A Herzen Reader

The Bell, No. 187, July 15, 1864. Herzen summarizes the evolution of the Russian liberal gentry. The radical emigre Nikolay Utin (1841-1883), a member of the first Land and Liberty group who continued his radical work abroad, wrote to Ogaryov that this was the kind of categorical statement that Herzen should continue to write after the move to Geneva and the transfer of other work to younger revolutionaries (Let 4:23).

VII Years [1864]

Seven years ago, in July 1857, the first issue of The Bell appeared. Since that time we have often stopped to check our path against events, and have asked ourselves whether we are moving in the right direction and in the right way. Our goal, our fundamental beliefs were unaltered; our problem remained the same, but the means of solving it had to change. Whether a stream is small or large, its path depends not on itself, but on the general slopes and inclines of the land.

However, approaching the seventh anniversary, we were occupied with another question, namely, ought we in general continue or to come to a halt and await outbursts from the absurd forces of reaction?

Russia has clearly left the path on which it landed in 1855, and for the third year is rushing along with a series of crimes and absurdities toward a series of disasters, which may exhaust it, but for which, at any rate, it will pay.

The howl, the wail, the hissing sound of the person being executed—and of fierce patriotism—drown out all human speech. Educated Russia turned out to be much more barbarian than peasant Russia. Because of this bar­barity, terrible deeds and terrible words became possible: executions in Po­land, penal servitude in Russia [. . .] Chernyshevsky, placed in the pillory in broad daylight, and all the other savage acts of the government and society.

While this "addiction" to drinking blood continues, what is the point of our speech? Who is there for us to talk to, for whom would we write and publish?

If it were not so painful to be silent, we would have done it. To be silent means to turn away, to forget for a while, and that is beyond our strength. [. . .]

The past places obligations on us. We had sufficient opinions and daring to begin to speak. we continued amidst applause from above and below— we had to have the courage to continue speaking while the drunks sobered up. We had to continue so that the last word of protest did not fall silent, so the pangs of conscience did not subside, so that it would not be doubly shameful afterward. [. . .]

And so our ringing will, as before, summon the living until they come or until we convince ourselves that they no longer exist.

When we began our propaganda we never expected that such a terrible time would come that we would have to say something like this—but did anyone expect it?

In i855 and i857 an awakening Russia lay before us. Its tombstone was removed and carried to the Peter Paul Fortress.¹ There were signs of the new age everywhere—in the government, in literature, in society, and in the people. Much of it was awkward, insincere, and vague, but everyone sensed that we had made a start, we had set off and would continue moving along. A mute nation became accustomed to speech, a nation of official se­crecy got used to openness, a nation of serf slavery—to grumble about their chains. [. . .] The party of fools and the party of old men were in despair as serf owners pretended to be constitutional liberals.

In the second half of i862, the wind shifted direction. The incomplete emancipation of the serfs had exhausted the strength of the government and society, and the machine put the brakes on and began moving backward.

We ask every public figure who appeared after the death of Nicholas [. . .] let them put hand on heart and say whether any of them foresaw the bloody filth into which Russia has been mired thanks to a coachman like Mu- ravyov, and lackeys who urge him on, like Katkov?

Did they foresee that the death penalty would become for us an ordinary, everyday matter, that prisoners of war would be shot, that the wounded would be hung, and that on a single day as many as six people would be executed on the orders of a worthless general?

That for a secretly printed leaflet,² full of youthful dreams and theoretical utopias, honest, pure young people would be sent away for hard labor and permanent exile, irrespective of their talent and good name? [. . .]

That among us a literature of denunciations would develop, and that it would become the literature of the day, that the language of journalists would descend to the language of quarreling policemen, and that, when opening the newspaper, we would enter the lobby of the Third Department and the office of a police station? [. . .]