Читаем A Herzen Reader полностью

"What will he tell me, what news will he bring, whose greetings will he relay, what details, whose jokes, or speeches?" At that time there were still many people whom I loved in Moscow.

When the steamer docked, I could make out the plump figure of Shchep­kin with a gray hat and a stout walking stick; I waved a handkerchief and rushed down. A policeman did not let me through but I pushed him aside, seeing with amusement that Shchepkin looked on merrily and nodded his head, and I ran onto the deck and threw my arms around the old man. He was the very same as when I left him: with the same good-natured appear­ance, his vest and the lapels of his coat covered with spots, as if he had just left the Troitsky restaurant on his way to Sergey Timofeevich Aksakov's place.⁴ "What got into you to come such a distance to meet me!" he said to me through his tears.

We traveled together to London; I quizzed him about all the details, all the trifles about our friends, trifles without which people cease to be alive and remain in our memories in broad outlines, in profile. He talked of non­sensical things and we laughed with tears in our voices.

When my nerves had settled, little by little I noticed something sad, as if some sort of hidden thought was tormenting the honest expression on his face. And, in fact, the next day little by little the conversation turned to the press; Shchepkin began to talk about the troubled feelings with which Mos­cow accepted my emigration, then the brochure "Du developpement des idees revolutionnaires." and, finally, the London printing-house. "What use can come of your publishing? With the one or two leaflets that get through, you will accomplish nothing, but the Third Department will read them and make a note of it, and you will destroy a huge number of people, you will destroy your friends."

"But, M. S., up till now God has spared us, and no one has been caught because of me."

"Do you know that after your praise for Belinsky, it is forbidden to men­tion his name in print?"

"Along with everything else. However, I have doubts about my part in this. You know what role Belinsky's letter to Gogol played in the Petra­shevsky case.⁵ Death spared Belinsky—I was not afraid of compromising the dead."

"But Kavelin, it seems, is not dead?"

"What happened to him?"

"Well, after the publication of your book where you talk about his article on the ancestral principle and the quarrel with Samarin, he was summoned to Rostovtsev."⁶

"Well!"

"What do you want? Rostovtsev told him to be more careful in the future."

"Mikhail Semyonovich, do you really consider that a martyrdom—to suf­fer the tetrarch Yakov⁷ to advise him to be more careful?"

The conversation continued in this manner, and I could see that this was not only Shchepkin's personal opinion; if that were the case, his words would not have taken such an imperative tone.

This conversation was noteworthy for me, because in it were the first sounds ofMoscow conservatism, not in the circles of Prince Sergey Mikhailo- vich Golitsyn,⁸ of frivolous landowners, or frivolous officials, but in a circle of educated people, men of letters, actors, and professors. For the first time I heard this opinion expressed in such a clear manner; it struck me, al­though at the time I was at too great a distance to understand that from it would develop that stubbornly conservative direction that turned Moscow into Kitay-gorod.⁹

At this time it was still just weariness, a broken spirit, the consciousness of one's own powerlessness and a maternal fear for one's children. Now Moscow insolently and bravely drinks the health of Muravyov.¹⁰

"A. I.," said Shchepkin, as he stood up and paced back and forth uneas­ily, "you know how much I love you and how all of our group loves you. In my old age, not speaking a word of English, I came to see you in London. I would get down on my aged knees before you to ask you to stop while there is still time."

"Mikhail Semyonovich, what is it that you and your friends want from me?"

"I speak only for myself and I will say directly: in my opinion, go to America, write nothing, let them forget about you, and then in a year or two or three we can begin to work on getting you permission to return to Russia."

I was extremely sad; I tried to hide the pain that these words caused me out of pity for the old man, who had tears in his eyes. He continued to de­velop this alluring picture of happiness—to live once again under the mer­ciful scepter of Nicholas. However, seeing that I did not answer, he asked: "Isn't it possible, A. I.?"