There is nothing e:rtreme in anrone, but each person can be an irreplaceable realitr; before every man the door is open. If a man has something to sar, let him speak: he will be listened to; if he is tormented by a conviction, let him preach a sermon.
People are not as submissive as the elements, but we are always dealing with the masses of our own time: they are not peculiar to themselves, nor are we independent of the common background of the picture, of identical antecedent influences; there is a common tie.
Now do you understand on whom the future of man, of peoples, depends?
'On whom?'
'\Vhat do you mean, on whom? Why, on You and ME, for instance. How can we fold our arms after this?'
T H E F R E E
R U S S I A N
P R E S S A N D
THE B E L L
( 1 8 5 8 - 1 8 6 2 )
Apogee and Perifj·ee
ABOUT TEN o'cLOCK one morning I heard from downstairs a thick, discontented voice:
'May dee comsa-colonel rioos ver vwar.'
'Monsieur ne refoit jamais le matin et.
'Zhe par deman.'
'Et votre nom, monsieur?'
'May voo diray colonel rioos'-and the colonel raised his voice.
Jules was in a very difficult situation. I went to the top of the stairs, and asked:
'Qu'est-ce qu'il r a?'
'Say voo?' asked the colonel.
'Oui, c'est moi.'
'Give orders for me to be admitted, my dear sir. Your manservant won't let me in.'
'Be good enough to come up.'
The colonel's somewhat testy face became visible and, as he stepped with me into my study, he suddenly assumed an air of some dignity and said:
'I am Colonel So-and-so: I am passing through London and thought it my duty to call.'
I at once felt myself to be a generaclass="underline" I pointed to a chair and added:
'Sit down.'
The colonel sat down.
'Are you here for long?'
'Till to-morrow, sir.'
'Have you been here for a long time?'
'Three days, sir.'
'Why a re you staying for such a short time?'
'You see, without speaking the language it's strange here, like being in a forest. I sincerely wanted to see you in person, to thank you for myself and many of my comrades. Your publications are very useful; there's a lot of truth in them, and sometimes they make us split our sides.'
'I'm extremely grateful to you ; this is the only acknowledgment we've received abroad. Are many of our issues received at home with you?'
'A great many, sir. And think how many people read each page: they read and re-read them till they're in holes, in rags; 5Z9
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530
there are devotees who even make copies of them. We meet sometimes to read them, and criticise: you know? I hope you will permit the frankness of a military man who has a sincere respect for you?'
'By all means. It hardly becomes us to oppose freedom of speech.'
'We often speak so among ourselves: there's much profit in your disclosures. You know yourself how much one can say over there about Sukhozanet, for instance: keep your tongue between your teeth, eh? ; or about Adlerberg, let's say? But, you see, you left Russia a long time ago: you've forgotten too much about it, and we keep thinking you harp too much on the peasant question . . . it's not ripe yet . . .'
'Isn't it?'
'Yes, indeed, sir . . . I agree with you entirely; good gracious: the same soul, form, image of God . . . and all that, believe me, is seen by many people nowadays, but there mustn't be any hurry prematurely.'
'You think not?'
'I'm sure, sir. Our peasant is a fearful slacker, you know. He's a good chap, perhaps, but a drunkard and a slacker. Emancipate him at once, and he'll stop working, won't sow the fields and will simply die of hunger.'
'But why should you worry about that? Nobody has entrusted the feeding of the Russian people to you, Colonel, have they? . . .'
Of all possible and impossible rejoinders, this was the one that the colonel expected least.
'Of course, sir, on the one hand . . . .'
'Well, don't you be afraid about on the other hand; he won't really die of hunger, will he, because he will have sown wheat not for his master but for himself?'
'Excuse me: I thought it was my duty to say . . . . Besides, it seems to me I'm taking up too much of your valuable time.
Allow me to take my leave.'
'I thank you most humbly for calling.'
'Pray don't trouble . . . . Oo ay mon kab? You live a good way out, sir.'
'It's not close.'
I wanted, with this splendid scene, to begin the description of the period of our bloom and prosperity. Such scenes and similar ones were continually repeated. Neither the fearful distance at which I lived from the West End-at Putney or Fulham-nor
The Free Russian Press and "The Bell"
531
the door that was permanently shut in the mornings-nothing helped. We were the fashion.1
Whom indeed did we not see at that time? How many people would now pay dearly to wipe out their visit from the memory, if not of themselves, then of humanity? But then, I repeat, we were the fashion, and in a tourist's guide-book I was mentioned as one of the curiosities of Putney.
So it was from 1 85 7 to 1 863, but it had not been so before. I n proportion a s reaction extended and strengthened itself i n Europe after 1 848, and Nicholas grew more savage not by the d�y but by the hour, Russians began to be rather frightened and to avoid me. Besides, it became known in 1 85 1 that I had officially refused to go to Russia. At that time there were very few travellers. At long intervals one of my old acquaintances would appear, recount frightful, inconceivable things, speak with dread of his return and disappear, looking round to makC' sure there was no fellow-Russian there. \Vhen I was visited at Nice by A. I.
Saburov, in a carriage with a body-servant, I looked on i t as a feat of heroism. \Vhen I passed secretly through France in 1 852 I met some of the Russians in Paris: these were the last. In London there was nobody. \Veeks, months went by . . . .
'No Russian sound, nor Russian face.'2
No one wrote mC' any letters. :VI. S. Shchepkin was the first who was anything like a friend from home that I saw in London.
I have told the story of our meeting in another place. His arrival for me "·as like an All Souls' Day. He and I held a general commemoration of the Muscovite dead, and our verv mood was somehow sepulchral. The real dove from the ark with the olive leaf in its mouth was not Shchepkin but Dr Vensky.
He was the first Russian who came to see us, after the death of Nicholas, at Cholmondely Lodge, Richmond, and was perpetually amazed that it should be so spelt, but pronounced Chumly Lodge.3 The news that Shchepkin brought was gloomy; he was in a mournful state of mind himself. Vensky used to laugh from morning till night, showing his 'vhite teeth ; his news was full of the hope, the sanguineness, as the English say, that possessed 1 The 'apogee' of The Bell was from 1 857 to 1862. (R.) 2 From A. S. Griboyedov: Woe from Wit, Act Ill, scene 22. (A.S.) 3 Dear Vensky was always getting wonderfully stuck in the English language. 'Judging by the map.' he said to my son, 'Keff is not far away.'