As he faded away, the saintly old man saw the printing house's success and, before his death, blessed our work once more with his dying hand.
That first article that we were talking about was addressed to "the Russian nobility," and reminded them that it was time to free the serfs, and, moreover, with land, or there would be trouble.
The second article was about Poland.
The peasant issue and the Polish question were the very basis of Russian propaganda.
And since that time, dear Czarnecki, for ten years together with you we have printed without weariness or rest, and our press already has a considerable biography and a considerable pile of books.6
[. . .] Our beginning was slow and meager. For three years we were printing, not only without selling a single copy, but almost without the possibility of sending a single copy to Russia, except for the first leaflets, which were dispatched by Worcell and his friends to Warsaw. We still had everything we printed on our hands or in the basement storerooms of the pious Paternoster Row.7
We did not get depressed. and kept on printing and printing.
A bookseller on Berner Street once sent for ten copies of "Baptized Property" and I took that for success. I gave the young boy a shilling tip and with a certain bourgeois joy I found a special place for that first half sovereign earned by the Russian printing press.
Sales in the propaganda business are just as important as in any other. Even simple material labor is impossible to carry out with love knowing that it is done in vain. You can place the best actors in the world in an empty hall—they will perform very badly. The church authorities, whose rank requires them to know the subtleties of moral torture, sentence priests for theft, drunkenness, and other earthly weaknesses to mill the wind.18
But we did not mill the wind after all, my dear Czarnecki—our day finally came.
It began solemnly.
On the morning of March 4, I went as usual into my study at eight o'clock and opened The Times. I read, and read ten times more, and did not understand, did not dare to understand the grammatical meaning of the words placed at the head of the news received by telegraph: "The death of the emperor of Russia."
Beside myself, I rushed with The Times to the dining room, looking for the children and the servants, to announce this important news, and with tears of true joy in my eyes I handed them the paper. I felt years younger. It was impossible to remain at home. At that time Engelson9 was living in Richmond, and I quickly dressed to go see him, but he had anticipated me and was already in the front hall. We heartily embraced each other and could not say anything except the words: "Finally, he is dead!"
As was his habit, Engelson pranced about, kissed everyone in the house, sang and danced. We had not had time to calm down when a carriage suddenly stopped at my front door and someone rang the bell in a frenzied manner; it was three Poles who, not waiting for the train, had galloped from London to Twickenham to congratulate me.
I ordered champagne to be served, and no one considered the fact that it was still only eleven in the morning, or even earlier. And then, for no reason at all, we went to London. On the streets, at the stock exchange, in the eating houses all talk was about the death of Nicholas, and I did not encounter a single person who did not breathe more easily knowing that this thorn had been removed from the flesh of humankind, and was not overjoyed that this oppressive tyrant in Hessian boots was a matter for the embalmers.
On Sunday, from the morning onwards, my house was fulclass="underline" French people, Polish refugees, Germans, Italians, and even English acquaintances came and went with radiant faces. The day was clear and warm and after dinner we went out into the garden.
Young boys were playing on the banks of the Thames; I called them to my gate and told them that we were celebrating the death of their enemy and ours. I tossed them a handful of silver coins to get beer and candy, and they cried out "Hurrah! Hurrah! Impernikel is dead! Impernikel is dead!" The guests also began to throw sixpences and three pence pieces; the boys brought ale, pies, and cakes, and a barrel organ, and began to play it and dance. After that, for as long as I lived in Twickenham, every time they saw me on the street, the boys would lift their caps and shout: "Impernikel is dead! Hurrah!"
The death of Nicholas increased our strength and our hopes tenfold. I immediately wrote a letter to the emperor Alexander—which was later printed—and I decided to publish The Polestar. [. . .]
The beginning of Alexander II's reign was a joyous period. All of Russia breathed more easily, raised up its head, and, were they able to, would have shouted wholeheartedly along with the Twickenham boys: "Impernikel is dead! Hurray!"
Under the influence of the spring thaw, people even took a more affectionate view of our printing press in London. Finally, we were noticed. There was demand for dozens of copies of The Polestar and in Russia it was being sold for the fabulous price of i5 to 20 silver rubles. The banner of The Polestar, the demands that it made, coincided with the desire of the entire Russian people, and that is why it began to gain sympathy. And, when I addressed the newly enthroned sovereign, I repeated to him: "Grant freedom to the Russian word, our minds are constricted by the fetters of censorship; grant freedom and land to the peasants and wipe away from us the shameful stain of serfdom; grant us an open court system and do away with the official secrecy about our fate!" When I added to this simple demand: "Hurry up so that you can save the people from bloodshed!" I felt and I knew that this was not at all my personal opinion, but an idea that was in the Russian air, exciting every mind and every heart—the mind and heart of the tsar and of the serf, of the young officer just out of military school and the student, no matter what university he attended. No matter how they understood the question and what side they took, they all saw that the Petrine autocracy had lived out its days, that it had reached a limit, after which the government had to either be regenerated or the people would perish. If there were exceptions, then they were only in the mercenary circles of rich scoundrels or on the sleepy summits of members of the gentry who had lost their minds.
Half of our program was carried out by the tsar himself. But—and this was the Russian in him—he stopped at the very introduction and came up with a transition period, the brakes of gradualness, and thought that everything had been accomplished.
With the same candor with which the Russian printing press in London addressed the sovereign in i855, a few years later it addressed the people and said to its readers: "You see, the government has acknowledged the fairness of your demands, but it cannot carry out what it has acknowledged, it cannot break out of the rut of the barracks-like order and the bureaucratic uniforms. It has reached the end of its understanding and is moving backward. [. . .] It is losing its head, behaving cruelly, making mistakes, and is clearly afraid. Fear, combined with power, provokes a bitter rebuff—a rebuff without respect and without deliberation. From there it is one step to a rebellion. There is no point in waiting any longer for the government's own recognition of the rightness of what is being asked. [. . .]"
And in saying this we feel that this is not a personal opinion—the idea of an Assembly of the Land is in the Russian air. The Milyutins and Valuevs10 exchange it for small provincial dumas; the assemblies of the nobility keep silent about it; but, even nameless, the Assembly of the Land, like Marie Antoinette in the matter of the necklace, is greatly implied.11 The merchantry and the people speak about it, and the military insist that it be summoned.