A Herzen Reader

It is time to concentrate our thought and our strength, to clarify our goals and take stock of our means.

It is clear that propaganda is splitting in two. On the one hand, there are words, advice, analysis, denunciation, and theory; on the other hand, there is the formation of circles, the organization of communications, and internal and external relations. We will dedicate all our activity, and all our devotion to the first of these. The second cannot take place abroad. It is something we await in the very near future.

Note

Source: "1865," Kolokol, l. 193, January 1, 1865; 18:313, 607-9.

1. For "creed" Herzen uses the ecclesiastical term simvol very.

* 68 ♦

The Bell, No. 197, May 25, 1865, was the first issue published in Geneva, where the Free Press had moved from London. The letter below was written after the death in April of the heir to the throne, Nikolay Alexandrovich. By the time the presses were set up in Switzerland, the shocking news of Lincoln's assassination had also reached Herzen. The more radical Russian emigres disapproved of any conciliatory gesture towards the imperial family, even though Ogaryov assured them it was not in any way an endorse­ment of the tsar and his current policies. The radicals were adamant about any future changes coming from below, making any direct address to the sovereign irrelevant. In his private correspondence, Herzen characterized the Romanov dynasty as having "come to nothing" (Let 4:121-22, 133-34). Alexander Nikitenko said in his diary that Herzen was in a bad mood because he had not been able to rouse the people with his Bell, and that the public letter was "the height of indecency" and not even very clever (Let 4:187).

A Letter to Emperor Alexander II [1865]

Sovereign, fate has touched you inexorably, dreadfully. It has reminded you in a formidable way that, despite the anointing, neither you nor your family are exempt from the general law, but are subject to it. Twice it has taken note of your family, once with the cutting edge of the scythe and once more with its dull side—the death of your son and the strange rumors concern­ing his brother.¹

To the limitless number of Polish families who have been subjected to the deepest grief, having lost their sons, can be added one more family in mourning—your family, Sovereign. Your family is more fortunate than theirs, since no one will insult your grief. Among those of us who oppose your power, not one heartless scoundrel can be found who would accom­pany your son's casket with insults, who would wish to rip the mourning veils from his mother or sister, or who would remove the body and the tombstone in the presence of the tearful parents. all things that Muravyov has done and is still doing in Poland.

In the life of man there are moments of terrible solemnity, in which a person awakens from his daily cares, stands at full height, shakes off the dust, and is renewed. A believer does this with prayer, and a non-believer with thought. These moments are rare and irretrievable. Woe to the per­son who lets them go absentmindedly and without a trace! You are living in such a moment, Sovereign—seize it. Stop under the full weight of this blow, with the fresh wound on your chest, and think—without the Senate and the Synod, without ministers and the General Staff—think about what has happened, and where you are heading.

If the death of your son cannot rouse you and wrench you from the spec­tral environment in which your birth placed you, then what could possibly arouse you? Only being deprived of the throne, i.e., with the emptiness and melancholy leisure that inevitably accompanies a loss of this kind. How­ever, such a late awakening might be good for you, but would be of no use for others. And these others, when one is speaking of you, are the entire Russian people. This is what compelled me to persist in writing to you once more.

My first letter to you was not written in vain.² An involuntary shout of joy, torn from the depths of voluntary exile, had an effect on you. For a mo­ment you forgot that by rank I had no right to speak with you.

The language of a free man was something new for you. In its sharp words you understood its sincerity and love for Russia—at that point you had not sent utopias off to hard labor, and were not tying human thought to a pillory. This was the honeymoon of your reign, and it concluded with the greatest act of your entire dynasty—the emancipation of the serfs.