LETTER 2 _page 204

THE RUSSIAN PEOPLE AND SOCIALISM _page 210_

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

This volume concludes the ‘Memoirs of Herzen.’ Nothing in the complete Russian edition has been omitted except two or three pages, which are practically repetition of earlier passages, and a brief section, Aphorismata, the humour of which has so evaporated with the lapse of time that it could hardly be made intelligible to an English reader.

I have ventured to add to the volume Herzen’s famous letter to Michelet, which is of interest in view of what has actually happened in Russia during the last ten years.

INTRODUCTION

Herzen’s own story of his life as a connected narrative breaks off with his arrival in London in 1852. A full description of his later years is given in the Reminiscences of Madame Ogaryov-Tutchkov, from which the following extracts are taken. As the latter is the central figure in the picture of those years, some account of her is essential.

Natalya Alexyevna Tutchkov was born in 1827, and came of a distinguished family. Her grandfather and his four brothers were highly cultured men, remarkable for their gifts and their character. Her father was a friend of the Decembrists, was slightly implicated in the conspiracy, and was for a time under arrest. When released, he settled on his estate in the province of Penza, where he was elected Marshal of Nobility and did much good work for the welfare of the peasants and the administration of the district. His two daughters, Elena and Natalie, had a happy childhood. In 1846 Ogaryov, an old friend of their father’s, came, after seven years’ absence, to his estate near the Tutchkovs. He saw a great deal of them, and the young girls became very fond of him. In 1847 the Tutchkovs went abroad, and Ogaryov gave them a letter of introduction to the Herzens, who were at that time in Rome.

The Herzens welcomed them warmly, and Natalie Herzen and Natalie Tutchkov became deeply attached to each other. Natalie Herzen called the young girl ‘Consuelo di mia alma,’ and many of her letters are addressed to her. She is said to have expressed a wish that in case of her death Natalie Tutchkov should have charge of her children.

After the happy time in Italy they all returned together to Paris, where they witnessed the terrible days of June 1848. Herzen (volume iv. pp. 11-13) describes the mournful parting between his wife and her ‘Consuelo’; the Tutchkovs went home to their estate in Penza, where Ogaryov was a frequent visitor. His affection for Natalya Alexyevna soon passed into love, and he tried to obtain a divorce from his first wife, Marya Lvovna, _née_ Roslavlov, who had left him several years before, and was living in Paris with the well-known painter, Vorobyev, but out of spite she refused to release him. In the end Natalie Tutchkov decided to dispense with the legal ceremony, and in 1850 settled with Ogaryov as his wife. In those days such a step required a good deal of courage, and her parents were greatly distressed, though they, like every one else, indeed, had a warm affection for Ogaryov. Not long afterwards Marya Lvovna died, and the Ogaryovs were legally married.

Herzen had, on his first arrival in London in 1852, settled near Primrose Hill with his son Sasha (Alexander), a boy of twelve, and his friend Haug. The latter had quarrelled and left him by 1854. The two girls, ‘Tata’ (Natalie) and Olga, had joined him with their governess, Malwide von Meysenbug, an excellent woman, well known in her own day as the authoress of _Memoirs of an Idealist_, but now remembered only for her correspondence with Nietzsche and Wagner.

Herzen repeatedly wrote to Ogaryov, begging him to come to London. At last Ogaryov, who had been living since his marriage in the province of Simbirsk, where he had a paper-mill, decided to go to England. It took him some time to obtain permission to leave Russia, but “on April the 9th, 1856,” Madame Ogaryov writes,

“we crossed from Ostend to Dover on a very rough sea; it was all I could do not to be ill. Ogaryov is a very good sailor. When at last the steamer came to a standstill before the dark, endless cliffs of Dover, dimly visible through the thick yellow fog, my heart sank: I felt everything about me somehow strange and cold; the unfamiliar language ... everything overwhelmed me and made me think of my home and my family so far away.... We found our luggage, took a cab and drove to the station; there we hardly had time to have our things put in and to take our seats when the train moved off with incredible swiftness—it was an express: the objects beside the line flashed by, making an unpleasant impression on unaccustomed eyes. I was vexed that we had not managed to get breakfast. It was so important for Ogaryov, who might easily have had an attack from exhaustion and impatience to see his friend.[1] Four hours later we saw London—grand, gloomy, for ever wrapped in a fog, like a muslin veil—London, the finest city I had ever seen. We hurriedly got into a cab and set off to seek Herzen at the address given us by Dr. Pikulin: Chomley Lodge, Richmond. But a cab is not an express train, and we needed all our store of patience; at last we arrived in Richmond; in spite of the rain, the place made a great impression on me; it was buried in verdure, even the houses were covered with ivy, wild vines, and other creepers; in the distance we caught sight of a magnificent immense park; I had never seen anything like it! The cab stopped at the gate of Chomley Lodge; the cabman, muffled up in a great-coat, with a number of collars each wider than the one above it, gave a loud ring at the bell. A woman came out; scanning us with evident curiosity, for we probably looked very different from Londoners, she bowed very civilly to us. To Ogaryov’s enquiry whether Mr. Herzen was living here, she replied with alacrity:

‘Yes, yes, Mr. Herzen used to live here, but he moved a long time ago.’

‘Where to?’ Ogaryov asked dejectedly.

‘Where is he now?’ she rejoined. ‘Oh, a long way from here; I’ll fetch you the address.’

She went off, and returned with the address on a scrap of paper. Ogaryov read, Peterborough Villa, No. 21 Finchley Road, London. The cabman bent over the paper and evidently read it for his own benefit.

‘Oh ... oh!’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I’ll drive you back to London, and there you must take another cab, my horse wouldn’t get so far, it’s at the opposite end of the town, and he’s tired already, here and back again’s a tidy journey.’

We sighed disconsolately and accepted his decisions without protest. When we were back in London Ogaryov owned that he would be glad to have a hasty meal, while our luggage was being transferred to another cab; and we succeeded in obtaining something to eat. Then we got into the second cab and drove off again on the hard resounding road; we did not talk on the way, but looked anxiously out of window, only from time to time exchanging the same thought: ‘What if he is not there either?’ At last we arrived. The cabman climbed down from the box and rang the bell. We had a view of No. 21 above the gate; the neat, prosaic brick house stood in the middle of a flower-garden, surrounded by a high stone wall with bits of broken glass on the top of it; the wall made the little garden look like a deep bath. Herzen could not bear it and never sat in the garden. The cook, François, a little, bald, middle-aged Italian, opened the door of the house, looked at our trunks, and closed it again; probably he was going to tell his master of what he had seen. The impatient cabman rang again more loudly. This time François came out briskly, ran down to the garden gate, gave us a careless bow, and said in French:

‘_Monsieur pas à la maison._’

‘How annoying!’ Ogaryov answered quietly in French, and he gave me his hand to step out of the cab, then bade the cabman lift down the luggage and carry it into the house; then he asked him his fare and paid it. François followed us in great perturbation. In the hall Ogaryov turned to François and asked:

‘Where are the children?’

Herzen was standing at the top of the stairs. Hearing Ogaryov’s voice, he ran down like a boy of twenty and rushed to embrace him, then he turned to me. ‘Yes, Consuelo?’ he said, and kissed me too.

At the sight of the general rejoicing, François at last recovered; at first he stood thunderstruck, thinking the Russians were taking the house by storm.

At Herzen’s summons the children appeared with their governess, Malwide von Meysenbug. The younger, Olga, a little girl with regular features, seemed lively and somewhat spoilt; the elder girl, about eleven, was rather like her mother in her dark-grey eyes, the shape of her forehead, and her thick eyebrows and hair, though this was fairer than her mother’s. There was a rather diffident, forlorn look in her face. She could not readily express herself in Russian, and so was shy of speaking. Later on she liked talking Russian to me at bedtime, and I used often to sit by her little bed while we talked of her dear mother. Herzen’s son, Alexander, a lad of seventeen, was delighted to see us. He was at that stage when boyhood is over, but the youth is not yet a young man. Until he left London, I was like an elder sister to him, the friend to whom he confided all that was in his heart.

For the first days after our arrival in London Herzen bade François admit no visitors whatever; even the presence of Malwide was irksome to him: he wanted to talk with us of all that had been aching in his heart these last two years; he told us all the details of the terrible blows he had endured, told us of his wife’s illness and death.

Often the children or Malwide came in and interrupted our conversation, and he preferred to begin talking when they had all gone to bed, so we spent several nights without sleep, and the dawn found us still up. I was only anxious on Ogaryov’s account, but it could not be helped. Afterwards, when he had relieved his heart and shared his sorrowful memories with us, Herzen regained his liveliness and activity. He went about London with us, showing us what had struck him at first, among other things the London public-houses, where people sat partitioned off from each other like horses in stalls, and the markets on Saturday nights lighted up by torches, where only the poor make their purchases, and where we heard on all sides: ‘Buy, buy, buy!’

A few days after our arrival, a little lodging, consisting of two rooms, was found for us with a Mrs. Bruce, a few steps from Herzen’s house.... We were very comfortable with that worthy woman, but we spent the greater part of our time at Herzen’s. There we met _émigrés_ from almost every part of Europe; there were Frenchmen, Germans, Italians, Poles, but at that time only one Russian, Ivan Ivanovitch Savitch, a cousin of the Savitch who suffered for his political views, I believe, when Herzen was a student; that is, many years before. Yet Ivan Ivanovitch, simply because he was his cousin, felt that he was under suspicion, and so was afraid to return to Russia. He had suffered great hardships and privations, but when we arrived he had work as a private teacher, and rarely asked for help from Herzen, who assisted all the _émigrés_ indiscriminately....”

“Soon after our arrival the news came that the daring revolutionary, Orsini, had escaped from an Austrian prison and would soon be in London.... A few days afterwards Herzen, on returning from his daily excursion into town, told us that Orsini had arrived, that he had seen him, and that Orsini would be dining with us next day. I had heard so much about him that I looked forward with interest to seeing him.

We were by then living at Herzen’s; this is how it came to pass. One day Ogaryov and Herzen had gone to town together, and I was alone in my lodging. Suddenly Miss Mills, the old housemaid, appeared with Herzen’s two little girls. The elder, Natasha, with a happy face, threw her arms round my neck and said: ‘She has gone and taken all her things.’ Miss Mills told me that Fräulein Meysenbug had left the house. I could make nothing of it and went back with the children; we were met by their brother Alexander. He looked distressed, picked up little Olga and kissed her; his eyes were full of tears.

‘What is it for? what is it for?’ he said.

Herzen was quite incensed at this typically German proceeding.

‘She might have explained and talked things over,’ he said.

Nothing would induce him to go and ask her to come back.

She lived henceforward in lodgings, and we moved into Herzen’s house and said good-bye for ever to our dear Mrs. Bruce.

But to return to Orsini. He arrived at the hour fixed. He was a typical Italian: tall, with black hair and eyes, with a small black beard and regular but rather marked features. Most likely he was even handsomer in Italian military uniform, but in London he was in a frock-coat, and he wore it with the peculiar _chic_ with which all military men wear civilian dress. When he talked, he impressed one by his extraordinary earnestness, vivacity, and fervour, and at the same time by knowing where to draw the line and avoid saying more than he meant to. I asked him about his escape from prison, and he readily told me what he could....”

“I remember that we spent not more than six months at Peterborough Villa. Herzen was fond of changing from one house, and even from one neighbourhood, to another:[2] he soon became aware of all the inconveniences of any house he had taken, and could not bear seeing the same faces in the omnibuses that plied backwards and forwards between the centre of the city and the suburb. Peterborough Villa had besides a great drawback. It was not a detached house, but was joined by a party wall to another next door to it. On Sundays various circles gathered at our house: Czernecki and Tchorszewski invariably, Germans, Italians, Frenchmen. Sometimes one of them would bring a new casual visitor. Gradually they all grew lively, some one would begin playing the piano, sometimes they sang in chorus. The children, too, took part in the singing, and soon there would be laughter and an uproar of merriment. Then a knocking at the wall would remind us that it was highly reprehensible to spend a Sunday like this in England. That used to make Herzen very indignant, and he would declare that there was no living in England except in a house standing quite apart and alone. He commissioned his friend Saffi, who often took long walks in the remoter parts of the town, to look out for a detached house for him. When Saffi at last found Tinkler’s or Laurel House (it was called by both names), he invited Herzen to go over it with him, and they were both very much pleased with it.

Laurel House was in every respect the opposite of Peterborough Villa. With its iron roof painted red, it looked more like an English farm than a town house, and on the side next the garden it was entirely covered with greenery; ivy twined from the bottom to the top of its walls; in front of the house there was a big oval lawn with little paths round it; there were bushes of lilac, fragrant syringa, and other flowering shrubs on all sides; there were masses of flowers, and there was even a little greenhouse.

Dear house, how happy we were in it, and how rapidly and successfully all that made the life of the two friends developed in it!

Every day Herzen’s elder daughter and I used to gather two nosegays, putting a big fragrant white lily in the middle; one was for the drawing-room, the other for Ogaryov’s room....”

“We moved into our new abode and settled in happily. Herzen could go into London by rail, the station was only a few paces away. And when he was too late for the train, he could take the omnibus which went from Putney Bridge to the City every ten minutes.

Herzen used to get up at six in the morning, which is very early for London habits; but, not expecting the same early rising from the servants, he used to read for some hours in his study. He read for a little while, too, when he went to bed; and we sat up till after eleven, sometimes even later, so that he had hardly six hours’ sleep. After dinner, as a rule, he was at home, and then he usually read aloud something from history or literature within the grasp of his elder girl, and, when she had gone to bed, he read aloud books suitable for his son’s age. Herzen followed every new scientific discovery and read everything new in the literary way that appeared in any European country or in America.

At nine o’clock in the morning coffee was served in the dining-room. Herzen used to drink a whole glass of very strong coffee, in which he would put a tablespoonful of cream; he liked very good coffee. Then he read _The Times_, made his own deductions, and told us various bits of news. He did not like the politics of _The Times_, but thought it essential to read it. Then he went into the drawing-room, where he worked without a break till lunch. Between one and two there was lunch, consisting of two dishes, almost always cold meat and something left from the previous day’s dinner. A jug of pale ale and a little claret or sherry stood on the table. Herzen was very fond of pale ale and drank it every day. Ogaryov was always late in the morning; by the time that he came down to the dining-room Herzen had always left it. But at lunch we all gathered together, the door was thrown open into the garden, and the children ran off to play in the open air. Then the friends talked of their work, of the articles they had to write, and so on. Sometimes one of them brought a finished article and read it aloud.

One day, soon after we had moved into Laurel House, Ogaryov said to Herzen after lunch, in my presence: ‘You know, Alexandr, the _Polar Star_ and your _Past and Thoughts_ are all very good, but that’s not what’s wanted; it’s not talking with our own people; we ought to bring out a journal regularly, once a fortnight, or once a month; we could state our views, our hopes for Russia, and so on.’

Herzen was delighted with the idea. ‘Yes,’ he cried eagerly, ‘we will bring out a journal, we will name it the _Bell_, the bell that calls men to council, we two together just as we were only two together on the Sparrow Hills—and who knows, perhaps some one will answer our call!’

From that day they began getting ready articles for the _Bell_; soon afterwards the first number of the Russian paper appeared in London. Trübner, who always bought Herzen’s works, or took them on commission, took the _Bell_ also. He sent it about in all directions, and soon it was heard of even in Russia. About that time Turgenev arrived from Paris. Ogaryov and Herzen told him the joyful tidings, and showed him the first number of the _Bell_, but Turgenev did not at all approve of the plan. As a refined writer with rare gifts and exceptionally elegant taste, he was delighted at the publication of the _Polar Star_ and _My Past and Thoughts_, but, never in close sympathy with political views and movements, he refused to believe that two men living isolated in England could carry on a real correspondence with their far-away country, could find in themselves anything to tell or could understand its needs.

‘No, it’s impossible,’ said Turgenev; ‘give up this fantastic notion, don’t waste your energies; you have plenty of work as it is, the _Polar Star_ and _My Past and Thoughts_, and there are only you two.’

‘Well, the thing is begun now, and we must go on with it,’ they answered.

‘It won’t and can’t be a success, and literature will lose a great deal,’ Turgenev protested hotly.

But the friends did not take his advice, whether from a presentiment that the _Bell_ would rouse many from their slumber and find contributors, or from simple obstinacy, I cannot say.

With Turgenev, Vassily Petrovitch Botkin, author of the _Letters from Spain_, came to see us. I knew something of him from Herzen’s description and from the sketch ‘Basil and Armance,’[3] but I must own that he seemed to me more eccentric than I had expected. He could speak of nothing without theatrical affectation, and was, moreover, a great gourmand, and moved, one may say, to tenderness at the sight of dishes which he particularly liked. He presented a complete contrast to our household, in which no one cared enough even to order the daily dinner. François himself chose the menu and cooked the dinner for eight o’clock in the evening. When anything was particularly nice we all praised it, but no one except Herzen criticised the cooking, and he only very rarely.

After lunch Herzen and Ogaryov went off, each in accordance with his tastes and inclinations. Herzen would go by train or omnibus as far as the crowded streets, and there stroll about, looking at the brightly lighted shop windows, and he watched and observed a great deal that went on in the street. He went into different coffee-houses, generally asked for a tiny glass of absinthe and a syphon of Seltzer water, and read there newspapers of all kinds.... He often brought home with him savouries or sauces, the choice of which he did not care to leave to François’ taste. Often, too, he brought us something we particularly liked, a lobster, or a special cheese, occasionally curaçao, or sweet things for the children, crystallised fruits or dried cherries. When he was in a very good humour, he liked to make us all guess whom he had met in London. I could read his mobile, expressive features so well that I could always tell; and so he would exclude me, and I was always left to guess last.

When Ogaryov went out of our peaceful suburb, Fulham, he tried to find still more solitary places for his walks. He lived in his inner life, people worried him, but he was fond of them in his own way, was particularly compassionate and excessively kind to every one. Instinctively he held aloof from his fellow-men; but when chance threw him into contact with them, he was so good-hearted and unconstrained that none of the people who talked to him imagined how oppressive they all were to him. Herzen, on the contrary, was fond of people, and though he was sometimes irritated if some one came at the wrong time, his interest was quickly aroused and he was glad to see them. Company was necessary to him, he was only afraid of bores.

On Sunday everything in England is locked up. The whole of London is transformed into a sort of huge cupboard; shops, bakeries, coffee-houses, restaurants, even the milkshops, are closed. Silence reigns in the streets, the only movement is in the parks, and even there it is not like week-days. Here and there in the distance one sees preachers surrounded by dense crowds of people listening with strained attention in unbroken silence. The children walk decorously, not one bowls a hoop nor tosses a ball in the air—and all this irritated Herzen. He did not like going out on Sundays, and was obliged to keep in hiding from the unceremonious visitors who called all day long from early morning. On such days he stayed longer at work, while the two elder children and I entertained the boring visitors in the garden. Little by little more interesting people began to arrive, the bell never stopped ringing; then Herzen at last joined us. When he came out everything was transformed and animated; there was a continual flow of entertaining talk, discussion and interesting news, mostly political. He was for his circle what the sun is for nature. As a rule he had extremely good health.... Once he caught a very bad chill and had a high temperature and shooting pain in his side; both Ogaryov and I were much alarmed and sent at once for our doctor and friend, the exile Deville. The latter was very fond of Herzen, and came several times a day while he was ill, but in less than a week the patient was on his legs again.”

“At that period so many Russians came that the servants were constantly making mistakes; at last Herzen arranged that all newcomers should be shown into the other half of the drawing-room, where I saw them and learned who they were, how long they were to be in London, and so on. Those who had come only for a day or two on purpose to deliver manuscripts, had to see him at once, for they always had a great deal they wanted to tell him by word of mouth.... When people arrived who were already known to him personally, or through their works, Herzen was overjoyed, and gladly left his work for their sakes; in such cases I called him to see them at once, but as a rule I gave him the visitor’s name, etc., and then asked them to come when he was at leisure, that is, at two or three o’clock in the afternoon. Then after sitting a little with his visitors, he would suggest going with them into London, for he needed fresh air and exercise after his sedentary work.

Herzen used to try to keep Russians away on Sundays, for we sometimes had so many visitors on that day that it was impossible to be sure that no spy made his way in with them. But it was not easy to induce the Russians to be careful; they often would come on Sundays all the same, and were often unnecessarily open with everybody, mentioning their own surnames, though all of us made it a rule when introducing visitors from Russia to Poles or other Russians, to say: ‘Our fellow-countryman whose name I have forgotten, or I have not heard,’ and when introducing them to foreigners, we said: ‘Un compatriote, le nom de famille est trop difficile à prononcer, trop barbare pour les oreilles occidentales, appelez-le par le nom de baptême—M. Alexandre,’ or some Christian name.

I believe that not a single person came to harm through carelessness on the part of Herzen or any of his household. He always refused to give a note in his own handwriting addressed to anybody in Russia, and did not like giving his portrait, maintaining that to do so was unnecessary imprudence.

Unhappily I cannot say the same for Bakunin; later on, when he came to London, he was guilty of thoughtless actions which had deplorable consequences; he was like a child playing with fire.”

“One day a short, rather lame Russian came to see Herzen, who had a great deal of conversation with him. Now that he is no longer in this world I may reveal a secret known only to me, I may tell the reason which brought him to London. After his first visit Herzen said to Ogaryov and me: ‘I am very glad N. has come, he has brought us a treasure, only not a word must be said about it in his lifetime. Look, Ogaryov,’ Herzen went on, handing him a manuscript, ‘it’s the Memoirs of Catherine the Second, written by her in French; look at the spelling of the period; it’s an authentic copy.’ By the time the Memoirs of Catherine were published, N. was in Germany. From Germany he wrote to Herzen that he would like to translate these Memoirs into Russian. Herzen was delighted to send him a copy, and a month later the translation was published by Czernecki; I don’t remember who translated the book into German and English, I only know that the Memoirs of Catherine the Second appeared simultaneously in four languages and made an extraordinary sensation throughout Europe. The editions were quickly exhausted. Many people maintained that Herzen had written the Memoirs himself, others were puzzled to think how they came into Herzen’s hands. Efforts were made to discover who had brought them from Russia, but that was a secret known only to N. himself and three other persons who had been trained to silence under Nicholas the First.

I forgot to say when speaking of Herzen’s character, that he was very impressionable. Though as a rule of a serene and at times even gay and mirthful disposition, he was apt to become suddenly gloomy if anything disagreeable happened. Such depression was frequently caused by his carelessness, which grew upon him in the trifling affairs of daily life; he was very precise in business, and never forgot anything relating to the printing-press, to money matters, or to any questions affecting people. When he set off after lunch to London he would think he had remembered everything; his letters and his proofs were ready—he would say good-bye, looking cheerful, but five minutes later there would be a terrific ring at the bell: this was Herzen back again with a gloomy face and a voice of exasperation. ‘I have forgotten everything,’ he would say in despair, ‘and now the train will be gone before I can get back to the station.’

‘Well, go by the omnibus, then,’ his son would tell him, unable to help smiling at his despair.

We all rushed to look for what was lost, ran to the drawing-room where he had been writing, or to his own room, and sometimes came back unsuccessful; no letters, no proofs! Occasionally it turned out that they were in his pocket; unluckily, he had so many pockets in his coat and in the cloak which he wore over it to keep off the London dust; then Herzen, more wrathful than ever, would have to cross Fulham Bridge to the omnibus office, and just as he approached it would see one going off, and have to wait there ten minutes for the next.”

“At Laurel House Ogaryov and I once got up some theatricals for the children.... I made two red shirts for Herzen and Ogaryov. Sasha put on a fur-lined coat inside out to represent a bear, and Ogaryov, in a red shirt, was the bear-leader. The red shirt was very becoming to him. With his big fair beard and curly head he looked a typical Russian peasant. On the other hand, the red shirt did not suit Herzen at all, he looked like a foreigner in it. Not supposing that he would mind, I blurted this out, and Herzen would never put on the red shirt again.”

[Somewhere about 1856 Herzen sent his son, who had been a brilliant student of natural science in London, winning a silver and then a gold medal in examinations, to Geneva to study under his old friend, Karl Vogt. After six months in Geneva, the young man entered the University of Berne, and there lived in the family of old Professor Vogt. In 1859 Herzen’s cousin,[4] Madame Passek, visited Berne and saw the young student there. She writes:]

“In Berne we stopped for a few days at the Hôtel au Faucon, and at once sent a note to Alexandr’s son, who was about to take his final in medicine at the University of Berne, and was living in the family of Professor Vogt, a man greatly respected by every one. A few minutes later he arrived; he was a young man with long fair hair, kind, pleasant face, and blue eyes like his mother’s. He had left Russia as a child of seven, but had not forgotten us; he was glad to see us, and at once made such friends that with all the ardour and simplicity of youth he confided to us his love for Emma, the thirteen-year-old granddaughter of the Vogts. He said he had asked his father’s permission to propose to her formally and after the engagement to wait till she came of age; but his father would not consent, and was vexed at his falling in love so young. ‘I reminded my father,’ he said, ‘that he was not much older than I am when he fell in love and married; he did not like this, and now we are having a disagreeable correspondence.’

‘But why is your father against your love?’ I asked. ‘The Vogts are an excellent family, he respects them, and is a friend of their son, the famous naturalist, Karl Vogt.’

‘Well, you see, he has got it into his head that I should marry a Russian, should live for Russia, love Russia. But how can one love what one doesn’t know? I hardly remember Russia, it is a foreign country for me, and what can I do for it? I am not a politician, I am a man of peace. If I had a plot of land in Switzerland, Emma, and my books, that would be enough for me.’

‘Do the Vogts know of your love for Emma, and what is their attitude?’

‘They know and strongly disapprove—that makes my position all the more difficult.’

We spent about a fortnight in Berne; Alexandr’s son spent whole days with us. Through him we got to know the Vogts; they treated us like old friends and often kept us to dinner. We dined at their famous round family table, which had served several generations of Vogts and Vollens.... The gifted zoologist, Karl Vogt, came to see his parents while we were in Berne. He was a man of clear, realistic intellect and of the happiest disposition. He did not waste his energies in yearning for impractical ideals; he was passionately fond of nature, work was for him a pleasure, not a task, and he did not ask from man or nature more than they could give.... In Berne Alexandr’s son introduced us to Emma. With her grandmother’s permission he brought her from Zurich, where she was at boarding-school. She was still a child, fresh and rosy, with bright, merry blue eyes—still a chrysalis, as Herzen said of her.

After a fortnight in Berne we moved to Geneva.... Our young friend soon came to see us there, and told us that he had formally proposed to Emma, had informed her grandparents, and obtained their consent, and had, as her recognised betrothed, been with her to call on all their friends and relations. He had done all this without his father’s knowledge, and now asked me to break the news to him and try to settle it all peaceably.

It was settled peaceably—in appearance; but Alexandr was planning to put an end to the engagement.

When his son came to London, however, with his fiancée to introduce Emma to his family, Alexandr met them at the railway station with a carriage and drove the betrothed child to his house; everything there had been prepared for her reception, and all the time she spent with him she was surrounded with tenderness and attention; but this was all.

When Emma’s parents arrived in London, Alexandr received them rather coldly, and advised them to take their daughter, till she came of age, to live with them in South America, where they were returning shortly. At the same time he sent his son on a scientific expedition to Norway and Iceland, undertaken, I believe, by Karl Vogt. During the years of parting the young people wrote to each other; the letters from America did not always reach their destination: the correspondence grew slacker and slacker, and finally ceased.

I have heard that Emma married a rich banker in South America; Alexandr’s son settled in Italy, where, later on, he married; he has nine charming children, owns a villa near Florence, is devoted to farming, does scientific work, and is well known as a naturalist. The dreams of the boy of twenty have come true.“[5]

[It seems probable that Natalya Alexyevna had cherished a girlish adoration[6] for Herzen during the time she spent in his company in Italy and in Paris. Now that she was in daily contact with him, this early passion revived, and soon eclipsed her feeling for Ogaryov. About the same time (possibly earlier) Ogaryov formed a permanent connection with an Englishwoman, Mary (her surname is never given), by whom he had two sons, Henry (born 1857) and ‘Toots.’ She seems to have been a kind, good woman, but not of much education nor of intellectual tastes. Herzen’s enemies have not hesitated to accuse him of treacherously seducing the wife of his best friend. It must be borne in mind that Ogaryov remained on the warmest terms with Herzen, continuing to live in his house so long as they were in England, and no trace of resentment can be discerned. It is, indeed, quite possible that his wife’s defection may have been rather a relief than a subject of regret to him. Moreover, the initiative and the responsibility seem to have been hers. At first no one but Ogaryov and Herzen’s elder children understood the real position, and Natalya Alexyevna’s daughter, Liza, as a child looked upon Ogaryov as her father. Twins, a boy and girl, were born in 1861. Herzen seems to have found little happiness in this new union, which was a constant source of anxiety and misery. He was morbidly sensitive in regard to the irregularity of the position, but accepted the tie as a binding obligation and responsibility. Except for short intervals of absence on business, or on visits to his children or his friends, he lived with Natalya Alexyevna to the end of his life, though he does in his letters to Ogaryov talk of escaping from his bondage.

In 1858, just after the birth of Liza, Natalya Alexyevna’s mother arrived.]

“Herzen now thought our house overcrowded, and shortly afterwards took another, called Park House, also in Fulham and not far away, with a big garden and a fairly large vegetable patch. My mother moved with us and spent six weeks there. Though Park House was in some respects very superior to Laurel House, I regretted the beautiful flower-garden we had left. There was a very spacious verandah along one whole side of the new house looking into the garden, and there we used to spend the greater part of the day. On the ground floor there were the kitchen and a little room for washing up the crockery, and another tiny closet with an open rack in which the plates were stood to dry without being wiped. These adjuncts to the kitchen are usual in all English houses; in fact, Herzen used to say that English houses were so exactly alike in the arrangement of the rooms and even of the furniture, that he could find any room and any object in them with his eyes bandaged....”

[The difference between the Russian and the English attitude (at that period) in regard to law and punishment is well illustrated by the following domestic incident.]

“We had four servants in Park House ... and on Saturdays, as in all English houses, a charwoman came to scrub and clean everything, even the front doorsteps. Mazzini recommended Herzen an Italian cook, Tassinari, a revolutionary and ardent patriot ... a stout, fresh-looking man, in spite of his grey hair and long white beard, with a clever, expressive face and big bright black eyes. He was an excellent cook, and Herzen was well satisfied with him ... but he had one great defect, jealousy or envy—painful as it is to admit it, those two feelings are closely akin. The Irish housemaid, who was very much with us, as she looked after my little girl, aroused this feeling particularly. He was always finding fault with her, would not give her lunch in the morning if she did not come in at once when the bell rang, and so on. We brought from Laurel House with us a middle-aged German called Trina, who took the children out and read German with them. She had been with us for six months, and seemed to be fond of us. One day Jules, our manservant, said to me: ‘Isn’t it sad for poor Trina, madam; last Sunday she was taking the wages you paid her to her sister’s, and in the crush in the omnibus she had her pocket picked.’

‘Why didn’t she tell me?’ I asked.

‘I expect she didn’t like to,’ answered Jules.

I went to Ogaryov and Herzen; they gave me the money and I handed it to Trina. She thanked me, but seemed overcome with confusion and did not look me in the face. I imagine it was a clever trick on her part. Not long after this, Trina was suddenly taken ill with acute rheumatism, and could not move hand or foot; we sent for a doctor and a nurse, but she soon begged to be taken to the hospital. Herzen hired an omnibus, she was with the greatest care carried down on a mattress and driven at a walking pace to the hospital. Some months later, when she had completely recovered, she came back to us. That was just when we were leaving Laurel House. Then Jules lost his silver watch; he could not imagine who had taken it, but was inclined to suspect the gardener and his wife. I was very much annoyed at this suspicion, but I had no positive proofs by which I could convince Jules that he was mistaken. We had been for nearly two years at Laurel House, the same gardener had been there all the time, and nothing had ever been missed. After her return Trina went on visiting her sister, who kept, I believe, a baker’s shop; she even took to asking me to let her stay the night there, as it was a long way off; this was very inconvenient, but I put up with it, as I liked her.

One day, when Trina was at her sister’s, Tassinari came into the dining-room looking worried. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘they came yesterday from the chandler’s, where we have an account; you know they are also carriers, that is, they deliver parcels all over the town.’

‘Well, what then?’ I asked.

‘You will see in a minute,’ our cook answered. ‘Do you know this address, madam?’ and he handed me a piece of paper.

‘It’s Trina’s sister’s name,’ I answered, glancing at it.

‘They let us know,’ Tassinari went on, ‘parcels are very often sent from Park House to that address, and that there is often something that clinks in the parcels. It’s always the same box; it comes back empty and is sent off from here full.... I told them to keep back the box, which was to be sent to that address yesterday; would not you like to look what there is in it, madam?’

‘Of course not,’ I answered warmly, ‘you can’t open another person’s boxes. Trina is sending something to her sister,’ I said, with a simplicity certainly excessive at my years; but the thought that she was capable of stealing did not enter my head; besides, I imagined this was another instance of Tassinari’s fault-finding ways. The Italian smiled.

‘Then shall I ask Monsieur Herzen?’ and he went off and knocked at the drawing-room door.

Herzen listened to him and gave him leave to bring in the box. Tassinari was triumphant; he quickly reappeared with the box, deftly unfastened the lid, and began picking things out with a gleeful face; there were curtains, ribbons, children’s smocks, and I don’t know what else; I stood overwhelmed.

‘Herzen,’ I said, ‘could Trina really...?’

He looked at me with sympathy for my distress.

‘She could,’ he said.

He told Tassinari to pack the things in the box again, and put it in the other half of the room, then dismissed him.

‘When Trina comes,’ said Herzen, ‘show her that box; we shall see what explanation she gives. Of course, it is all very clear and simple, but what matters is this: by English law we are bound to prosecute a thief, or we are liable to a considerable fine, and nothing would induce me to hand over a thief to the police. Let her go back to Germany, for we can’t give her a character....’

It was a long time before Trina returned; I suppose she was waiting for the arrival of her box. At last she came into the drawing-room, with apologies for having stayed away so long, but turned pale and said no more when she saw the box on the table. After listening to her protestations that she had done wrong only once, I gave her Herzen’s advice to go back to Germany, which she at once agreed to do. Three days later she left our house, together with the Irish housemaid, who had been in the secret, and had carried the box to the chandler’s.”

“Malwide von Meysenbug had all this time been living apart from us, sometimes in lodgings and sometimes with friends, but she looked forward to an independent life and to visiting Paris and Italy, where she had never been. She suggested that she should take Herzen’s younger daughter, Olga, with her on a visit to Madame Schwabe, the widow of a wealthy banker with a large family and a splendid estate in England. As Madame Schwabe was going to Paris for the winter, Malwide asked Herzen to let Olga go with them.... Soon afterwards Malwide left Madame Schwabe and settled alone with little Olga.”

[Olga, who was devoted to Malwide, remained with her permanently. In a letter from Fräulein von Meysenbug to Wagner she gives a charming picture of the little girl’s enthusiasm at a performance in Paris of one of Wagner’s operas, and her audible indignation when some of the audience hissed the new music.]

“Among the Russians who came to see Herzen at Park House, I cannot pass over Alexandr Serno-Solovyovitch, at that time a very young man. Herzen liked him very much: it was evident that, in spite of his youth, he had read and thought much; he was intelligent and interested in all the important questions of the day. I don’t remember where the rest of the family had gone, but I know they were obliged to be out one day when Serno-Solovyovitch particularly wanted to see the Zoological Gardens. I went with him, taking Natasha, Olga, and my baby Liza. Serno-Solovyovitch inspected the Gardens thoroughly, and was very charming and attentive to the children. He spent a few days more in London, continually seeing Herzen and Ogaryov, and showing them the greatest warmth and respect. At that time his bad qualities were slumbering, and circumstances had not yet arisen to develop them. I shall have to speak of him later.... It is painful to think how this intelligent and cultured man perished in a strange land without being of any service to his country, brought to ruin by vanity, envy, and despair; but I must speak of him not so much on his own account as because in his relations with him Herzen’s innate characteristics—a magnanimity, kindness, and compassion almost passing belief—were so strikingly displayed.”

[In the summer of 1859 Natalya Alexyevna, hearing from her sister, Madame Satin, that she was visiting Germany with her children, went to Dresden with her baby Liza and Natasha Herzen, then to Heidelberg with her sister, where she saw many old friends and met Madame Passek for the first time, and then to Berne to stay with the Vogts. On returning to London the following winter she found Herzen and Ogaryov installed in Orsett House, a large house of five storeys, in Westburn Terrace, Wimbledon.]

“Herzen told me that while I was away an artist, Madame O’Connell, a complete stranger, had written asking him to give her five sittings. At the first sitting she had been extremely kind, and had told him that having heard a great deal about him she wanted to paint a portrait of him for posterity.... What became of the portrait I do not know.”

[In the summer of 1861[7] Herzen went with his daughter Natasha to Paris to see Olga, who was ill, and there]

“After long years of separation he met his cousin, Tatyana Passek.[8] He told us a great deal about this, and said that the Yakovlyevs[9] had treated her very badly and taken possession of her share of the family property. When she had been in need of money, Herzen had lent her what she wanted and had never asked for repayment. In his views he had moved far away from the friend of his youth. Madame Passek was religious, and regarded the monarchy as the salvation of Russia.

They disputed hotly, both stoutly defending their convictions, and parted with a smile, conscious that only the grave could reconcile their divergent views, and that as long as they lived they would be warriors in opposing camps.”

“Soon after Herzen’s return from France, he received visitors who greatly interested us all—Sergey Ivanovitch Turgenev and Lyov Nikolaevitch Tolstoy. The former we had known for years, and we were used to his caprices and little peculiarities; the latter we saw for the first time.

Not long before leaving Russia, Ogaryov and I had read Tolstoy’s _Childhood, Boyhood, and Youth_, and tales of the Crimean War, with enthusiasm. Ogaryov was constantly talking of these tales and of their author.

When we came to London, we hastened to tell Herzen about this new and exceptionally gifted writer. It turned out that Herzen had read several of his works already, and was delighted with them. He particularly admired the boldness with which Tolstoy spoke of feelings so subtle and deeply concealed that no one had put them into words, though many had perhaps experienced them. As regards his philosophical views, Herzen thought them feeble, misty, and often unsupported by evidence.

‘Tolstoy is in our house!’ Natasha and I thought, and we 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