Chapter II: Introduction (2)

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.

‘Madame Bakunin! comment, monsieur, est-ce possible?’ said
Jules incoherently, as he probably compared husband and wife
in his mind. Herzen had heard that Bakunin had married the
daughter of a Polish clerk in Siberia. ‘Surely she has not
turned up?’ he thought. Making himself a little tidier, he went
into the drawing-room, where he saw a fair, very young and
handsome woman in deep mourning.

‘I am Bakunin’s wife; where is he?’ she said. ‘And you are
Herzen?’

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Your husband is not in London.’

‘Where is he?’ she repeated.

‘I have no right to tell you that.’

‘What, not me, his wife!’ she said in a tone of offence, and
she turned crimson.

‘We had better talk about the Bakunins. When did you leave his
brothers and sisters? What on earth is the name of their place?
You have stayed in the country with them—what are the names of
his brothers and sisters? I have forgotten and mixed them all
up....’

Madame Bakunin gave the name of the country place, and answered
all the questions correctly. The Bakunins had helped her to
obtain a passport and had provided the money for her journey....

At last Herzen was convinced that she really was Bakunin’s
wife, and suggested that she should stay in our house and for
the time occupy my room. Calling my maid, Herzen told her to
look after Madame Bakunin, which was rather difficult, simply
because the latter did not know one word of English.

But all the same Herzen did not tell her where Bakunin was,
which offended her very much, and left a shade of dislike for
him in her heart.

By the time I came back from Osborne she had moved into
lodgings, where she remained till she left London. We were
very good friends, but she got on best of all with Varvara
Timofyevna Kelsiev.[11] She told the latter a great deal
about her life and her marriage. ‘I liked a young doctor much
better,’ she said, ‘and I believe he was attracted by me, but I
preferred to marry Bakunin because he is a hero and has always
been for Poland. Though I was born and grew up in Siberia, I
love my fatherland; I wear mourning for it and always shall.’

There was a great deal that was childish and naïve in her,
but at the same time much that was sweet and sincere. Then
a telegram came from Bakunin addressed to me: ‘Natalya
Alexyevna, I commend my wife to you, take care of her.’ Soon
afterwards, however, he sent for her to Sweden, and a great
many of us went to the station with her to see her off to
Dover. Before she left London, Madame Bakunin invited us all
to dinner and regaled us with Polish dainties, which were
very nice and greatly delighted our Polish friends, Czernecki
and Tchorszewski. The latter, however, was such an admirer of
female beauty that, however bad the dinner, he would have been
in raptures if the hostess were handsome.”

“One summer we spent at Torquay. Malwide von Meysenbug came
from Italy with Olga, and I went down from London with Natasha
and my baby, Liza. Ogaryov and Herzen could only come for
visits, for they had to be in London to look after the Russian
Free Press, and to receive the Russians who used to come to
interview the editors of the _Bell_, bringing a great deal
of material for publication. That summer Tatyana Petrovna
Passek decided to visit Herzen. She arrived in London and
telegraphed to him; he hurried back from Torquay and met her
at the station. We were all delighted to see her; she had the
gift of winning people by her gentleness and typically Russian
good-nature. Unluckily, she only paid us a brief visit. Soon
Malwide went back to Italy with both Herzen’s daughters; on the
way they visited Nice, where the girls’ mother was buried....

In 1862, or 1863, we decided to leave London, as Herzen
thought it would be cheaper and more comfortable to live in a
suburb. There was, only fifteen minutes by rail from London,
a little place called Teddington, consisting of a long street
with country houses in large luxuriant gardens, and several
smaller houses, with little shops of various sorts.... There
Herzen found a fairly roomy house with a big garden, and we all
moved into it, taking with us Varvara Timofyevna Kelsiev and
her little girl, Marusya. The printing-press was moved to a
little house not ten minutes’ walk from us. There Czernecki was
installed with the companion of his life, Marianna; they had no
children.

Our new house had only one drawback: behind it there was a
factory from which often came a smell of burnt tallow. But the
doctor assured us that this would do the children no harm, and
so we meekly put up with the unpleasantness of it. The only one
of our intimate circle left in London was Tchorszewski, and he
came to Teddington at least once a week, partly on business,
and partly from affection for the family, of which he was like
an indispensable member. His devotion to Herzen and all of us
was beyond all bounds, and he proved it indeed after Herzen’s
death.”

[At Elmfield House, Teddington, they were visited, as described in volume v. p. 111, etc., by Gonchar, who took Madame Kelsiev and her little girl Marusya with him to Tulcea, the colony of Russian raskolniks to which Kelsiev had previously gone, and there the mother and child died. (See volume v. p. 115.) Soon afterwards Garibaldi’s visit took place, as described in volume v.]

“After being a year in Teddington we spent a summer by the
sea at Bournemouth. Malwide von Meysenbug joined us there
with Herzen’s daughters. This was the last time we were all
together in England; but I will say nothing of that stay, as
nothing of general interest occurred. After living in Italy
neither Malwide nor the girls were willing to hear of a change.
Sometimes Herzen spent a month or two with them in Italy....

On our return to London Herzen began to make plans for
transferring the printing-press to Geneva. From the time of the
Polish rebellion the circulation of the _Bell_ had dropped;
fewer manuscripts were sent us from Russia than before. This
was obviously a grief to Herzen. ‘We are old,’ he used to say;
‘the Nihilists look upon us as reactionaries; it is time to
retire, it is time to set to work on some big job.’ But Ogaryov
did not lose heart. He thought that in Switzerland there would
be more people coming fresh from Russia, and that the Free
Press would begin to flourish again.

While Herzen and Ogaryov were settling things up and preparing
to go, I went to Paris with my children, thinking that it would
be easier for my relations to come there from Russia to see me.

Then a calamity befell me from which I could not recover; for
several years afterwards I moved about from place to place and
could nowhere find peace.”

[In 1864, in Paris, Natalya Alexyevna’s two younger children, the twins, died of diphtheria.]

“At midnight, on the 15th of December 1864, Herzen and Ogaryov,
accompanied by some other persons, whom I did not notice at
the time, put me with my daughter Liza into the train for
Montpelier. Some of the company commended us to the care of the
guard, others gave us letters of recommendation to doctors and
various other persons.

Yielding to necessity, I set off with a heavy heart on this
long journey alone with my child; but I knew Herzen could
not take us. He promised to join us shortly at Montpelier.
The doctors insisted that we should leave Paris as soon as
possible, for diphtheria was raging there. The well-known
writer and journalist, Emile Girardin, had just lost from this
epidemic his only daughter, a child of my Liza’s age.

Herzen did in fact arrive in Montpelier soon afterwards. Doctor
Coste, who was attending us, beamed all over with enthusiasm
when he saw him. A few days later he took Herzen in the evening
to the ‘Cercle Démocratique’; there many people were eager to
make his acquaintance, warmly shook his hand, and talked of his
writings. Herzen was much moved when, on his return, he told me
of the warm welcome given him; indeed, he was extremely popular
at that time in France, north and south alike, with all classes
of the population.

From Montpelier Herzen went to Geneva, and there meeting his
son brought him to Montpelier. Alexandr Alexandrovitch spent
two days with me and then went back to Florence.

At the end of the winter we went to Cannes, and from there
again to Nice. In Cannes we made the acquaintance of Dr.
Bernacki;[12] he was recommended to us in the hotel when my
daughter had some trifling ailment. Bernacki turned out to be a
great admirer of Herzen; he was a Polish _émigré_, an elderly
man whose patriotism was as keen as ever, though he had lived
in France since 1830. He had married a widow, who died, leaving
him her son. Herzen saw all Bernacki’s surroundings; life is
hard for the rich Slav temperament in the narrow, petty life of
the French bourgeois. Bernacki brought up and at last married
this son who was not his own, and all his love was centred on
the latter’s children.

In the spring of 1865 we moved from Nice to a villa, Château de
la Boissière, near Geneva.”

[Here the whole group, including Malwide, Herzen’s two elder daughters, and Ogaryov, were for some time together again.]

“Prince Dolgorukov left London soon after we did, and he too
settled in Geneva.... He was an intelligent man, but had a
great deal of _amour-propre_, and, as I have said already,
his views were absolutely different from Herzen’s, yet he
seemed drawn to the latter by a strange, inexplicable, and
irresistible attraction. The prince’s harsh, hasty, and
despotic temper caused him continual difficulties abroad.

At the Château de la Boissière there was rather a curious
incident with Prince Dolgorukov. I was not in the house at the
time, but I well remember Herzen’s humorous account of the
quarrel between Prince Dolgorukov and our servant, Jules.

Dolgorukov, Vyrubov, and some other guests were dining at the
house. When they got up from the table, Dolgorukov went out of
the dining-room meaning to give some order to our cook. He had
to go down some steps to reach the kitchen; there he halted,
listening to a conversation in which he caught his own name;
Jules in a loud voice was complaining of the prince, saying
that he gave the servants far more trouble than all the rest of
the visitors. Instead of calling Jules and pretending to have
heard nothing, Dolgorukov pushed open the door and, drawing
the blade out of his swordstick, began waving it in the air
while he scolded and shouted at Jules. The latter gave him back
as good as he got and raised his fist to strike Dolgorukov.
Hearing a great uproar below-stairs, and knowing the prince’s
troublesome temper, Herzen, calling Vyrubov to follow him,
hurried down to the kitchen.... He seized Dolgorukov’s arms,
and asked Vyrubov to hold Jules; the prince was led away to
the dining-room, where, frantic with rage, he snatched up a
decanter and smashed it into splinters on the table, then
seized a chair and threw it on the floor so that it was broken
to pieces. Herzen gazed at him in mute amazement. The prince,
choking with fury, at last articulated: ‘Never again will I set
foot in your house,’ and went off.

But he could not do without seeing Herzen; and a week later
wrote asking him to dismiss Jules for his impertinence. Only on
this condition, said the prince, could he visit Château de la
Boissière again.

To this missive Herzen replied that he was very sorry for
what had occurred, but that it was against his principles to
dismiss a servant simply for impertinence, the more so as
he ‘considered the prince more to blame than Jules, since
the latter could not be compared with Dolgorukov as regards
culture and education, and, moreover, the prince had begun
the quarrel.’ ‘We sometimes perhaps complain of servants in
their absence,’ wrote Herzen, ‘though we have many interests,
and our relations with our servants do not take the most
prominent place in them; but as for them, they may well pour
out their indignation with us pretty often to relieve all the
unpleasantness of their lot in life.’

By degrees the prince began to calm down. He told his cook to
meet Jules in the market and to ask the latter to come to him.
Jules was buying provisions in the market when the prince’s man
went up to him with this message. Jules followed the man, set
down his basket in the hall, and not without surprise walked
into Dolgorukov’s study. The latter, on his entrance, stood up
and came to meet him. In response to our cook’s bow, the prince
held out his hand.

‘Je veux, Jules, me réconcilier avec vous, voulez-vous?’ said
the prince.

‘Je veux bien, je veux bien, monsieur le prince,’ Jules
answered good-humouredly, ‘il ne faut pas se fâcher toujours.’

‘Alors buvons à notre réconciliation,’ said the prince, filling
two glasses with some good red wine and offering one to Jules.
They clinked their glasses, and drained them.

From that time forward Prince Dolgorukov took to visiting
Herzen again, and never referred to the past.

When we settled in Geneva there were a great many Russians
there; almost all of them were Nihilists. They took up an
extremely hostile attitude to Herzen.

The greater number of them lived either in the Russian hotel
or in a boarding-house kept by Madame X., a Russian who had
several years before visited Herzen in London, accompanied by
her husband and the writer Mihailov. Since then there had been
many changes in her life; her husband had long before returned
to Russia, lived somewhere in the wilds, and wrote constantly
for the reviews. Mihailov had been exiled. A year or two after
parting with Mihailov, she had succeeded not only in forgetting
him, but in replacing him by the younger Serno-Solovyovitch.

I permit myself to speak of the relations of Madame X. with
Mihailov and Alexandr Serno-Solovyovitch, because every one
knew of them at the time, and she made no secret of them....
Serno-Solovyovitch was younger than she was: hasty, jealous,
and hot-tempered, he had stormy scenes with Madame X., and she
began to be afraid of him. When a son was born, to put an end
to all relations with him she made up her mind to send the baby
off to her husband X. to be brought up. Two other Russians
assisted her in this, to my thinking, inhuman action: I cannot
see what right a mother has to rob a father of his child,
unless she keeps the child herself. Serno-Solovyovitch was
beside himself at the child’s being sent away, he threatened
to murder Madame X., broke into her room, and really did become
alarming, ‘You have taken everything from me,’ he said with
despair, ‘now I have nothing I care for.’ I do not know how
Madame X. managed it, but for the sake of her own peace and
comfort she got Serno-Solovyovitch put into a lunatic asylum.
Probably his friends helped her. O Pushkin! how right you were!
it is easier to defend oneself from foes than from friends!

One evening Herzen, Ogaryov, and I were sitting in the
dining-room; suddenly the door was thrown open, and a man with
a face of despair ran in, looked about him, then fell on his
knees before Herzen. It was Serno-Solovyovitch; I recognised
him.

‘Get up, get up, how can you!’ said Alexandr Ivanovitch in a
voice full of emotion.

‘No, no, I won’t get up. I have wronged you, Alexandr
Ivanovitch, I have slandered you, I have slandered you even in
print ... and yet it is from you I ask help. Protect me from
my friends, they will shut me up again that _her_ mind may be
at rest. You see I have run away from the madhouse and come
straight to you, my enemy.’

Herzen and Ogaryov raised him up, shook his hand, assured him
that they harboured no malice against him, and kept him in the
house, but earnestly begged him not to go where he would be
irritated (namely, to Madame X.’s).

They looked on him with all-forgiving compassion, and as I
watched them I thought that the first Christians must have
loved and forgiven like them.

Serno-Solovyovitch was fond of children; he liked to walk about
the garden and play with my little girl Liza. Malwide and
Olga had not yet arrived, and Natasha was with her brother in
Berne at Marya Kashparovna Reihel’s. Suddenly we received from
Malwide a telegram:

‘We will stay on longer as Serno-Solovyovitch is with you.’

Herzen answered by telegram:

‘As you like; Natalie is not afraid of him; he is playing with
Liza in the garden.’

On the morning after the first night that Serno-Solovyovitch
slept at the Château de la Boissière we all got up early and
met in the dining-room; we hoped that he was still peacefully
reposing in freedom, and yet we were a little uneasy. Suddenly
Jules came in with the coffee and said:

‘You told me to keep an eye on our visitor, but really no
one could do that. He was there all the time,’ he went on
anxiously, ‘but now the room is empty, he’s not there, M.
Herzen,’ he said in despair.

After waiting some time we began breakfast, but Herzen was
gloomy. ‘He will murder her,’ he said, ‘and I shall never
forgive myself for not keeping watch over him myself!’

All at once we caught the sound of footsteps coming nearer and
nearer, and Serno-Solovyovitch walked into the dining-room,
looking almost cheerful. He apologised, and told Herzen in a
low voice that he had gone out to buy a paper collar and cuffs,
as he felt uncomfortable at sitting down to table in a lady’s
company without. We felt as though a weight had been lifted off
us when he came in.

But not long afterwards Serno-Solovyovitch’s self-control gave
way, he went where he was irritated to frenzy, and he was taken
back again to the asylum.

Later on he was discharged, and then he joined a society of
working-class Socialists; but his success with them did not
fully satisfy him. He felt that he was severed from his own
country and grew more and more gloomy. He wrote a great deal
about socialism, but was dull and depressed, and held aloof
from every one.... He ended by suicide—and what a terrible
end! He sought death in three ways: he poisoned himself, cut
his veins, and stifled himself with charcoal fumes. He had
suffered enough, and so escaped to freedom.

While we lived near Geneva, Madame X. was only twice in our
house, and then not as an acquaintance but on business. I found
her very unattractive, and could not understand how it was
she had so much influence over undoubtedly good men. Various
persons came to see us from her boarding-house, chiefly men,
though I remember one very handsome young woman, who had
married a very young Prince Golitsyn in order to go abroad to
study. She saw him for the first time in church and never saw
him again. Such marriages were a fashion at that time and were
treated as a joke, but later on, so it was said, this reckless
marriage was the cause of great sorrow to Golitsyn: he fell in
love, and could not marry the girl he loved!

Herzen did not like living in Geneva; the _émigrés_ were in too
close proximity; having nothing to do, they had plenty of time
for gossip and tittle-tattle; their antagonism to Herzen, an
antagonism for which envy of his material resources was chiefly
responsible, irritated him extremely, and his irritability was
increased by the state of his health, which began to fail from
the year 1864.

The Château de la Boissière was abandoned; I sought solitude in
Montreux with my little girl and her governess, Miss Turner.
Malwide went back to Italy with Olga. Herzen remained with only
Natasha in Geneva; he moved into lodgings on the Quai du Mont
Blanc, while Ogaryov settled at Lancy, almost outside the town.
Living at Geneva was not a success; little good work was done,
and we had not what the English call a _home_.

I was drawn to Nice again, to the newly-dug graves.[13] Herzen
was fond of the scenery of the south; besides, he had in Nice
many precious memories, and his wife’s grave, which he never
forgot. Sending Natasha to Italy, he accompanied us to Nice,
and stayed there for a time himself.

Whether I wanted to or not, I had to make some acquaintances
for my daughter’s sake; a gloomy environment is bad for a
child. She used to play in the public gardens every day with
some children; she soon made friends with them, and so I came
to be acquainted with two or three families. I arranged with
a dancing-mistress to form a class, and had no difficulty in
finding some among my little girl’s friends who were glad to
join it. And so the children came to us twice a week. Among
others, we made the acquaintance of the family of Garibaldi (a
cousin of the celebrated Garibaldi), whose amiable wife and
children were in friendly relations with us till I went back to
Russia for good.

At that time Herzen was still in Nice. He wrote a great deal
in Nice—there was no one to hinder him; then he used to go and
read the papers at Visconte’s; after dinner he liked to go a
walk alone with Liza; sometimes he took her to the theatre, and
enjoyed her sallies, her apt remarks, and intelligence. He was
then writing for the _Week_ the series of articles entitled ‘To
Pass the Time.’ It was a comfort to him to be writing and being
printed in Russia. He was fond of reading aloud what he had
written before sending it off.”

[Ogaryov was now settled with Mary and their two children, Henry and ‘Toots,’ in Geneva.]

“... While Herzen was in Nice, a telegram arrived from
Tchorszewski, telling him that Ogaryov had broken his leg, and
begging him to come to Geneva as soon as possible. I was not
in the house at the time, and on returning home I found Herzen
sitting on a chair in the hall in a dazed condition; I was
astounded at his being there and looking so overwhelmed. He
handed me the telegram without a word. Glancing at it, I said:
‘Well, Herzen, you must make haste and go; let us look at the
time-table and pack up your things; you must not delay.’

But Herzen sat mute as though he did not hear what I said. ‘I
feel,’ he said at last, ‘that I shall never see him again.’

However, I managed to pack what was needed, and to see Herzen
off at the station; I felt that if anything could relieve
his mind it would be seeing Ogaryov. Such an accident was a
serious thing at his age. Herzen wrote afterwards, describing
with what terror and anxiety he travelled to Geneva; how,
meeting Tchorszewski at the station, he had not courage to ask
‘Is Ogaryov alive?’ At last Tchorszewski, of his own accord,
said that he thought that there was no ground for anxiety in
Ogaryov’s condition. Doctor Meyer had set the bone and put
the leg in a splint. Ogaryov had borne the operation with the
greatest fortitude.

I have searched in vain for the letter in which Herzen
described this unfortunate accident. I remember that he wrote
that Ogaryov was taking an evening stroll in the outskirts of
Geneva, when he had one of the fits to which he was subject. On
recovering consciousness, he got up and tried to go on, but,
as it was by then dark, he did not see the ditch, stumbled,
broke his leg, and was sick from the pain; after lying there
for a while, he tried again to get up, but could not. Then
he began to call to passers-by, but nobody came to him. As
ill-luck would have it, he was lying in a pool just outside the
lunatic asylum, and this was why everybody hurried away when
he shouted, supposing him to be a lunatic.

Seeing that no one would come, Ogaryov, with great presence of
mind, took a knife and a pipe out of his pocket, cut off his
boot, then lit his pipe, and lay there, I believe, till next
day. Early in the morning an Italian who knew Ogaryov passed
by, and, though the latter was lying at some distance from the
road, the Italian noticed him, and began looking more closely;
then Ogaryov called to him. The Italian went up, said he would
fetch a carriage, and took him home, Ogaryov suffering great
pain when moved.”

[Some months later—Natalya Alexyevna rarely gives dates—when Ogaryov was able to hobble about, and the accident was almost forgotten, there was a family gathering again.]

“Tchorszewski took an old château called ‘Prangius,’ about an
hour and a half’s drive from Geneva; here, for the last time,
the whole family were together again; Liza and I, Malwide and
Olga and Natasha.... Rather later Ogaryov joined us with little
‘Toots.’ Last of all, Alexandr (Herzen’s son) arrived with his
young wife. They were only just married, and Teresina did not
yet speak French, so we all had to talk Italian to her, which
curtailed conversation a good deal. Teresina liked going for
walks, sometimes with Herzen, sometimes with me.”

[At the end of the summer.]

“Alexandr and his wife went to spend the whole winter in Berlin
for the sake of his work.... Olga and Malwide went back to
Italy, where they were now so used to living that they liked
nothing else so well.... Herzen was intending to go to Vichy
for the first time. Ogaryov returned to Geneva with little
‘Toots,’ who had amused us all with his liveliness and
originality.... But before going to Vichy, Herzen went with us
to Lucerne, and from there he was summoned to Berne, as Prince
Dolgorukov, who was lying there seriously ill, wished to see
Herzen once more before his death.”

“After spending some time in Geneva we went to Paris, where
Vyrubov and Herzen’s French friends were very anxious that
he should settle with all the family.... To Herzen’s great
delight we found Sergey Petrovitch Botkin[14] and his family in
Paris. Botkin still hoped at that time that Herzen’s vigorous
constitution might successfully combat the diabetes from which
he was suffering, but this hope was not realised; doctors
cannot foresee the fatal accidents which have sometimes a
decisive effect on disease.

We had rooms in the Grand Hotel, on the fourth storey.
Botkin was as charming and attentive as ever. There was such
serenity and kindness in his beautiful smile that I thought
him handsome; I particularly liked to see his eyes rest upon
Herzen with such unfeigned love and admiration. Alexandr
Ivanovitch was glad to be with him too; he actually seemed
better when Botkin was present, for the latter had a charming
and encouraging effect on him.

We were sitting in the little drawing-room talking almost
light-heartedly of how we should probably be able to make a
home here; here there would be suitable and even interesting
society for Natasha; and as regards educational facilities, we
could find everything that could be desired.... All at once
Herzen was handed a letter from his son, telling him that
Natasha was very seriously ill, and begging him to go at once
to Florence.

Knowing his daughter’s strong constitution, Herzen was
perplexed, and sent a telegram asking what her illness
was. When he received the reply, he handed me the telegram
in silence, then said: ‘I would rather have heard she
was dead.’ The telegram read: ‘_Dérangement des facultés
intellectuelles._’[15] These terribly alarming words seemed to
paralyse him. He remained sitting with a pale face, in a sort
of stupefaction, not attempting to get ready: it was obviously
impossible to let him go alone, and indeed he said himself: ‘We
had better all go together.’

I hurriedly packed the most necessary things and, not staying
to say good-bye to any one in Paris, we paid our bill at the
hotel and went off to the station on the chance of getting a
train—they go pretty often. We had not to wait, but to hurry:
Herzen took the tickets, while I looked after the luggage,
and Liza, who was then ten, went to the buffet to buy some
provisions for the journey. We travelled without stopping.
It was very exhausting for us all, especially for the child.
As though she understood the gravity of the reason for our
journey, she did not complain, and was impatiently eager to
arrive and see Natasha. Herzen was silent almost the whole
way; his anxiety and impatience were apparent in his careworn
face. At last we reached Genoa; from there Herzen went on
alone, telling us to remain in Genoa till we heard from him:
if Natasha were fit to travel, Herzen would bring her, and we
would all return together to Paris; if the doctor decided that
she must stay on in Florence, he would let us know, and we
would join him there. Next day we found a letter and a telegram
for us at the post office. The telegram only told us to await
the letter; in the letter we were directed to go at once to
Florence, which we accordingly did.

When the train stopped at the station we saw Herzen and his
son, who had come to meet us. They took a carriage, and we
drove to the villa that young Herzen had bought. There we saw
Teresina with her first-born, a charming baby whom Herzen found
enchanting; then we went in to Natasha, who was very glad to
see us. However, Herzen thought it more comfortable for the
patient and for all of us to be in the town, and so next day we
moved with Natasha to the Hôtel de France.... There we spent
about a fortnight; again I had to part with Liza, whom I put
for the time in the care of Malwide and Olga, while I remained
with Natasha. There was nobody to nurse her but me. Malwide
would not undertake to look after the invalid, and I did not
care to leave her to strangers. It is true that before I came
the doctor had called in an acquaintance, a Miss Reynolds, to
nurse her, but though she was experienced, she only irritated
the patient. What was needed was not experience but love.