to the Muravyovs, to
whom he was related. Every one stood up as Bakunin came in.
The men embraced each other, Herzen introduced the children
and Malwide, who happened to be dining with us. After greeting
all the rest, Bakunin came up to me. He recalled our meeting
in Berlin not long before the Dresden barricades, when he was
captured and handed over to the Austrians.
‘That’s bad—lying down,’ he said to me briskly; ‘you must get
well; we must be acting, not lying down.’
Bakunin sat down to the table, the dinner began to be very
lively. Afterwards he told us about his imprisonment in
Austria.... I should like to repeat his account of it, as far
as I remember it.
Chained to the wall in an underground dungeon, he was brought
to such a pitch of misery that he resolved to commit suicide
and tried sucking phosphorus off matches. This, however, had
no satisfactory result; it gave him a pain in his stomach, but
he remained alive. After a year and a half or two years of
this existence, one night, Bakunin told us, he was awakened
by an unaccustomed sound. Doors were being noisily opened and
shut, locks grated; at last footsteps approached nearer, and
various officials entered his cell: the governor of the prison,
warders, and an officer. They ordered Bakunin to dress. ‘I
was tremendously delighted,’ said Bakunin; ‘whether they were
taking me to be shot or transferring me to another prison,
anyway it was a change, and so anyway it was for the better.
I was taken in a closed carriage to a railway station and put
in a closed compartment, with tiny windows at the top. The
compartment must have been shunted, when we changed to another
train, for I was not led out at any station.... To get a breath
of fresh air, I said I was hungry, but that did not lead to the
desired result, they brought me food to the carriage. At last
we reached our destination. I was brought out in fetters from
the dark railway carriage into the bright winter sunshine on
the platform. Casting a cursory glance round the station, I saw
Russian soldiers; my heart throbbed joyously, and I understood
what was happening.
‘Would you believe it, Herzen, I was as delighted as a child,
though I could not expect anything good for myself. I was taken
to a room apart, a Russian officer appeared, and they began
transferring me as though I were an inanimate object; official
documents in German were read. The Austrian officer, a spare,
lean man, with cold, lifeless eyes, began demanding the return
of the chains riveted on me in Austria. The Russian officer, a
very young, shy fellow, with a good-natured expression, agreed
at once. The Austrian fetters were removed and Russian ones put
on. Ah, dear friends, the chains seemed lighter, I was glad of
them, and smiled happily to the young officer and the Russian
soldiers. “Ah, lads,” I said, “so I may die in my own country.”
The officer interposed, “You are not allowed to speak.” The
soldiers looked at me with silent curiosity. Then I was put
in a closed carriage like a hen-coop, with little openings at
the top. It was a very frosty night, and I was unused to fresh
air. You know the rest; I wrote that I was confined in the
Peter-Paul Fortress and afterwards in the Schlüsselburg, that
Nicholas commanded me to write an account of my doings abroad.
I complied with his desire, and at the end of my confession
added: “Sire, for my openness, forgive me my German sins.” On
the accession of Alexander I was sent to Siberia; that blessed
news reached me in the Solovetsky monastery. In Siberia I was
very well off. Muravyov is a very sensible man—he did not worry
me, but it is a true saying: you may feed the wolf, but he’ll
still yearn for the forest. Though it was a shame to do it, I
had to deceive my friends, to break away to freedom.’
But Herzen’s foreboding was soon justified. With Bakunin’s
arrival the Polish note began to be more conspicuous in the
Free Russian Press. At first Bakunin published his articles
in the _Bell_; but Herzen, noticing this tendency in them,
suggested that he should bring them out as separate pamphlets
or print them in the series called ‘Voices from Russia,’
as their views diverged, and Herzen did not want to publish
articles in the _Bell_ with which he was not usually in
complete agreement. What was most unfortunate was that Ogaryov
was nearer in his ideas to Bakunin, and the latter acquired
a great influence over him. And Herzen always gave way to
Ogaryov, even when he recognised that Ogaryov was wrong.
While Bakunin was in London there came among other visitors
from Russia an Armenian called Nalbandov. He was a man of
thirty, ugly, awkward, shy, but kind-hearted, sensible, and
full of sympathy for everything good. He was a wealthy man....
After completing his studies, I believe, in the University
of Moscow, he had travelled for his own pleasure, and had
been in China; on his return to Russia he heard of the _Bell_
and of Herzen, and made up his mind to visit London. The
first time he came to see Herzen he could scarcely speak for
shyness. Afterwards, however, delighted at the friendly welcome
given him, he used often to visit us. Bakunin completely
took possession of him; every day he used to go about London
with him, and he insisted on Nalbandov having his photograph
taken. This was done in a very original way: Nalbandov had his
photograph taken, back view, reading a newspaper. This queer
man spent two months in London, well pleased with his stay
in England, and took no part at all in the work of Russian
propaganda. Yet on his way back to Russia he was arrested and
clapped into some fortress in the East, where he was probably
forgotten. He was ruined by the carelessness of Bakunin, who
sang his praises in a letter to some relative in Russia.
Bakunin’s letters were, of course, opened in the post; word was
sent to the frontier, and Nalbandov paid for his friendship
with Bakunin. We heard no more of the fate of this truly good
and worthy man.
Sad to say, Nalbandov was not the only one who suffered from
Bakunin’s recklessness. The latter had a really childish
inability to control his tongue.
After the Warsaw risings, when repressive measures were
being taken by the Russian Government for the pacification
of the country, Herzen was visited by a Russian officer,
Potyebnya, who had left his regiment, but continued living in
Warsaw, where he showed himself everywhere in public places,
sometimes in civilian dress, sometimes disguised as a Polish
monk. Occasionally he came across fellow-officers, but nobody
recognised him. Potyebnya was a fair man of medium height and
attractive appearance. Herzen and Ogaryov liked him very much
and tried to persuade him to remain in London, but he would
not. It was said that he was in love with a Polish woman, and
so had gone over to the side of the Poles. He came several
times when in London; the last time he said: ‘I shall not fire
on Russians, I could not bring myself to it.’ ‘Do stay with
us,’ said Herzen. ‘I cannot,’ he answered, with a mournful
smile.
Potyebnya was extraordinarily nice with children. My eldest
child, a little girl of four, was very fond of him. She was
often present when they were talking, busy with her playthings,
and we thought she noticed nothing. But we were once struck by
a saying of hers to Potyebnya. It was on the last evening that
he spent in Orsett House. The young officer had taken the child
on his knee and was talking to her. Suddenly she said:
‘Dear Potyebnya, don’t go away, stay with us.’
‘I can’t,’ he answered, ‘but I will soon come back; I am not
going far, only to the South of France.’
‘Oh no,’ she said; ‘you are going to Poland, and they’ll kill
you there.’
Then Herzen cried out: ‘If you won’t listen to us, listen to
the child, who makes such a dreadful prophecy.’ But Potyebnya
could not be shaken in his determination, and he went back to
Poland next day. A Russian bullet laid him low soon afterwards.”
[In 1863 Bakunin left London with the expedition described by Herzen in
volume v. pp. 169-175, and was stranded in Sweden.]
“Bakunin went to Stockholm to complain of the captain’s
treachery. He heard that the King’s brother was a very cultured
and liberal man, and hoped with his support to force the
captain to continue the voyage. But Bakunin’s hopes were not
realised. There was a highly cultured society in Stockholm and
great sympathy for every liberal movement. He was throughout
his stay well received by the King of Sweden’s brother, and
fêted by Stockholm society as the Russian agitator of 1848.
Dinners and evening parties were given in his honour, his
health was drunk, and people were delighted to get the chance
of seeing him, but he received no help as regards the captain.
The other _émigrés_ determined on bold action; they hired boats
and attempted to continue on their way. But a terrible storm
blew up, and all those luckless and foolhardy men perished....
While Bakunin remained in Sweden hoping that another expedition
would be arranged, his wife arrived in London from Siberia.
I was not at home at the time; I had, on the advice of our
doctor, gone to Osborne for the sake of the children....
One day Herzen was sitting at his writing-table when Jules
announced that a very young and pretty woman was asking to see
him.
‘Ask her name, Jules, I am always telling you,’ said Herzen,
with some impatience.
Jules went out, and at once came back with a look of
astonishment on his face.
‘Eh bien?’ said Herzen.