My mother was a Lutheran and therefore one degree more religious; on one or
Sundays in every month she would
drive to her church, or as Bakay persisted in calling it, to 'her Kirchc,' and, having nothing better to do, I went with her. There I learned to mimic the German pastors, their declamation and verbosity, with artistic finish, and I retained the talent in riper years.
Every p•ar my father commanded me to take the sacrament. I was afraid of confession, and the church mise en scene altogether impressed and alarmed me. With genuine awe I went up to take the sacrament, but I cannot call it a religious feeling; it was the awe which is inspired by everything incomprehensible and mysterious, especially when a grave and solemn significance is attributed to it; casting spells and telling fortunes affect one in the same way. I took the sacrament aftf'r the early service in Holy Week, and, after devouring eggs coloured red, paskha and Easter cakes, I thought no more of religion for the rest of the year.
But I used to read the Gospel a great deal and with love, both in the Slavonic and in the Lutheran translation. I read it without any guidance, and, though I did not understand everything, I felt a de!'p and genuine respect for what I read. In my early youth I \\'aS often influenced by Voltairianism, and ;vas fond of irony and mockery, but I do not remember tha t I ever took the Gospel in my hand with a cold feeling; and it has been the same
\vith me all my life ; at all ages and under various circumstances
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I have gone back to reading the Gospel, and every time its words have brought peace and meekness to my soul.
When the priest began giving me lessons he was surprised to find not only that I had a general knowledge of the Gospel but that I could quote texts, word for word. 'But the Lord God,' he said, 'though He has opened his mind, had not yet opened his heart.' And my theologian, shrugging his shoulders, marvelled at my 'double nature,' but was pleased with me, thinking that I should be able to pass my examination.
Soon a religion of a different sort took possession of my soul.
Politicctl Atvctkening
ONE WINTER MORNING the Senator arrived not at the time he usually visited us; looking anxious, he went with hurried footsteps into my father's study and closed the door, motioning me to remain in the salon.
Luckily I had not long to rack my brains guessing what was the matter. The door from the hall opened a little way and a red face, half-hidden in the wolf-fur of a livery overcoat, called me in a whisper; it was the Senator's footman. I rushed to the door.
'Haven't you heard? ' he asked.
'What?'
'The Tsar has just died at Taganrog.'
The news impressed me; I had never thought of the possibility of the Tsar's death ; I had grown up with a great respect for Alexander, and recalled mournfully how I had seen him not long before in Moscow. When we were out walking, we had met him beyond the Tverskoy Gate; he was slowly riding along with two or three generals, returning from Khodynki, where there had been a review. His face was gracious, his features soft and rounded, his expression tired and melancholy. When he was on a level with us I raised my hat, and he bowed to me, smiling.
What a contrast to Nicholas, who always looked like a slightly bald Medusa with cropped hair and moustaches. In the street, at the court, with his children and ministers, with his courtiers and maids of honour, Nicholas was al .vays trying whether his eyes
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had the power of a rattlesnake, of freezing blood in the veins.1
If Alexander's external gentleness \vas assumed, surely such hypocrisy is better than the naked candour of autocracy.
While vague ideas floated through my mind, while portraits of the new Emperor Constantine were sold in the shops, while appeals to take the oath of allegiance were being delivered, and good people were hastening to do so, rumours were suddenly afloat that the Tsarevich had refused the crown. Then that same footman of the Senator's who was greatly interested in political news and had a fine field for gathering it-in all the public offices and vestibules of senators, to one or other of which he was always driving from morning to night, for he did not share the privilege of the horses, who were changed after dinner-informed me that there had been rioting in Petersburg and that cannon were being fired in Galernaya Street.
On the following evening Count Komarovsky, a general of the gendarmes, was with us: he told us of the square formed in St.
Isaac's Square, of the Horse Guards' attack, of the death of Count Miloradovich.
Then followed a rrests; 'So-and-so has been taken,' 'So-and-so has been seized,' 'So-and-so has been brought up from the country,' terrified parents trembled for their children. The sky was overcast with gloomy storm-clouds.
In the reign of Alexander political oppression was rare; the Tsar did, it is true, banish Pushkin for his verses and Labzin for having, when he was secretary, proposed to elect the coachman, Ilya Baykov, a member of the Academy of Arts;2 but there was no systematic persecution. The secret police had not yet grown into I The story is told that on one occasion in his own household, in the presence. that is, of two or three heads of the secret police. two or three maids of honour and generals in waiting, he tried his Medusa glance on his daughter Marya Nikolayevna. She is like her father, and her eyes really do recall the terrible look in his. The daughter boldly endured her father's stare. The Tsar turned pale, his cheeks twitched, and his eyes grew still more ferocious; his daughter met him with the same look in hers. Everyone turned pale a nd trembled; the maids of honour and the generals in waiting dared not breathe, so panic-stricken were they at this cannibalistic imperial duel with the eyes, in the style of that described by Byron in Don Juan. • Nicholas got up: he felt that he had met his match.
2 The President of the Academy proposed Arakcheye'' as honorary member. Alexander Fedorovich Labzin ( 1 766-1825 ) , asked in what the
• 'Her father's blood before her father's face Boiled up, and proved her truly of his race.'
Don Juan, canto 1\', stanza 44
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an independent body of gendarmes, but consisted of a department under the control of de Sanglain, an old Voltairian, a wit, a great talker, and a humorist in the style of Jouy.3 Under Nicholas this gentleman himself was under the supervision of the police and he was considered a liberal, though he was exactly what he had always been; from this fact alone, it is easy to judge of the difference between the two reigns.
Nicholas was completely unknown until he came to the throne; in the reign of Alexander he was of no consequence; and no one was interested in him. Now everyone rushed to inquire about him; no one could answer questions but the officers of the Guards; they hated him for his cold cruelty, his petty fussiness and his vindictiveness. One of the first anecdotes that went the round of the town confirmed the officers' opinion of him. The story was that at some drill or other the Grand Duke had so far forgotten himself as to try and take an officer by the collar. The officer responded with the words: 'Your Highness, my sword is in my hand.' Nicholas drew back, said nothing, but never forgot the answer. After the Fourteenth of December he made inquiries on two occasions as to whether this officer was implicated. Fortunately he was not.4