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.

Anyway, my coming was crowned with success; the patient began to recover, sleep and appetite returned, but I looked in vain for any sign of joy in Herzen’s gloomy face: he seemed crushed, and had not the strength to hope or to believe in his beloved daughter’s recovery. He lived in a state of morbid apprehension. The doctor sanctioned Natasha’s leaving Florence.... Liza and Natasha set off with us for Paris. Only Herzen’s son saw us off. For some reason Malwide and Olga did not come to say good-bye.

This time we did not hurry; we travelled very slowly. We stopped several times on the way to rest. We spent a day in Genoa; I remember that there Herzen was writing to Florence, and he said to me: ‘What am I to say to Olga and Malwide: ask them to come to Paris or leave them in Italy? They so dislike coming away!’ But I advised him to send for them, because I saw that Natasha still needed me, and Herzen himself was too unhinged to be fit to look after Liza. He could not be with the patient either; her overwrought nerves could not stand her father’s resonant voice.

We stayed two days in Nice, then rested at Lyons, and at last reached Paris, where we went to the Pension Rovigan. But it was not sufficiently comfortable for our invalid, and so in his daily walks about the city Herzen looked out for a spacious flat where there would be room for us all. Soon after our return to Paris Malwide and Olga arrived, though they certainly were very unwilling to come. They were sorry to exchange Florence for Paris. Then we moved into a big flat in the Pavillon Rohan, No. 172 rue Rivoli, into that fateful house in which he who, forgetful of himself, thought and lived for his country, for humanity, and for his family, after some five days’ illness left us for ever.”

[Herzen had been suffering from diabetes since 1864, but the doctors thought his strong constitution would enable him to resist the disease, if only he received no shocks. The alarm caused him by his daughter’s illness made him worse. In January 1870 he had an attack of pneumonia, of which he died four days later at the age of fifty-eight. He was buried in Nice beside his wife and children.

That his life with Natalya Alexyevna was not a happy one can be seen from his correspondence with Ogaryov. They made more than one attempt at separation, but Herzen could not bear parting from Liza. There seems to have been something morbid and unbalanced in Natalya Alexyevna’s character. Even Liza, to whom she was devoted, was after Herzen’s death on very bad terms with her. They lived near Herzen’s other children in Italy, but Liza did not always get on well with them, in spite of the unvarying patience and affection of Natasha Herzen. Brilliantly intelligent, vain and capricious, Liza committed suicide in 1875, at the age of seventeen, after a dispute with her mother, who wished her to break off an undesirable intimacy. Natalya Alexyevna went back to Russia and lived in seclusion in the country. Later on she adopted the daughter of a niece. The girl was consumptive, and for the sake of her health Madame Ogaryov took her to the Black Forest, where the adopted daughter died. Natalya Alexyevna just succeeded in reaching Russia before her own death in 1913.

Ogaryov, who had become more or less of an invalid from the time of his accident in 1866, was still living in Geneva in 1873, when his old friend, Madame Passek, visited him there. Not long afterwards he moved to England with ‘Mary,’ who faithfully cared for him to the end. Once a wealthy man, he had lost or given away all he had and was maintained in his last years by Herzen’s children. He died at Greenwich in 1877, and is buried at Shooter’s Hill.

The following extracts from letters written by Herzen to Ogaryov throw light on the former’s state of mind during his last years.]

“NICE, _May 31, 1868_.

“Ah, you dear, absurd person, you will hardly believe me, I laugh at you and at myself quite genuinely—with no tinge of anger or anything of the sort. I knew all along and wrote to you in Geneva that whether it’s Lausanne or Prangius—it’s a terror to you (you accepted the suggestion too hastily and I made it too hastily)—you are so comfortably and peacefully settled in your snug little den that the very idea of travelling frightens you. Well, so be it, but why did you wait till the trunks were packed and everything was ready, to write of the difficult position that Toots put you in...?

It is too late not to go—you must think of some plan. I see you want us to come to Geneva. Tell me how and I will do it. The _only_ difficulty is Liza (who remembers you and has a romantic affection for you). Are you really going to risk telling her straight away not only the whole secret history, but two secret histories?... And so I suggest that I should first come from Lyons by myself, and all the rest we will put off and settle later. I cannot guarantee that everything will be well at Prangius. Below the surface of peace there are sometimes very bad symptoms. One thing you might explain: why did you tell me that I was wrong, and that you really did want to come to Lausanne or anywhere else to see us all and to have a change from the monotony of your life that I find so trying? I would have arranged things accordingly. But there is no harm done. Now it is no use sacrificing yourself, for a sacrifice always makes itself felt. Believe me, I will manage it all, including the shock to Liza’s feelings and the ridicule. I cannot endure ridicule (that is, being laughed at) as an insult, but everything else can be settled, and you can trust me to do all I can to make it right and not too conspicuous. Well, amen.”

“MULHOUSE, _June 30, 1868_.

“... We are going to Basle to-night. I expect I shall stay there till Tata[16] comes, or perhaps I shall go to Lucerne and wait there till the question of Prangius is settled. Lucerne is a beautiful place; I am quite ready to spend a month there.

But how I should like to settle down somewhere! though I see no prospect of it.... You have always preached immobility, and now you cannot walk; I, on the contrary, was always for movement—and here, at fifty-six, I am utterly homeless.... Liza is well, but Natalie[17] is convinced that she is ill and wants to ask Adolph Vogt’s advice.”

“HOTEL BELLE VUE, LUCERNE. “_July 7, 1868. Tuesday._

“... It is very nice here in the summer. The hotel is expensive and the food is not up to much, but the view from the windows—fields all round, gardens, and mountains ... right in front is the lake, and mountains again.

Lucerne is infinitely more beautiful than Geneva, but it probably begins to be cold here in October.... I fancy Natalie, too, is tired of _vagabondage_, but as to where are we to settle I must ask Tata’s advice. I am not equal to deciding it alone! You can’t believe how tired I am. Oh, for a house, a comfortable house, with a field adjoining—and then rest!”

“BERNERHOFF, NO. 6, BERNE. “_July 11, 1868._

“... Yesterday I spent a long day which I shall not soon forget. It began wretchedly with Natalie’s ill humour; I set off _low-spirited_,[18] but all the way from Olten I travelled with Lewes and his wife (you know, who writes English novels): he cheered me up; he is an extraordinarily intelligent and lively-minded man. Among other things he asked me: ‘Est-ce que votre “Golos” parait toujours?’ for which he caught it severely.

But to the tragedy. Dolgorukov is very bad, but his strong constitution is like a fortress that will not surrender.... He talks incoherently, his eyes are dim, he does not know that the end is so near, but he fears it. The worst of it is that there is a fearful conflict going on inside him. His joy at seeing me was immense, but noiseless; he keeps squeezing my hands and thanking me. There is nobody in the world he trusts but me and my representative, Tchorszewski. In the morning he summoned Tchorszewski and Vogt ... then after all sorts of dreadful incidents, he sent Vogt to tell N. to go back at once.

Vogt carried out this commission. N. of course was furious. But Dolgorukov at once sent for him and begged his forgiveness. When I went up, he sent them all away, and taking both my hands, sat up and fixed his dim eyes on me.

‘Herzen, Herzen! For God’s sake, tell me, you are the only one I trust, the only one I respect—is it madness, is it nonsense?

‘You see yourself,’ I said, ‘that it’s madness. What reasons have you?

‘Yes, yes, it’s obvious, it’s delirium—so you think it’s delirium?’ (And so on a dozen times over.) Then all at once, sinking back, he repeated slowly twice:

‘No, but do you—for God’s sake, do keep a watch on the way they are treating me,’ and he signified that I was to say no more. After which he fell into a doze, and on waking asked us to have dinner with his son, which we did. The son was irritated at first, but after dinner, after two or three bottles of wine and some absinthe, he recovered—he’s a queer fellow. All this together affected my nerves, so that I did not sleep all night and my head aches.

Tell me what impression this letter makes on you?

Vogt says that there isn’t a chance of saving him, and that if he is left like this, he’ll pop off. I fancy there is a lot of strength in him yet....”

“LUCERNE, BELLE-VUE. “_July 14 (1868)._

“Well, at least I have escaped from the Dolgorukov nightmare. An awful agony, and what’s more, he’s actually better, he’s eating incessantly, and so keeps himself up. Adolph Vogt quite worn out. The day before yesterday there was a hideous scene with N. in my presence; afterwards I made peace between them. He is persuaded that the fellow is only waiting to snatch his money and be off!... N. came in and protested against something. Dolgorukov shouted:

‘Hold your tongue and be off to Petersburg!’

Then he sent Vogt to tell him not to come near him. And though I did bring him to reason a bit, yet next morning he told him to go away and let him die in peace or recover. Tchorszewski is the only one who is not moved to exasperation in this filthy slough, and though fearfully depressed behaves well.”

“... Vogt says I have a strong tendency to diabetes, and advises me to drink the waters at Lucerne, and not go to Berne again for a fortnight. Altogether I am better now, though still far from well. Tata has come with me....

Auerbach and his wife are here; they have lately come from Russia, and have been in Vevey. Bakunin belongs heart and soul to Elpidin’s party, and they are as thick as thieves.

_Caro mio_—it is time we retired and began on something else; writing a great work or settling down to old age.... Liza was very glad to see Tata, their meeting was delightful. I am very much pleased with Tata.... Tchorszewski has just arrived for a rest, and has brought the news that Dolgorukov is immensely better. See what medicine can do!”

“LUCERNE, BELLE VUE. “_July 23 (1868). Thursday._

“... I posted you a letter at ten o’clock last night, enclosing one from Liza, who, _entfesselt_ from town life, enjoys the woods and the fields so much that it is a pity to take her away from here. She and Tata would have got on well, but Liza’s rude pranks (her only serious defect) irritate Tata. Natalie in such cases does, of course, everything to make matters worse. It’s a bad look-out.

In my letter of yesterday I wrote to you about striking work—the millstone is turning more slowly; we labour listlessly and in vain, surrounded by jeers and vile envy. Russia is deaf. The seed has been sown, it is covered with dung—there is nothing to do till autumn. It has occurred to me to write to you an official letter suggesting _stoppage_[19]—and I shall do so.

But how could you imagine that by retiring and rest from the _Bell_ ... I meant empty inactivity, and how could one set about it? For that, one must wait for complete softening of the brain, hardening of the heart, or terror over one’s health....

All I want after burying the _Bell_ is external peace, being able to keep calm, almost indifferent to the annoyances all about me. But the _Bell_ won’t do that; there’s no managing it, it’s a good thing you have got it—make the most of it. Good-bye.”

“ST. GALLEN, _Aug. 3, 1868_.

“... Liza wants to write to you that we crossed the Rhine under a waterfall. She is well, eats enough for two, sleeps enough for three; and if one could persuade Natalie not to spoil her, we could boast of her at Prangius. But her temper and naughtiness are great defects.”

[In September and October 1868 Herzen was at Vichy first alone, then with his family, and had a quiet and pleasant time there. It had been decided to go from Vichy to Lyons and then to Zurich, but later the plan was changed, and it was proposed to go to Lausanne.]

“LYONS, HOTEL DE L’EUROPE. “_Oct. 23, 1868._

“Well, here we are at Lyons. _Le chapitre_ of water cure is over. What next?[20] In any case I shall come to Geneva. Our plans are all unsettled. Natalie wants to go to Nice—we are on the way to it here. I say that Liza’s education ought to be our chief consideration. She is growing up mentally every day and quite naturally, _i.e._ it does not interfere with her health. Nice, of course, has no educational advantages except its climate. Even Lyons has plenty of the museums and other things that Liza needs. One winter can be sacrificed, but I won’t agree to more.”

“MARSEILLES, _Dec. 4, 1868_. “Cafe at the railway station, 9 A.M.

“... Our last meeting was confused. I am somehow stunned and stupefied by such blows and shocks[21] and want to be alone. It is over now, and thank God, and in 1864 there was Lyola’s[22] operation. You know, I have not till now had the courage to tell any one what happened then: ‘It is wonderful what a man can endure.’ Had Natalie understood that moment and my love now for Liza, she would not be constantly pulling at the strings, for fear of breaking them. I am ready to forgive, for, as Kukolnik puts it, ‘only the strong can forgive.’ But that’s not all.

_A propos_, do you know I was expecting that Bakunin would send to inquire after Tata and so make peace. But he hasn’t ... _é rotta l’altissima colonna_.

It is summer here. All the windows are open. Sun is shining. No, we’ll have to give up Zurich and Berne and Geneva. It would be better to live in the same town with you, but it is difficult. The irregularity of my position and (in a different way) of yours makes it hard. When Toots is sent to boarding-school, and you decide on some career for Henry, we will talk about it.”

“_After Lunch._

“... As to Tata, it would have been too dreadful for me to lose her. Dear Natalie (my wife), you and she, in spite of her youth and crudity, understand me better than any one. But that menace is over. Natalie[23] loves me, but she does not spare me. She never will be a _sister_ (you remember her last letter), but Tata can be.”

“LYONS, HOTEL DE L’EUROPE. “_Dec. 30, 1868._

“... I am so sick of my irregular life that I keep thinking about the future, about ‘a room of my own,’ books, and a writing-table.... Ever since the end of 1864 I cannot settle down anywhere, and, of course, that is chiefly Natalie’s fault. If something could be arranged in Geneva or here (anywhere between Nice and Genoa)! Florence does not attract me. However I shuffle the cards, nothing turns up. Well, that’s an old story.”

“NICE, _Feb. 20, 1869_.

“... Tata has had a long letter from Olga. There are hints and surmises in it so awful that I am afraid to comment on them. It is a systematic intrigue on the part of Meysenbug, who wants to estrange Olga from all of us, from me in particular—an intrigue that involves slander (I may have proofs of this). What is one to say to it! I have written to Sasha and am waiting for his answer.”

“PARIS, _Oct. 28, 1869_.

“... I have found temporary lodgings in a small but clean hotel in the Champs-Élysées, Avenue d’Antin, No. 33. Not expensive as prices are here. Then I have in view a very nice unfurnished flat right opposite the Luxembourg Gardens. I think that after knocking about all over the world one must at last fix somewhere a home for one’s old age and settle the children and the grown-ups in it. If I venture to take a house for _three years_, I will offer you in a year’s time to move to Paris too. For the present you had better stay in Geneva.... I can easily find a flat with two bedrooms, a sitting-room, and a kitchen somewhere near the Luxembourg Gardens. The worst of it is one needs the courage of a Suvorov to sign a contract for three years.”

“GENOA, HOTEL FEDER. “_Nov. 14, 1869._

“... I don’t do anything at all, don’t want to do anything, and don’t read anything—this is why I write long letters.

S. P. Botkin is a terrible medical prophet. He said to me: ‘All will go well if you have no violent shocks.’ Here is a shock,[24] and apparently—thanks to your Providence, otherwise my stomach—all has gone off well ... but no, Botkin is right. I shan’t get off a visit to Vichy in the spring after all.”

“PARIS, 8 RUE ROVIGO. “_Dec. 23, 1869._

“Dr. Charcot came yesterday, stayed over half an hour ... I did not even ask him about myself, I have no thoughts to spare on myself so far. I eat and drink well, but sleep badly. I drop off into a dead sleep when I go to bed in the evening, but wake up about four o’clock in terror that I shall not be able to sleep any more.

I have found a flat with full board, expensive but very good, quiet though quite central—172 rue Rivoli. By the end of two months I shall see whether we are going to stay in Paris and then find a permanent flat; as it is, I have to throw away 800 francs per month.

I very much dislike doing it, but large rooms and a certain amount of comfort are essential for the invalid.[25] We are saved all trouble and worries about housekeeping, etc.”

“8 RUE ROVIGO, _Dec. 29, 1869_.

“We are just going to move to Pavillon Rohan, 172 rue Rivoli. It’s a huge house let out in big and small flats, with or without board. We can rest there for a month, or even two, and see what happens.... I have earned this expensive rest by what I have been through during the last two months.

I cannot concentrate on anything, or settle down to any work, and I am doing nothing but reading.

... Best wishes for the New Year—from which I expect nothing new—and nothing good. All I ask is to keep what I have.”

“PARIS, 172 RUE RIVOLI. “_Jan. 4, 1870._

“Again I don’t know what to write—everything is slow, dull, and not particularly smooth. Tata is getting better and better. All the rest hobbles on in the usual way.... I tell you candidly, it seems to me there is no chance of arranging a common life here. Everything hangs on a thread. With Tata alone we could manage things better, and that is how it will end.”

ENDS AND BEGINNINGS

A year ago, when I was writing ‘Ends and Beginnings,’ I did not expect to conclude them so abruptly. I wanted in two or three following letters to define the ‘Beginnings’ more closely; the ‘Ends’ seemed to me sufficiently clear of themselves. This I could not do. My outlook changed: events gave me neither peace nor leisure—they made their own commentaries and their own deductions. The tragedy is still developing before our eyes, and is more and more passing from an individual conflict into the prelude to a world struggle. Its prologue is complete; the plot is well constructed; all is in a tangle; neither men nor parties can be recognised. One cannot help recalling the image of Dante’s wrestlers, in which the combatants’ limbs were not only intertwined, but by some metamorphosis subsequently transformed into each other.

Everything youthful and enthusiastic, from the prayer before the Crucifix to the feat of reckless daring, from the woman dressed in black to the secret preserved by the whole people—everything that had faded away in the old world, from the mitre and the sword of chivalry to the Phrygian cap—has appeared once more in all its poetic brilliance in rebellious Poland, as though to deck with the flowers of youth the _elders of civilisation_, as they slowly move into the conflict that they dread.

On the other hand, the ‘Beginnings’ glimmer faintly through the smoke of burnt cities and villages.... What is happening here is the exact opposite.... All the surviving relics of the _old world_ have risen up in defence of the rule of Petersburg, and are defending its ill-gotten gains with all the weapons bequeathed by the barbarous ages of military violence and the corrupt period of diplomatic intrigue. These range from the torture and murder of prisoners to false amnesties and sham declarations, from the barbaric exile of whole sections of the population to newspaper articles and the filigree rhetoric of Gortchakov’s notes.

The storms of recent days have ruffled the still waters of our pool. Much that has lain buried in silence under the coffin-lid of past oppression has come to the surface and revealed its utter putrefaction. Only now we can measure the depth of the corruption which the Imperial Government has developed in the cause of Germanising us for a century and a half. The German lymph has matured in the coarse Russian blood, the healthy organism has given it fresh strength, and, while infected by it, has lost nothing of its own vice. The inhuman narrow ugliness of the German officer and the petty vulgarity of the German official has long ago blended in Russia with the features of the Mongol, the savage and unrelenting cruelty of the oriental slave and of the Byzantine eunuch. But we have not been used to seeing this composite personality outside the army barracks and the government offices; it has never appeared so strikingly outside the Service: scantily educated, it not only wrote little but even read little. Now our Minotaurs come to the surface not only in the palaces and torture-chambers, but in society, in the universities, in literature.

We thought that our literature was so lofty, that our professors were such apostles; we were mistaken in them, and how painful it is! we are revolted by it as by every display of moral degradation. We cannot but protest against the dreadful things that are being said and done; we cannot but be repelled by the frenzy of violence, the inhuman butchery and still more inhuman applause. Perhaps it may be our lot to fold our hands and die in our retreat before this delirium of ‘cultured’ Russia is over.... But this storm will not uproot the seed that lies hidden in the soil; it will not hurt it, and maybe it will strengthen it. A new vital force is strengthened by everything—ill deeds and good alike. It alone can pass through blood, unstained, and say to the savage combatants: ‘I know you not; you have worked for me, but it was not for my sake you worked.’

Look at the savage satrap in Lithuania: he strangles the Polish element, but the Russian autocracy will bear the marks of the struggle; he hunts down the Polish nobles, but it will be the Russian nobles who will flee.

Like house-porters, they know not for whom they are sweeping, for whom they are clearing a path, as little as the Roman she-wolf knew whom she was suckling, whom she was rearing. Not Romulus, but Remus, wronged in the past, will tread the bloodstained path: it is for him that Tsar and satraps are clearing a road.

But before he comes much blood yet will flow, and there will be a fearful collision of two worlds. Why must it flow? Why, indeed? There is no help for it, if men gain no more sense. Events move rapidly and the brain develops slowly. Under the influence of dark forces, of fantastic images, the peoples move as though sleep-walking through a succession of insoluble problems; after fighting together, and seeing nothing clearly, during all the fifteen hundred years from the fearful collapse of the Roman world, they reach the nineteenth century, which is no more civilised than the times of Germanicus and Alaric.

_August 1, 1863._