I couldn't wait and the morning of his arrival I took an express train to Folkstone.
"What will he tell me, what news will he bring, whose greetings will he relay, what details, whose jokes, or speeches?" At that time there were still many people whom I loved in Moscow.
When the steamer docked, I could make out the plump figure of Shchepkin with a gray hat and a stout walking stick; I waved a handkerchief and rushed down. A policeman did not let me through but I pushed him aside, seeing with amusement that Shchepkin looked on merrily and nodded his head, and I ran onto the deck and threw my arms around the old man. He was the very same as when I left him: with the same good-natured appearance, his vest and the lapels of his coat covered with spots, as if he had just left the Troitsky restaurant on his way to Sergey Timofeevich Aksakov's place.4 "What got into you to come such a distance to meet me!" he said to me through his tears.
We traveled together to London; I quizzed him about all the details, all the trifles about our friends, trifles without which people cease to be alive and remain in our memories in broad outlines, in profile. He talked of nonsensical things and we laughed with tears in our voices.
When my nerves had settled, little by little I noticed something sad, as if some sort of hidden thought was tormenting the honest expression on his face. And, in fact, the next day little by little the conversation turned to the press; Shchepkin began to talk about the troubled feelings with which Moscow accepted my emigration, then the brochure "Du developpement des idees revolutionnaires." and, finally, the London printing-house. "What use can come of your publishing? With the one or two leaflets that get through, you will accomplish nothing, but the Third Department will read them and make a note of it, and you will destroy a huge number of people, you will destroy your friends."
"But, M. S., up till now God has spared us, and no one has been caught because of me."
"Do you know that after your praise for Belinsky, it is forbidden to mention his name in print?"
"Along with everything else. However, I have doubts about my part in this. You know what role Belinsky's letter to Gogol played in the Petrashevsky case.5 Death spared Belinsky—I was not afraid of compromising the dead."
"But Kavelin, it seems, is not dead?"
"What happened to him?"
"Well, after the publication of your book where you talk about his article on the ancestral principle and the quarrel with Samarin, he was summoned to Rostovtsev."6
"Well!"
"What do you want? Rostovtsev told him to be more careful in the future."
"Mikhail Semyonovich, do you really consider that a martyrdom—to suffer the tetrarch Yakov7 to advise him to be more careful?"
The conversation continued in this manner, and I could see that this was not only Shchepkin's personal opinion; if that were the case, his words would not have taken such an imperative tone.
This conversation was noteworthy for me, because in it were the first sounds ofMoscow conservatism, not in the circles of Prince Sergey Mikhailo- vich Golitsyn,8 of frivolous landowners, or frivolous officials, but in a circle of educated people, men of letters, actors, and professors. For the first time I heard this opinion expressed in such a clear manner; it struck me, although at the time I was at too great a distance to understand that from it would develop that stubbornly conservative direction that turned Moscow into Kitay-gorod.9
At this time it was still just weariness, a broken spirit, the consciousness of one's own powerlessness and a maternal fear for one's children. Now Moscow insolently and bravely drinks the health of Muravyov.10
"A. I.," said Shchepkin, as he stood up and paced back and forth uneasily, "you know how much I love you and how all of our group loves you. In my old age, not speaking a word of English, I came to see you in London. I would get down on my aged knees before you to ask you to stop while there is still time."
"Mikhail Semyonovich, what is it that you and your friends want from me?"
"I speak only for myself and I will say directly: in my opinion, go to America, write nothing, let them forget about you, and then in a year or two or three we can begin to work on getting you permission to return to Russia."
I was extremely sad; I tried to hide the pain that these words caused me out of pity for the old man, who had tears in his eyes. He continued to develop this alluring picture of happiness—to live once again under the merciful scepter of Nicholas. However, seeing that I did not answer, he asked: "Isn't it possible, A. I.?"
"No it is not, Mikhail Semyonovich. I know that you love me and wish me the best. It is painful for me to upset you, but I cannot deceive you: let our friends say what they will, but I will not shut down the printing press. The time will come when they will look differently on the mechanism I have set up on English soil. I will continue to print, and will print without stopping. If our friends do not value my activities, it will cause me great pain, but it will not stop me; others will value it, the younger generation, the next generation."
"So neither the love of friends nor the fate of your children matter?"
I took him by the hand and said:
"Mikhail Semyonovich, why do you wish to spoil for me the festive occasion of our meeting—I am not going to America, and under the present state of affairs I am not going to Russia either; I will be printing because it is the only way of doing something for Russia, the only means of maintaining a living connection with it. If what I print is bad, then tell our friends to send manuscripts—they must feel the lack of free speech."
"No one will send anything," said the already irritated old man; my words had really upset him, he felt a rush of blood to his head and wanted to send for a doctor and leeches.
We did not return to this conversation. Only just before his departure he said sadly, shaking his head:
"You have taken so much joy from me with your stubbornness."
"M. S., let us each follow our own path, and maybe one of them will lead somewhere."
He left, but his unsuccessful mission still fermented inside him, and he, who loved powerfully also angered powerfully, and as he left Paris he sent me a stern letter.11 I read it with the same degree of love with which I threw my arms around him in Folkstone, and followed my own path.
Five years had passed since my meeting with Shchepkin when the Russian press in London again crossed his path. The management of the Moscow theaters withheld money from the budget that was due to the actors. That was an age of making claims, and the actors chose Shchepkin as their intercessor in Petersburg. The director at that time was the well-known Gedeonov. Gedeonov began by flatly refusing to issue the past payments, saying that the books had been checked and it was impossible to alter previously made arrangements.
The conversation became more insistent on Shchepkin's part, and, of course, bolder on the side of the director.
"I will have to see the minister," said the actor.
"It's good that you told me. I will report to him about this matter and you will be refused."
"In that case I will submit an appeal to the sovereign."
"You dare take such garbage and push your way to his imperial highness? As your superior, I forbid you."
"Your excellency," Shchepkin said, bowing, "you agree that the money belongs to the poor actors. They entrusted me with obtaining it; you have refused and promised a refusal from the minister. I wish to ask the sovereign, and, as my superior, you have forbidden me. I have only one means left—I will relate the entire matter to The Bell."