Mikhail Orlov - The Churchyard
1
O N E morning in the spring of 1834 I went to Vadim's house.
Though neither he nor any of his brothers or sisters were at home, I went upstairs to his little room, sat down, and began to write.
The door opened softly, and Vadim's mother came in. Her tread was scarcely audible ; looking tired and ill, she went to an armchair and sat down. 'Go on writing,' she said, 'I just looked in to see if Vadya had come home. The children have gone out for a walk, and the downstairs rooms are so empty and depressing that I felt sad and frightened. I sha.t.l sit here for a little. but don't let me interfere with what you are doing.'
She looked thoughtful, and her face showed more clearly than usual the shadow of past suffering, and that suspicious fear of the future and distrust of life which is the invariable result of great calamities when they last long and are often repeated.
We began to talk. She told me something of their life in Siberia.
'I have come through much already,' she said, shaking her head,
'and there is more to come : my heart forebodes evil.'
I remembered how, sometimes, when listening to our free talk on political subjects, she would tum pale and heave a gentle sigh ; and then she would go away to another room and remain silent for a long time.
'You and your friends,' she went on, 'are on the road that leads to certain ruin - ruin to V adya and yourself and all of you. You know I love you like a son' - and a tear rolled down her worn face.
I said nothing. She took my hand, tried to smile, and went on :
'Don't be vexed with me; my nerves are upset. I quite understand. You must go your own way; for you there is no other ; if there were, you would be different people. I know this, but l cannot conquer my fears ; I have borne so much misfortune that I have no strength for more. Please don't say a word of this to Vadya, or he will be vexed and argue with me. But here he is I' -
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and she hastily wiped away her tears and once more begged me by a look to keep her secret.
Unhappy mother ! Saint and heroine I Corneille's 'qu'il mourut' 1 was not a nobler utterance than yours.
Her prophecy was soon fulfilled. Though the storm passed harmless this time over the heads of her sons, yet the poor lady had much grief and fear to suffer.
2
'Arrested him ? ' I called out, springing out of bed, and pinching myself, to find out if I was asleep or awake.
'Two hours after you left our house, the police and a party of Cossacks carne and arrested my master and seized his papers.'
The speaker was Ogarev's valet. Of late all had been quiet, and I could not imagine what pretext the police had invented. Ogarev had only come to Moscow the day before. And why had they arrested him, and not me ?
To do nothing was impossible. I dressed and went out without any definite purpose. It was my first experience of misfortune. I felt wretched and furious at my own impotence.
I wandered about the streets till at last I thought of a friend whose social position made it possible for him to learn the state of the case, and, perhaps, to mend matters. But he was then living terribly far off, at a house in a distant suburb. I called the first cab I saw and hurried off at top speed. It was then seven o'clock in the morning.
3
Eighteen months before this time we had made the acquaintance of this man, who was a kind of celebrity in Moscow. Educated in Paris, he was rich, intelligent, well-informed, witty, and independent in his ideas. For complicity in the Decernbrist plot he had been imprisoned in a fortress till he and some others were released ; and though he had not been exiled, he wore a halo. He was in the public service and had great influence with Prince Drnitry Golitsyn, the Governor of Moscow, who liked people with independent views, especially if they could express them in good French ; for the Governor was not strong in Russian.
V. - as I shall call him - was ten years our senior and surprised 1. Said of his son by the father in Corneille's play, Horace.
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us by his sensible comments on current events, his knowledge of political affairs, his eloquent French, and the ardour of his liberalism. He knew so much and so thoroughly ; he was so pleasant and easy in conversation ; his views were so clearly defined ; he had a reply to every question and a solution of every problem.
He read everything - new novels, pamphlets, newspapers, poetry, and was working seriously at zoology as well ; he drew up reports for the Governor and was organising a series of school-books.
His liberalism was of the purest tricolour hue, the liberalism of the Left, midway between Mauguin and General Lamarque.2
The walls of his study in Moscow were covered with portraits of famous revolutionaries, from John Hampden and Bailly to Fieschi and Armand Carrel,3 and a whole library of prohibited books was ranged beneath these patron saints. A skeleton, with a few stuffed birds and scientific preparations, gave an air of study and concentration to the room and toned down its revolutionary appearance.
We envied his experience and knowledge of the world ; his subtle irony in argument impressed us greatly. We thought of him as a practical reformer and rising statesman.
4
V. was not at home. He had gone to Moscow the evening before, for an interview with the Governor ; his valet said that he would certainly return within two hours. I waited for him.
The country-house which he occupied was charming. The study where I waited was a high spacious room on the groundfloor, with a large door leading to a terrace and garden. It was a hot day ; the scent of trees and flowers came from the garden ; and some children were playing in front of the house and laughing loudly. Wealth, ease, space, sun and shade, flowers and verdure - what a contrast to the confinement and close air and darkness of a prison ! I don't know how long I sat there, absorbed in bitter thoughts ; but suddenly the valet who was on the terrace called out to me with an odd kind of excitement.
1. French politicians prominent about 1830.
3. Bailly, Mayor of Paris, was guillotined in 1 793· Fieschi was executed in 1836 for an attempt on the life of Louis Philippe. Armand Carrel was a French publicist and journalist who fell in a duel in 1836. See also p. 1 1 1 .
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'What i s it ? ' I asked.
'Please come here and look.'
Not wishing to annoy the man, I walked out to the terrace, and stood still in horror. All round a number of houses were burning ; it seemed as if they had all caught fire at once. The fire was spreading with incredible speed.
I stayed on the terrace. The man watched the fire with a kind of uneasy satisfaction, and he said, 'It's spreading grandly ; that house on the right is certain to be burnt.'
There is something revolutionary about a fire : fire mocks at property and equalises fortunes. The valet felt this instinctively.
Within half an hour, a whole quarter of the sky was covered with smoke, red below and greyish black above. It was the beginning of those fires which went on for five months, and of which we shall hear more in the sequel.