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"·e stood wi th folded arms, making not the slightest sign that our hearts \Wre touclwd by the ImpPrial and princely mercy.

Then Shubinsky thought of another dodge and, addressing Ogari;,., said:

'You are going to Penza ; do you imagine tha t tha t is by chance? Your father is lying paralysed a t Penza and the prince besought the Tsar to designate that town for you, that your being nPar m ight to somp •·xtent alleYiate for him the blow of your ••xih•. Do you not think you haYe reason to thank the prince?'

There was no help for it: Ogarev made a slight bow. This was what tlwy were trying to get.

The good-na tured dd man was pleased at this, and next, I do not know why, he summoned me. I steppPd forward with the devout intentwn of not thanki ng h im, whatewr he or Shubinsky might say: besides, I was being sent farther away than any and to the nastiest town.

'You are going to Perm.' said Prince Golitsyn.

I said nothing. He was d isconcerted and, for the silke of saying somPthing, he added,

'I have an estate there.'

''Yould you care to s!'rHI some commission through me to your steward ?' I asked 'vith a smile.

'I do not gin• commissions to people like you-Carbonari,'

added the resourceful old man.

'Then whilt do you wish of meJ'

'Nothing.'

'I thought :vou cnl lcd me.'

'You mav go.' Shuhinsky i n terposed.

'Allow me,' I n•plied, 'since I am lu•n', to rPmind you thil t you told nw, Colonel, last time I was bdor·e tlH• commission, that no onP accused me of being connected with the supper-party affair.

Yd in thP sen tf'IIC!' it is statl·d that I was one of those guilty in corm••ctiun w ith that a ffair. ThPre is somP m istakf' lu•re.'

·no yon wish to object to I lis Majesty's decision?' observed

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1 65

Shubinsky. 'You had bet1 er take care that Perm is not changed to something worse. I shall order your words to be taken down.'

'I meant to ask you to do so. In the sentence the "vords occur

"on the report of the commission": I am protesting against your report and not against the will of His Majesty. I appeal to the prince: there was no question in my case of a supper party or of songs, was there?'

'As though you did not know,' said Shubinsky, beginning to turn pale with wrath, 'that you are ten times more guilty than those who were at the supper party. He, now'-he pointed to one of those \vho had be!'n pardoned-'in a state of intoxication sang some filthy song, but afterwards he begged forgiveness on his knees with tears. llut you are still far from any penitence.'

The gentleman at whom the colonel pointed said nothing, but hung his head and flushed crimson . . . . It was a good lesson: so he should, after behaving so vilely! . . .

'Excuse me, it is not the point whether my guilt is great or not,' I went on; 'but, if I am a murderer, I don't want to be considered a thief. I don't want it to be said of me, even in justification, that I did something in a "state of intoxication," as you expressed yourself just now.'

'If I had a son, my own son, who showed such stubbornness, I would myself beg the Tsar to send him to Siberia.'

At this point the oberpolitsmeystcr interposed some incoherent nonsense. It is a pity that Golitsyn junior was not present, for it would have been an opportunity for his eloquence.

It all ended, of course, in nothing.

Lakhtin went up to Prince Golitsyn and asked that his departure might be deferred.

'My wife is with child,' he said.

'I am not responsible for that,' answered Golitsyn.

A wild beast, a mad dog when it bites, looks in earnest and puts its tail between its legs, but this crazy grandee, aristocrat, though he had the reputation of a good-natured man, was not ashamed to make this vulgar joke.

We stayed for a quarter of an hour more in the room, and, in spite of the zealous exhortations of the gendarme and police officers, embraced one anoth!'r warmly and took a long farewell.

Except Obolensky I saw none of them again until I came back from Vyatka.

Departure was before us.

Prison had been a continuation of our past; but our departure into the wilds was a complete break with it.

Our youthful existence in our circle of friends was over.

M Y P A S T A N D T H O U G H T S

1 66

Our exile would probably last several years. Where and how should we meet, and should we ever meet? . . .

I regretted my old life, and I had to leave it so abruptly . . .

without saying good-bye. I had no hope of seeing Ogarev. Two of my friends had succeeded in seeing me during the last few days, bu t that was not enough for me.

If I could but once again see my youthful comforter and press her hand, as I had pressed it in the graveyard . . . . I longed both to take leave of my past and to greet my f�ture in her person . . . .

We did see each other for a few minutes on the 9th of April, 1 835, on the day before I was sent off into exile.

For years I kept that day sacred in my memory; it was one of the happiest moments in my l ife.

Why must the thought of that day and of all the bright days of my past bring back so much that is frightening? . . . The grave, the wreath of dark-red roses, two children holding my hand-torches, the crO\'\'d of exiles, the moon, the warm sea under the mountainside, the \vords that I did not understand and that wrung my heart.

All is over!6

f.JerJJ Z

In Pl.'rm I was takl.'n straight to the governor. He was holding a great recl.'ption; his daughter was being married that day to an officer. HI.' insistPd on my going in, and I had to present myself to the whole society of Perm in a dirty travelling coat, covered with mud and dust. The govPrnor, aftf'r talking all sorts of nonsPnsP, forbad<' me to make acquaintance with the Poli sh exiles and orden·d lllf' to com<' to him in a few days, saying that then lw would find me work in the office.

This governor was a Little Russian; he did not oppress the Pxil<'s, and altogether was a harmless person. He was improving

'' HPI'Zl'll is n•call ing till' burial of his wife in ! 8:32. (A.S.)

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167

his fortune somehow on the sly, like a mole working unseen underground; he was adding grain to grain and laying by a little something for a rainy day.

From some inexplicable idea of security and good order, he used to command all the exiles who lived in Perm to appear before him at ten o'clock in the morning on Saturdays. He would come out with his pipe and a l ist, verify whether we were all present, and, if anyone was not, send a policeman to find out the reason; then, after saying scarcely anything to anyone, he would dismiss us. In this way in his reception-room I became acquainted with all the Polish exiles, whose acquaintance he had warned me I must not make.

The day after my arrival the gendarme went away, and for the first time since my arrest I found myself at liberty.

At liberty . . . in a little town on the Siberian border, with no experience, with no conception of the environment in which I had to live.