To explain this I must remind you of the short history of our printing press.
The Russian Press, founded in 1853 in London, was a form of inquiry. In founding it, I addressed our fellow countrymen with an appeal. [. . .]1
[. . .] While awaiting what was to come, I began printing my own works and short pieces written by others. There was no response, or, worse, the only thing that reached me was censure, fearful babbling, and careful whispers telling me that publishing abroad would be dangerous, that it might be compromising and cause a great deal of harm; many people close to me shared that opinion. This frightened me.
The war came. At a time when Europe turned its greedy attention to everything Russian and bought up the entire press runs of my French brochures,2 and the translation of my Notes into English and German quickly sold out—not even ten Russian books were sold. They lay in piles at the printer's or were given away at our expense, and, what is more, to no effect.
Propaganda was just beginning then to be an active force that could pay its own way; without that it is strained, unnatural, and can only serve a party function, but more often calls forth a quickly developed sympathy, which pales and withers as soon as the sounds of the words cease.
A minority realizes some portion of its ideal only when—apparently separating itself from the majority—it expresses the same thought, aspirations, and suffering. The majority is in general undeveloped and sluggish; feeling the burden of its contemporary situation, it does nothing; agitated by questions, it can remain without having resolved them. People appear who make these sufferings and aspirations their life's work; they act in word as propagandists and in deed as revolutionaries, but in both cases the real basis of one and the other is the majority and the degree of their sympathy for it.
Since 1849 all attempts by the London emigration to publish journals were unsuccessful; they were supported by donations, did not pay for themselves, and failed; this was clear proof that the emigration no longer expressed the thoughts of its people. They had come to a halt and were reminiscing, while the people had set off in another direction. And at the same time as the last broadsheet of the French democratic party in London faded away, four editions of Proudhon's book A Manual of Speculation on the Stock Market were snapped up in Paris.
Of course, the importation of forbidden books into Russia is made difficult by strict and ferocious measures. But hasn't simple contraband made its way despite all measures? Did the strictness of Nicholas stop theft by civil servants? There was courage enough for bribes, for robbing soldiers, and for contraband, but not for spreading free speech; it must mean there was no genuine demand for it. I was horrified to admit this. But inside there was enduring faith that caused me to hope despite my own conclusions; while waiting, I continued my work.
Suddenly the telegraphic dispatch about the death of Nicholas.
Now or never!
Under the influence of this great and beneficial news I wrote the program for The Polestar.3
[. . .] Twenty-nine years after the day our martyrs were executed the first Polestar appeared in London. With a strongly beating heart I awaited what would follow.
My faith began to be justified.
I soon started receiving letters full of youthful and ardent sympathy, notebooks of verse, and various articles. Sales began at first with difficulty and growing slowly; then, with the publication of the second issue (in April 1856), the number of requests increased to such an extent that some of our publications are completely sold out,4 others have been republished, and of a third group only a few copies remain. From the second issue of The Pole- star until the beginning of The Bell the sale of Russian books has covered all the expenses of the printing house.
There can be no stronger proof of the genuine demand for free speech in Russia, especially if one remembers the obstacles with customs.
Thus, our labor has not been in vain. Our speech, the free Russian word, is spreading throughout Russia, rousing some, frightening others, and threatening a third group with publicity.
The free Russian word will ring out in the Winter Palace, reminding them that steam under pressure can blow up a machine if one does not know how to manage it properly.
The word spreads among the younger generation to whom we will hand over our work. Let them, more fortunate than we, see in action what we have only talked about. We look at the new army, marching to replenish our numbers, without envy, and greet them amicably. For them, joyous holidays of liberation; for us, the ringing of bells with which we summon the living to the funeral of everything decrepit, outdated, ugly, slavish, and ignorant in Russia!
Notes
Source: "Predislovie k Kolokolu," Kolokol, l. i, July i, 1857; 13:7-12, 485-89.
Herzen proceeds to quote several paragraphs (concluding with the challenge that "if tranquility is dearer to you than free speech—keep silent") from his 1853 broadsheet announcing the beginning of the Free Russian Press. See Doc. 2.
Herzen: "The Old World and Russia was first placed in an English review and then in L'Homme and then printed on Jersey in a separate edition—and all sold down to the last copy."
Here Herzen includes sections from "An Announcement About The Polestar" (i855), which is translated in Doc. 4.
Herzen: "The press runs of Interrupted Stories, Prison and Exile, and the first and second issues of The Polestar are completely gone. Baptized Property came out in a second edition."
^11 ^
The Bell, No. i, July i, i857. The French text of "Venerable Travelers" appeared in the London-based French newspaper Le Courier de l'Europe on June 27, 1857, with a sarcastic introduction by the editor, saying that it was a pity the Grand Duke Konstantin had not made it to London on his last European trip because he could have been shown something really interesting, the Russian printing house. Herzen still lacked regular access to Russian periodicals, but he made up for it with the skillful and highly satirical use of news from European papers. For The Bell, this piece appeared in a section called "Miscellany," under an epigraph from Gogoclass="underline" "Through visible laughter to invisible tears!" (Skvoz' vidimyi smekh—nevidimye slezy!). In a letter to Shchepkin's son Nikolay, Herzen recommended his "touching" little article (Eidel'man, Svobodnoe slovo Gertsena, 199). "Venerable Travelers" was the first of what Herzen intended to be a series of sketches about the Russian royalty abroad; the second installment was to cover the journey of Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolaevich, but Turgenev and Ogarev convinced him to drop the plan, and the next part of the series was published only a decade later. (See Doc. 99.)
Venerable Travelers The Widowed Empress
[1857]
Since the death of Nicholas the embarrassing constraints on Russians' right to travel have been eliminated. Good deeds rarely happen without a reason; scarcely had Alexander II cut that rope binding us to his father when his own family made more use than anyone else of the newly granted right to movement. On all European roads—except English ones—grand dukes have appeared in their search for German brides, along with former German brides converted into Russians with patronymics. Once more the widowed empress has given Europe the spectacle of an Asian waste of money and truly barbarian luxury. Her loyal subjects could note with pride that every trip the venerable invalid makes and every holiday celebrated is the equal in Russia of a failed harvest, overflowing rivers, and a couple of fires. Once again all sorts of German princes—who have read Liebig and Moleschott about the non-nutritious Russian potato—hung about in Nice with their wives and children, sponging off Russian bread.1