PART I: NURSERY AND UNIVERSITY (1812–1834)
I. My Nurse and La Grande Armée
II. My Father
III. Childhood
IV. Youth
V. Nick and the Sparrow Hills
VI. The University
VII. After the University
PART II: PRISON AND EXILE (1834–1838)
VIII. Arrest
IX. The Investigation and Sentence
X. Perm
XI. Misgovernment in Siberia
XII. Alexander Lavrentyevich Vitberg
XIII. The Beginning of My Life in Vladimir
XIV. The End of Life in Vladimir
PART III: VLADIMIR-ON-KLYAZMA (1838–1839)
XV. A First Visit to Moscow
XVI. Our Wedding
XVII. The New Life
XVIII. The Return to Moscow
PART IV: MOSCOW, PETERSBURG, AND NOVGOROD (1840–1847)
XIX. The Arrival
XX. Return to Moscow and Intellectual Debate
XXI. Petersburg and the Second Banishment
XXII. Councillor in Novgorod
XXIII. Our Friends
XXIV. An 1844 Episode
XXV. To Petersburg for a Passport
PART V: PARIS—ITALY—PARIS (1847–1852)
XXVI. Paris—Italy—Paris
XXVII. The Honeymoon of the Republic
XXVIII. The Revolution of 1848 in France
XXIX. The Story of a Family Drama
XXX. In Geneva with the Exiles of 1848
PART VI: ENGLAND (1852–1864)
XXXI. England (1852–1858)
XXXII. German Emigrants
XXXIII. Robert Owen
XXXIV. And The Bell (1858–1862)
XXXV. Bakunin and the Cause of Poland
XXXVI. England (1862–1864)
PART VII: THE LATER YEARS (1863–1868)
XXXVII. Zu Deutsch
XXXVIII. The Flowers of Minerva
XXXIX. Byzantium
XL. The Superfluous and the Jaundiced (1860)
PART VIII: RUSSIAN EMIGRATION (POSTHUMOUS SKETCHES)
(This part contains miscellaneous sketches, often published as supplementary material, focusing on figures in the Russian emigration.)
CHAPTER I
My Nanny and La Grande Armée. — The Moscow Fire. — My Father at Napoleon’s Side. — General Ilovaysky. — A Journey with French Prisoners. — Patriotism. — K— Kalo. — General Management of the Estate. — The Partition. — The Senator.
“Vera Artamonovna, please tell me once more how the French came to Moscow,” I would say, stretching myself on my cot, which was fitted with canvas sides so I wouldn’t fall out, and wrapping myself in a quilted blanket.
“Oh! What are these stories for, you’ve heard them so many times, and it’s time to sleep; better to wake up early tomorrow,” the old woman would usually reply, who wanted to repeat her favorite story as much as I wanted to hear it.
“But just tell me a little bit, well, how did you find out, well, how did it start?”
“That’s how it started. Your Papa, you know what he’s like—he puts everything off till the last minute; he kept getting ready, kept getting ready, and then, well, he finally got ready! Everyone said it was time to leave, why wait, there was practically no one left in the city. But no, he kept consulting with Pavel Ivanovich about leaving together; one wasn’t ready, then another. Finally, we packed, and the carriage was ready; the masters sat down to breakfast, when suddenly our chef walked into the dining room so pale, and reported: ‘The enemy has entered the Dorogomilovskaya gate,’—it felt like all our hearts sank, the cross force is with us! Everyone was in a panic; while we were bustling and gasping, we look—and dragoons are galloping down the street in those helmets with a horse’s tail hanging down the back. All the gates were locked, so your Papa was left at the feast, and you with him; your wet nurse Darya was still breastfeeding you then, you were so puny and weak.”
And I smiled proudly, pleased to have taken part in the war.
“At first, it went so-so, for the first few days, that is, well, maybe two or three soldiers would come in and ask if there was anything to drink; we’d offer them a small glass, as was proper, and they’d leave and even give a salute. But then, you see, when the fires started, more and more, such disorder arose, looting began, and all sorts of horrors. We were living in the annexe at the Princess’s then, and the house caught fire; so Pavel Ivanovich said: ‘Let’s go to my place, my house is stone, it stands deep in the yard, the walls are solid.’—We went, masters and servants, all together, there was no distinction; we come out onto Tverskoy Boulevard, and even the trees are starting to burn—we finally made it to the Golokhvastov house, and it was blazing, fire from all the windows. Pavel Ivanovich froze, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Behind the house, you know, there’s a big garden, we went there, thinking we would be safe there; we sat down, heavy-hearted, on the benches, when suddenly out of nowhere a gang of soldiers appeared, completely drunk; one lunged to pull the travel greatcoat off Pavel Ivanovich; the old man wouldn’t let go, the soldier pulled out a sabre and slashed him across the face, so a scar remained until his dying day; others started on us, one soldier snatched you from the wet nurse, unwrapped the swaddling clothes, to see if there were any banknotes or diamonds, he saw there was nothing, and so the hooligan deliberately ripped the swaddling clothes, and threw you down. As soon as they left, this misfortune occurred. Do you remember our Platon, whom we sent to the army, he liked to drink heavily, and he was very high-spirited that day; he strapped on a sabre and walked around like that. Count Rostopchin had distributed all sorts of weapons at the arsenal to everyone the day before the enemy entered, so he got a sabre for himself. Towards evening, he saw a dragoon riding into the yard; a horse was standing near the stable, the dragoon wanted to take it with him, but Platon immediately rushed at him and, grabbing the reins, said: ‘The horse is ours, I won’t give it to you.’ The dragoon threatened him with a pistol, but apparently it wasn’t loaded; the master himself saw and shouted to him: ‘Leave the horse alone, it’s none of your business.’ But you couldn’t stop him! Platon drew his sabre and struck him on the head, the dragoon staggered, and he hit him again and again. Well, we thought, now our death has come; when his comrades see this, it will be the end of us. But Platon, when the dragoon fell, grabbed his legs and dragged him into a watering trough, and just left him there, the poor thing, and he was still alive; his horse stood still, not moving, and stomped its foot on the ground, as if it understood; our servants locked it in the stable, it must have burned there. We all hurried away from the courtyard, the fire was getting more and more terrible, exhausted, without having eaten, we entered some undamaged house and threw ourselves down to rest; less than an hour passed, our people shouted from the street: ‘Get out, get out, fire, fire!’—then I took a piece of ravensduck cloth from a billiard table and wrapped you in it from the night wind; we made it to Tverskaya Square, where the French were putting out fires because their superior lived in the Governor’s House; we simply sat down in the street, sentries walked everywhere, others rode on horseback. And you were crying, straining yourself; the wet nurse’s milk had gone, and no one had a piece of bread. Natalya Konstantinovna was with us then, you know, a fierce girl, she saw that soldiers were eating something in the corner, took you—and went straight to them, showing them: petit, mange (little one, eat); they first looked at her so sternly, and then said: Allez, allez (Go, go), and she started scolding them,—such scoundrels, such and such, the soldiers didn’t understand anything, but they burst out laughing and gave her bread soaked in water for you, and a crust for her. Early in the morning, an officer came up and took all the men, including your Papa, leaving only the women and the wounded Pavel Ivanovich, and led them to put out the neighboring houses; so we stayed alone until evening; we just sat and cried. At dusk, the master comes back and with him some officer…
Allow me to relieve the old woman and continue her story. My father, having finished his fire chief duty, met a squadron of Italian cavalry near the Strastnoy Monastery; he approached their commander and told him in Italian about the condition of his family. The Italian, hearing la sua dolce favella (his sweet speech), promised to speak with the Duke of Treviso and, as a precaution, immediately post a sentry to prevent savage scenes like the one in Golokhvastov’s garden. With this order, he sent an officer with my father. Hearing that the entire company had not eaten for two days, the officer led everyone to a looted shop; flower tea and Levantine coffee had been thrown on the floor along with a large quantity of dates, figs, almonds; our servants stuffed their pockets with them; there was no shortage of dessert. The sentry proved to be extremely useful: ten times gangs of soldiers harassed the unfortunate group of women and servants, who had set up camp in the corner of Tverskaya Square, but they immediately left at his command.
Mortier remembered that he had known my father in Paris and reported it to Napoleon; Napoleon ordered him to be presented to him the next morning. In a worn blue frock coat with bronze buttons, intended for hunting, without a wig, in boots that hadn’t been cleaned for several days, in black linen, and with an unshaven beard, my father—a devotee of propriety and the strictest etiquette—appeared in the Throne Room of the Kremlin Palace at the summons of the Emperor of the French.
Their conversation, which I heard so many times, is quite accurately transmitted in the history by Baron Fain and in the history by Mikhailovsky-Danilevsky.
After the usual phrases, abrupt words, and laconic remarks, which for thirty-five years were attributed deep meaning, until it was realized that their meaning was very often trivial, Napoleon scolded Rostopchin for the fire, said it was vandalism, assured, as always, of his irresistible love for peace, argued that his war was with England, not Russia, boasted that he had posted a guard at the Foundling Home and the Assumption Cathedral, complained about Alexander, said that he was badly surrounded, and that his peaceful dispositions were not known to the Emperor.
My father remarked that offering peace was rather the task of the victor.
“I did what I could, I sent to Kutuzov, he does not enter into any negotiations and does not convey my proposals to the Emperor. They want war, it’s not my fault,—they will have war.”
After all this comedy, my father asked him for a pass to leave Moscow.
“I have not given orders to give passes to anyone, why are you leaving? What are you afraid of? I ordered the markets to be opened.”
The Emperor of the French at this time seems to have forgotten that, besides open markets, it wouldn’t hurt to have a roofed house and that life in Tverskaya Square amidst enemy soldiers is not the most pleasant.
My father pointed this out to him; Napoleon pondered and suddenly asked:
“Will you undertake to deliver a letter from me to the Emperor? On this condition, I will order a pass to be given to you and all your people.”
“I would accept Your Majesty’s proposal,” my father remarked to him, “but it is difficult for me to vouch for it.”
“Do you give me your word of honor that you will use all means to personally deliver the letter?”
“Je m’engage sur mon honneur, Sire” (I pledge my honor, Sire).
“That is enough. I will send for you. Do you need anything?”
“A roof for my family while I am here, nothing more.”
“The Duke of Treviso will do what he can.”
Mortier did indeed give us a room in the Governor-General’s House and ordered us to be supplied with provisions; his butler even sent wine. Several days passed like this, after which, at four o’clock in the morning, Mortier sent his aide-de-camp for my father and sent him to the Kremlin.
The fire reached terrible dimensions during these days: the superheated air, opaque from smoke, became unbearable from the heat. Napoleon was dressed and pacing the room, preoccupied, angry; he was beginning to feel that his scorched laurels would soon freeze and that this would not be resolved with such a joke as in Egypt. The war plan was foolish, everyone knew this except Napoleon, Ney and Narbonne, Berthier and the simple officers; to all objections, he answered with the cabalistic word: “Moscow”; in Moscow, he too guessed the truth.
When my father entered, Napoleon took a sealed letter lying on the table, handed it to him, and said, bowing: “I rely on your word of honor.” On the envelope was written: “À mon frère L’Empereur Alexandre” (To my brother The Emperor Alexander).
The pass given to my father is still intact; it is signed by the Duke of Treviso and countersigned below by the Moscow Chief of Police, Lesseps. Several outsiders, hearing about the pass, joined us, asking my father to take them under the guise of servants or relatives. An open carriage was provided for the sick old man, my mother, and the wet nurse; the rest walked. A few lancers on horseback escorted us to the Russian rearguard, in sight of which they wished us a safe journey and galloped back. A minute later, Cossacks surrounded the strange group of escapees and led them to the rearguard headquarters. Winzengerode and Ilovaysky IV were in command there.
Winzengerode, learning about the letter, informed my father that he would immediately send him with two dragoons to the Emperor in St. Petersburg.
“What should I do with your people?” asked the Cossack General Ilovaysky, “It is impossible to stay here, they are not out of rifle range here, and a serious battle can be expected any day now.”
My father asked, if possible, to have us delivered to his estate in Yaroslavl, but he noted that he did not have a single kopeck of money with him.
“We will settle up later,” said Ilovaysky, “and rest assured, I give you my word to send them off.”
My father was taken by courier along the then-existing rough road. Ilovaysky procured some old carriage for us and sent us to the nearest town with a party of French prisoners, under the protection of Cossacks; he supplied money for the fares to Yaroslavl and generally did everything he could amidst the hustle and anxiety of wartime.
Such was my first journey across Russia; the second was without French lancers, without Ural Cossacks and prisoners of war,—I was alone, a drunken gendarme sat next to me.
My father was taken directly to Arakcheyev and detained at his house. The Count asked for the letter, my father spoke of his word of honor to personally deliver it; the Count promised to ask the Emperor and the next day informed him in writing that the Emperor had instructed him to take the letter for immediate delivery. He gave a receipt for the letter (it is also intact). My father remained arrested in Arakcheyev’s house for about a month; no one was allowed to see him; only S. S. Shishkov came by order of the Emperor to inquire about the details of the fire, the enemy’s entry, and the meeting with Napoleon; he was the first eyewitness to arrive in St. Petersburg. Finally, Arakcheyev announced to my father that the Emperor had ordered his release, not holding it against him that he had taken a pass from the enemy authorities, which was excused by the extremity in which “he found himself.” Upon releasing him, Arakcheyev ordered him to leave St. Petersburg immediately, without seeing anyone except his elder brother, who was permitted to say goodbye.
Arriving at a small Yaroslavl village near nightfall, my father found us in a peasant’s hut (there was no manor house in this village), I was sleeping on a bench under the window, the window did not close properly, snow, breaking through the crack, covered part of the bench and lay, without melting, on the window frame.
Everything was in great confusion, especially my mother. A few days before my father’s arrival, the village elder and several house serfs quickly entered the hut where she lived in the morning, gesturing to her and demanding that she follow them. My mother did not speak a word of Russian then, she only understood that the conversation was about Pavel Ivanovich; she did not know what to think, it occurred to her that he had been killed or that they wanted to kill him, and then her. She took me in her arms and, half-dead with fright, trembling all over, followed the elder. Golokhvastov occupied another hut, they entered it; the old man was indeed lying dead next to the table where he intended to shave; a stroke of paralysis had instantly ended his life.
One can imagine the situation of my mother (she was seventeen years old at the time) among these semi-wild, bearded people, dressed in shaggy sheepskin coats, speaking a completely unfamiliar language, in a small, smoke-blackened hut, and all this in November of the terrible winter of 1812. Her only support was Golokhvastov; she cried for days and nights after his death. And these wild people genuinely felt sorry for her, with all their sincerity, all their simplicity, and the elder sent his son to town several times for raisins, gingerbread, apples, and ring-shaped rolls for her.
About fifteen years later, the elder was still alive and sometimes came to Moscow, gray-haired as a hawk and bald; my mother usually treated him to tea and recalled the winter of 1812 with him, how she had been afraid of him and how they, without understanding each other, had busied themselves with Pavel Ivanovich’s funeral. The old man still called my mother, as he had then, Yuliza Ivanovna—instead of Louise, and recounted how I was not at all afraid of his beard and readily went into his arms.
From the Yaroslavl province, we moved to Tver, and finally, a year later, relocated to Moscow. By that time, my father’s brother, who had been an envoy in Westphalia and later traveled to Bernadotte for some reason, had returned from Sweden; he settled in the same house as us.
I still remember, as if through a dream, the traces of the fire that remained until the early twenties, large burnt houses without frames, without roofs, collapsed walls, vacant lots fenced off, the remnants of stoves and chimneys on them.
The stories of the Moscow fire, the Battle of Borodino, the Berezina, the capture of Paris were my lullabies, my children’s tales, my Iliad and Odyssey. My mother and our servants, my father and Vera Artamonovna constantly returned to the formidable time that had struck them so recently, so closely, and so sharply. Then the returning generals and officers began to visit Moscow. My father’s old comrades from the Izmailovsky Regiment, now participants, covered in the glory of the barely finished bloody struggle, often visited us. They rested from their labors and deeds by recounting them. This was indeed the most brilliant time of the St. Petersburg period; the consciousness of strength gave new life; deeds and concerns seemed to have been put off until tomorrow, until the weekdays; now they wanted to feast on the joys of victory.
Here I heard even more about the war than from Vera Artamonovna. I really loved the stories of Count Miloradovich; he spoke with extraordinary liveliness, with sharp facial expressions, with loud laughter, and I often fell asleep to them on the sofa behind his back.
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