Chapter III: Introduction (3)

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._