He summoned Ogarev, Ketscher, Satin, Vadim. Obolensky and others, and charged them with having relations with political prisoners. Ogarev replied that he had written to none of them and had received no letter; if one of them had written to him, he could not be responsible for that. Lesovsky then said :
'You raised a subscription for them, which is even worse. The Tsar is merciful enough to pardon you for once ; but I warn you, gentlemen, that you will be strictly watched, and you had better be careful.'
He looked meaningly at all the party and his eye fell on Ketscher, who was older and taller than the rest, and was lifting C.Y.E.-8
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his eyebrows and looking rather :fierce. He added, 'I wonder that you, Sir, considering your position in society, are not ashamed to behave so.' Ketscher was only a country doctor ; but, from Lesovsky's words, he might have been Chancellor of the Imperial Orders of Knighthood;
I was not summoned; it is probable that the letter did not contain my name.
This threat we regarded as a promotion, a consecration, a powerful incentive. Lesovsky's warning was oil on the flames; and, as if to make things easier for the police, we all took to velvet caps of the Karl Sand 13 fashion and tri-coloured neckties.
Colonel Shubinsky now climbed up with the velvet tread of a cat into Lesovsky's place, and soon marked his predecessor's weakness in dealing with us : our business was to serve as one of the steps in his official career, and we did what was wanted.
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But :first I shall add a few words about the fate of Sungurov and his companions.
Kohlrei£ returned to Moscow, where he died in the arms of his grief-stricken father.
Kostenetsky and Antonovich both distinguished themselves as private soldiers in the Caucasus and received commissions.
The fate of the unhappy Sungurov was far more tragic. On reaching the :first stage of their journey from Moscow, he asked permission of the officer, a young man of twenty, to leave the stifling cottage crammed with convicts for the fresh air. The officer walked out with him. Sungurov watched for an opportunity, sprang off the road, and disappeared. He must have known the district well, for he eluded the officer ; but the police got upon his tracks next day. When he saw that escape was impossible, he cut his throat. He was carried back to Moscow, unconscious and bleeding profusely. The unlucky officer was deprived of his commission.
Sungurov did not die. He was tried again, not for a political offience but for trying to escape. Half his head was shaved ; and to this outward ignominy the court added a single stroke of the 13. The German student who shot Kotzebue.
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whip to be inflicted inside the prison. Whether this was actually carried out, I do not know. He was then sent off to work in the mines at Nerchinsk.
His name came to my ears just once again and then vanished for ever.
When I was at Vyatka, I happened to meet in the street a young doctor, a college friend ; and we spoke about old times and common acquaintances.
'Good God I ' said the doctor, 'do you know whom I saw on my way here ? I was waiting at a post-house for fresh horses. The weather was abominable. An officer in command of a party of convicts came in to warm himself. We began to talk ; and hearing that I was a doctor, he asked me to take a look at one of the prisoners on march; I could tell him whether the man was shamming or really very bad. I consented : of course, I intended in any case to back up the convict. There were eighteen convicts, as well as women and children, in one smallish barrack-room; some of the men had their heads shaved, and some had not; but they were all fettered. They opened out to let the officer pass ; and we saw a figure wrapped in a convict's overcoat and lying on some straw in a comer of the dirty room.
' "There's your patient," said the officer. No fibs on my part were necessary : the man was in a high fever. He was a horrible sight : he was thin and worn out by prison and marching ; half his head was shaved, and his beard was growing ; he was rolling his eyes in delirium and constantly calling for water.
' "Are you feeling bad, my man ? " I said to the patient, and then I told the officer that he was quite unable to march.
'The man fixed his eyes on me and then muttered, "Is that you ?" He addressed me by name and added, in a voice that went through me like a knife. "You won't know me again."
' "Excuse me," I said ; "I have forgotten your name," and I took his hot dry hand in my own.
' "I am Sungurov," he answered. Poor fellow I ' repeated the doctor, shaking his head.
'Well, did they leave him there ?' I asked.
'No : a cart was got for him.'
After writing the preceding narrative, I learned that Sungurov died at Nerchinsk.
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CHAPTER V I I
End of College Life - The 'Schiller' Stage - Youth - The Artistic Life
Saint-Simonianism and N. Polevoy - Polezhayev 1
THE storm had not yet burst over our heads when my college course came to an end. My experience of the final stage of education was exactly like that of everyone else - constant worry and sleepless nights for the sake of a painful and useless test of the memory, superficial cramming, and all real interest in learning crowded out by the nightmare of examination. I wrote an astronomical dissertation for the gold medal, and the silver medal was awarded me. I am sure that I should not be able now to understand what I wrote then, and that it was worth its weight in
-
silver.
I have sometimes dreamt since that I was a student preparing for examination ; I thought in horror how much I had forgotten and how certain I was to fail, and then I woke up, to rejoice with all my heart that the sea and much else lay between me and my University, and that no one would ever examine me again or venture to place me at the bottom of the list. My professors would really be astonished, if they could discover how much I have gone backward in the interval.
When the examinations were over, the professors shut themselves up to count the marks, and we walked up and down the passage and the vestibule, the prey of hopes and fears. Whenever anyone left the meeting, we rushed to him, eager to learn our fate ; but the decision took a long time. At last Heyman came out and said to me, 'I congratulate you ; you have passed.' 'Who else ?
who else ?' I asked ; and some names were mentioned. I felt both sad and pleased. As I walked out of the college gates, I felt that I was leaving the place otherwise than yesterday or ever before, and becoming a stranger to that great family party in which I had spent four years of youth and happiness. On the other hand, I was pleased by the feeling that I was now admittedly grown up, and also - I may as well confess it - by the fact that I had got my degree at the first time of asking.
I owe so much to my Alma Mater and I continued so long after
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my degree to live her life and near her, that I cannot recall the place without love and reverence. She will not accuse me of ingratitude. In this case at least it is easy to be grateful; for gratitude is inseparable from love and bright memories of youthful development. Writing in a distant foreign land, I send her my blessing I