Chapter 22: In Moscow While I Was Away

My peaceful life in Vladimir was soon troubled by news from Moscow which reached me now from all sides and deeply distressed me. To make this intelligible I must go back to 1834.

The day after I was arrested in 1834 was the nameday of my aunt, the princess, and so when Natalie had parted from me in the graveyard she had said: ‘Until to-morrow’; she was expecting me, several members of the family had arrived, when suddenly my cousin made his appearance and told them the full details of my arrest. This news, utterly unexpected, gave her a shock; she got up to go into the other room, and after taking two steps fell unconscious on the floor. The princess saw it all and understood it all; she determined to oppose this love from the beginning by every means in her power.

What for?

I do not know: she had of late, that is after I had finished my studies, been very well disposed to me; but my arrest and rumours of our free-thinking attitude, of our giving up the Orthodox Church and entering the Saint Simon ‘sect,’ infuriated her; from that time forward she never spoke of me except as ‘that unhappy son of brother Ivan’s.’ The Senator had to use all his authority to induce her to allow Natalie to go to the Krutitsky Barracks to say good-bye to me.

Fortunately I was exiled and the princess had plenty of time before her.

‘And where is this Perm or Vyatka? He’ll be sure to break his neck there, or have it broken for him; and in any case he’ll forget her there.’

But as though to spite the princess, I had an excellent memory. Natalie’s correspondence with me, for a long time concealed from the old lady, was at last discovered, and she sternly forbade the maids and menservants to receive letters for the young girl, or to take letters to the post.

‘So I daresay some fine morning that unhappy son of my brother’s will open the door and walk in; it’s no use wasting time thinking about it, and putting things off—we’ll make a match for her and save her from the political criminal who has no religion or principles.’

The princess, sighing, would talk of the poor, forlorn girl, saying that she had scarcely anything, that it would not do for her to pick and choose, that she would like to see her settled in her own lifetime. She had, as a fact, with the help of her dependents, settled, after a fashion, the fate of one distant cousin who had no dowry by marrying her off to an attorney of some sort. A nice, good-natured, and well-educated girl, she married to satisfy her mother; two years later she died, but the attorney was still living, and from gratitude was still looking after her Excellency’s affairs. In this case, however, the bride was not portionless, the princess was prepared to treat her like her own daughter, to give her a dowry of a hundred thousand roubles and to leave her something in her will besides. On such terms suitors are always to be found, not only in Moscow but everywhere else, especially when there is the title of princess as well as a ‘lady companion’ and numerous ‘old women’ in attendance.

The whispering, the negotiations, rumours, and maidservants brought Princess Marya Alexeyevna’s intention to the ears of the unhappy victim of so much solicitude. She told the ‘lady companion’ that she would not accept any offer of marriage. Then followed an insulting and ruthless persecution without one trace of delicacy, a petty persecution pursuing her every minute and catching her at every step, at every word.

‘Imagine bad weather, terrible cold, wind, rain, an overcast, as it were, expressionless sky, a very horrid little room which looks as though a corpse had just been carried out of it, and these _children_, who have no aim, no pleasure even, making a noise, shouting, spoiling and defiling everything near them; and it would be bad enough if one had simply to look at them, but when one is forced to be in their company ...’ she writes in one letter from the country where the princess had gone for the summer; and she goes on: ‘there are three old women sitting here with us, and they are all three describing how their late husbands were paralysed and how they used to look after them; and it is chilly enough without that.’

Now systematic persecution was added to these surroundings, and it was practised not only by the princess but also by the wretched old women, who were perpetually worrying Natalie, persuading her to be married and abusing me; as a rule, she said nothing in her letters of the continual annoyances she had to endure, but sometimes bitterness, humiliation and boredom were too much for her. ‘I don’t know,’ she writes, ‘whether they can invent anything more to oppress me. Can they possibly have wit enough for that? Do you know that I am actually forbidden to go into another room, even to move to another seat in the same room? It is a long while since I have played the piano; lights were brought and I went into the drawing-room, thinking they might be merciful, but no, they brought me back and set me knitting; perhaps, at least I might sit at another table—I can’t endure being beside them—might I do even that? No, I must sit just here beside the priest’s wife, listen, look, and talk, while they speak of nothing but Filaret or criticise you. For a moment I felt vexed, I flushed crimson, then all at once my heart was weighed down by a feeling of bitter sadness, not because I had to be their slave, no ... I felt horribly sorry for them.’

Matchmaking negotiations were formally beginning.

‘A lady has been here who is fond of me, and whom I am not for that reason fond of.... She is doing her very utmost to settle things for me, and she made me so angry that I sang after her—

“I had rather be dressed in my winding-sheet
Than the wedding veil without my sweet.”’

A few days later, 26th October 1837, she writes: ‘What I have been through to-day, my dear, you can’t imagine. They dressed me up and dragged me off to Madame S——, who has been extremely gracious to me ever since I was a child; Colonel Z—— goes there every Tuesday to play cards. Imagine my position: on the one side the old ladies at the card-table, on the other all sorts of disgusting figures, and he.... The conversation, the company—everything was so alien to me, so strange and horrid, so lifeless and vulgar, I was more like a statue than a living creature. Everything that was going on seemed like an oppressive nightmare. I kept asking like a child to go home, they would not heed me. The attention of the host and of _the visitor_ overwhelmed me; he got as far as writing half my monogram in chalk. Oh dear, I am not strong enough and I can look for support to no one of those who might be a help; I am all alone on the edge of a precipice, and a whole crowd of them are doing everything they can to push me over; sometimes I am weary, my strength fails me and you are not near and I cannot see you in the distance; but the mere thought of you—and my soul is stirred and ready to do battle again in the armour of love.’

Meanwhile every one liked the Colonel: the Senator was friendly to him, and my father gave it as his opinion that ‘a better match could not be expected and should not be desired.’ ‘Even his Excellency D. P. (Golohvastov) is pleased with him,’ wrote Natalie. The princess said nothing directly to Natalie, but restricted her freedom even more severely and hurried things on. Natalie tried to play the part of a complete imbecile in his presence, hoping to repel him, but not at all; he went on coming more and more frequently.

‘Yesterday,’ she writes, ‘Amelia was here and this is what she said: “If I heard that you were dead I should cross myself with joy and thank God.” She is right in a great deal but not altogether; her soul living only in sorrow could fully grasp the sufferings of my spirit, but the bliss with which love fills it she could scarcely understand.’

But the princess was not losing heart. ‘Wishing to have a clear conscience, the princess invited a priest who is a friend of Z—— and asked him whether it would not be a sin to marry me against my will. The priest said it would be actually a godly work to make so good a provision for an orphan. I am sending for my own priest,’ Natalie adds, ‘and shall tell him the whole story.’

‘_October 30th._—My clothes are here, my attire for to-morrow, and the ikon, the rings; all sorts of arrangements and preparations have been made, and not a word to me. The Nasakins and others have been invited. They are preparing a surprise for me and I am preparing a surprise for them.

‘_Evening._—Now a family council is going on. Lyov Alexeyevitch (the Senator) is here. You urge me to be strong—there is no need, my dear. I am equal to extricating myself from the awful, loathsome scenes into which they are dragging me on the chain. Your image is bright above me, there is no need to fear for me, and my very distress and sadness are so sacred and have taken so firm a hold on my soul that tearing them away would hurt even more, the wounds would re-open.’

However, though they did their best to mask and cover up the position, the Colonel could not avoid seeing the positive aversion of his proposed bride; he began to be less frequent in his visits, declared himself ill, and even hinted at some addition to the dowry; this greatly incensed the princess, but she got over even that humiliation and was ready to give her an estate near Moscow as well. This concession he had apparently not anticipated, for after it he disappeared altogether.

Two months passed quietly. All at once the news came that I had been transferred to Vladimir. Then the princess made her last desperate effort to marry off her protégée. One of her acquaintances had a son, an officer, who had just returned from the Caucasus; he was young, cultivated, and a very decent fellow. The princess condescended so far as herself to suggest to his sister that she should ‘sound’ her brother and see whether he cared for the match. He yielded to his sister’s representations. The young girl did not care to play the same disgusting and tedious part a second time, so, seeing that the position was taking a serious turn, she wrote to the young man a letter, told him directly, openly, and simply that she loved another man, trusted herself to his honour and begged him not to add to her sufferings.

The officer with great delicacy drew back. The princess was amazed and affronted and made up her mind to find out what had happened. The officer’s sister, to whom Natalie had spoken herself, and who had promised her brother to say nothing to the princess, told the whole story to the ‘lady companion’; the latter of course at once reported it to her mistress.

The princess almost choked with indignation. Not knowing what to do, she ordered the young girl to go upstairs to her room and not to show herself; not content with that, she ordered her door to be locked and put two maids on guard; then she wrote notes to her two brothers and one of her nephews and asked them to come and give her advice, saying that ‘she was so distressed and upset that she could not think what to do in the misfortune that had befallen her.’ My father refused, saying that he had plenty of worries of his own, that there was no need to attach such importance to what had happened, and that he was a poor judge in affairs of the heart. The Senator and D. P. Golohvastov appeared next evening in answer to her summons. They talked for a long time without reaching any conclusion and at last asked to see the prisoner. The young girl came in, but she was no longer the shy, silent, forlorn girl they had known. Unflinching firmness and stubborn determination were apparent in the calm and proud expression of her face; this was not a child but a woman who had come to defend her love—my love.

The sight of the prisoner on her trial confounded her judges. They were awkward; at last Dmitry Pavlovitch, _l’orateur de la famille_, expatiated at length on the cause of their coming together, the distress of the princess, her heartfelt desire to settle her protégée’s future, and the strange opposition on the part of her for whose benefit it was all being done. The Senator with a nod and a movement of his finger expressed his assent to his nephew’s words. The princess said nothing but sat with her head turned away, sniffing salts.

The prisoner on her trial heard all they had to say and asked with straightforward simplicity what they required of her.

‘We have no thought of requiring anything from you,’ observed the nephew. ‘We are here at Aunt’s desire to give you sincere advice. A match excellent in all respects is offered to you.’

‘I cannot accept it.’

‘What is your reason for that?’

‘You know it.’

The orator of the family coloured a little, took a pinch of snuff, and screwing up his eyes went on: ‘There is a great deal to which objection might be urged. I would call your attention to the very small ground for your hopes. It is so long since you have seen our unfortunate Alexandr; he is so young and impetuous—are you certain of him?’

‘Yes, and whatever his intentions may be, I cannot change mine.’

The nephew had exhausted his eloquence; he got up saying: ‘God grant that you may not regret it! I feel very anxious about your future.’ The Senator scowled; the luckless girl now appealed to him. ‘You have always shown me sympathy,’ she said to him. ‘I implore you, save me, do what you like but take me out of this life. I have done no harm to any one, I ask for nothing, I am not trying to do anything, I am only refusing to deceive a man and ruin myself by marrying him. What I have to endure on account of it you cannot imagine; it pains me to have to say this in the presence of the princess, but to put up with the slights, the insulting words, the hints of her friends is too much for me. I cannot, I ought not to allow it, for insulting me is insulting....’ Her nerves gave way, the tears gushed from her eyes; the Senator leapt up and walked about the room in agitation.

Meanwhile the ‘lady companion,’ boiling over with fury, could not restrain herself and said, addressing the princess: ‘So that’s our nice, modest girl, there’s gratitude for you.’

‘Of whom is she speaking?’ shouted the Senator. ‘How is it, sister, you allow that woman, devil knows what she is, to speak like that of your brother’s daughter in your presence? And if it comes to that, why is this drab here at all? Did you invite her to the family council too? Is she a relation or what?’

‘My dear,’ answered the panic-stricken princess, ‘you know what she is to me and how she looks after me.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s all very nice, let her give you your medicine and what you like; that’s not what I am talking about. I ask you, _sœur_, why is she here when family affairs are being discussed, and how dare she put her word in? One might suppose it was all her doing, and then you complain—Hey, my carriage!’

The ‘lady companion’ flushed, and ran out of the room in tears.

‘Why do you spoil her like this?’ the Senator went on, carried away; ‘she fancies she is sitting in the tavern at Zvenigorod; how is it you aren’t disgusted by it?’

‘Leave off, my dear, please,’ the poor princess groaned, ‘my nerves are so upset—oh! You can go upstairs and stay there,’ she added, addressing her niece.

‘It’s time to be done with all this Bastille business. It’s all nonsense and leads to nothing,’ observed the Senator and took his hat.

Before driving away, he went upstairs; Natalie, overcome by all that had passed, was sitting in an armchair with her face hidden, weeping bitterly. The old man patted her on the shoulder and said:

‘Calm yourself, calm yourself, it will all come right. You must just try not to make sister angry with you; she is an invalid, you must humour her; after all, she only wishes for your good, you know; but, there, you shan’t be married against your will, I’ll answer for that.’

‘Better a nunnery, a boarding-school, to go to Tambov to my brother, or to Petersburg, than to endure this life any longer,’ she answered.

‘Come, come! try and soothe my sister, and as for that fool of a woman I’ll teach her not to be rude.’

The Senator, as he crossed the drawing-room, met the ‘lady companion’: ‘I’ll ask you not to forget yourself,’ he shouted at her, holding up a menacing finger; she went sobbing into the bedroom where the princess lay on the bed while four maids rubbed her hands and feet, moistened her temples with vinegar, and poured Hoffman’s drops on lumps of sugar.

So ended the family council.

It is clear that the girl’s position was hardly likely to be improved by what had happened; the ‘lady companion’ was more on her guard, but, cherishing now a personal hatred for Natalie, and desirous of avenging the affront to herself, she poisoned her existence by petty indirect means. I need hardly say that the princess acquiesced in this ignoble persecution of a defenceless girl.

This had to be ended. I made up my mind to come forward, and wrote a long, calm, and sincere letter to my father. I told him of my love and, foreseeing his reply, added that I did not want to hurry him, that I should give him time to see whether it was a passing feeling or not, and that all that I begged of him was that the Senator and he would enter into the poor girl’s position and would remember that they had the same rights over her as the princess herself.

My father answered that he could not endure meddling in other people’s affairs, that what the princess did in her own house was not his business; he advised me to abandon foolish ideas ‘induced by the idleness and ennui of exile,’ and added that I had much better prepare myself for travel in foreign lands. We had often talked in past years of a tour abroad, he knew how passionately I wished for it, but found endless difficulties and always ended by saying: ‘You must first close my eyes, then you’ll be free to go to the ends of the earth.’ In exile I had lost all hope of going abroad, I knew how hard it would be to get permission, and, besides, it would have seemed a lack of delicacy to insist on a voluntary separation after the involuntary one. I remembered the tears quivering on his old eyelids when I was setting off to Perm ... and now here was my father taking the initiative and suggesting I should go!

I had been open, I had written sparing the old man, asking so little—and he had answered with irony and strategy.

‘He doesn’t want to do anything for me,’ I said to myself, ‘like Guizot he advocates _la non-intervention_. Very well then, I’ll act myself, and now good-bye to concessions.’ I had not once before thought about the ordering of the future; I believed, I knew that it was mine, that it was ours, and I left the details to chance; the consciousness of love was enough for us, our desires did not go beyond a momentary interview. My father’s letter forced me to take the future into my own hands. It was useless to wait—_cosa fata capo ha!_ My father was not very sentimental, while as for the princess—

‘Let her weep,
Her tears mean nought!’

Just at that time my brother and Ketscher came to stay in Vladimir. Ketscher and I spent whole nights together, talking, recalling the past, laughing through our tears, and laughing till we cried. He was the first of our set whom I had seen since we left Moscow. From him I heard the chronicles of our circle, what changes had taken place in it, and what questions were absorbing it, what fresh people had arrived, where those who had left Moscow were, and so on. When we had discussed everything I told him of my plans. After considering how I ought to act, Ketscher concluded with a proposition the absurdity of which I only appreciated afterwards. Desirous of trying every peaceful method, he offered to go to my father and to talk to him seriously. I agreed.

Ketscher, of course, was better fitted for any good deed, and, in fact, for any evil deed, than for diplomatic negotiations, particularly with my father. He had in a marked degree all the characteristics that were calculated to ruin any chance of success. His very appearance was enough to make any conservative depressed and alarmed. A tall figure, with hair strangely dishevelled and arranged on no fixed principle, with a harsh countenance reminiscent of a number of the members of the Convention of 1793, and especially of Marat, with the same big mouth, the same hard, disdainful lines about the lips, and the same expression of mournful and exasperated gloom; to this must be added spectacles, a wide-brimmed hat, extreme irritability, a loud voice, lack of all habit of self-control, and the power of arching his eyebrows higher and higher as he grew more indignant. Ketscher was like Laravigny in George Sand’s excellent novel, _Horace_, with an admixture of something of the Pathfinder and Robinson Crusoe, as well as an element purely Muscovite. His open, generous temperament had set him from childhood in direct conflict with the world surrounding him; he did not conceal his antagonism and was accustomed to it. A few years older than we, he was continually scolding us and was dissatisfied with every one. He used to quarrel and bring accusations against us and make up for it all by the simple good-nature of a child. His words were rough, but his feelings were tender and we forgave him much.

Imagine him, this last of the Mohicans with the face of a Marat, this ‘friend of the people,’ setting off to advise my father! Many times afterwards I made Ketscher describe their interview; my imagination was unequal to picturing all the oddity of this diplomatic intervention. It took place so unexpectedly that for a moment my old father lost his bearings and began explaining the weighty reasons which led him to oppose my marriage; then, recovering himself, he changed his tone and asked Ketscher on what grounds he had come to discuss a matter which was none of his business. The conversation took a more bitter tone. The diplomatist, seeing that his position was not improving, tried to frighten the old man about my health, but it was too late, and the interview ended, as might have been expected, in a series of malignant sarcasms from my father and rude rejoinders from Ketscher.

He wrote to me: ‘Expect nothing from the old man.’ That was all I wanted. But what was I to do? How was I to begin? While I was thinking over a dozen different plans a day and unable to decide between them, my brother was preparing to return to Moscow.

That was on the first of March 1838.