Том 8. Былое и думы. Часть 1-3

В Лондоне не было ни одного близкого мне человека. Были люди, которых я уважал, которые уважали меня, но близкого никого. Все подходившие, отходившие, встречавшиеся занимались одними общими интересами, делами всего человечества, по крайней мере делами целого народа, знакомства их были, так сказать, безличные. Месяцы проходили – и ни одного слова о том, о чем хотелось говорить.

…А между тем я тогда едва начинал приходить в себя, оправляться после ряда страшных событий, несчастий, ошибок. История последних годов моей жизни представлялась мне яснее и яснее, и я с ужасом видел, что ни один человек, кроме меня, не знает ее и что с моей смертью умрет и истина.

Я решился писать; но одно воспоминание вызывало сотни других, все старое, полузабытое воскресало – отроческие мечты, юношеские надежды, удаль молодости, тюрьма и ссылка[217] – эти ранние несчастия, не оставившие никакой горечи на душе, пронесшиеся, как вешние грозы, освежая и укрепляя своими ударами молодую жизнь.

Я не имел сил отогнать эти тени, – пусть они светлыми сенями, думалось мне, встречают в книге, как было на самом деле.

Ия стал писать с начала; пока я писал две первые части, прошли несколько месяцев поспокойнее… Цепкая живучесть человека всего более видна в невероятной силе рассеяния и себяоглушения. Сегодня пусто, вчера страшно, завтра безразлично; человек рассеивается, перебирая давно прошедшее, играя на собственном кладбище…

Лондон, 1 мая 1854 г.

<Предисловие к английскому изданию> *

Preface

In order to write down one’s own recollections, it is by no means necessary to be a great man, or an extraordinary villain; a celebrated artist, or a statesman; it is enough to be merely a man, to have something to tell, and to be able and willing to tell it.

Every existence is interesting; if not on account of the person, yet on account of the country, the epoch in which he lives. Man likes to penetrate into the inward life of another; he likes to touch the most delicate chord of another heart, to watch its beatings and penetrate its secrets, in order to compare, to verify, to seek a justification, a consolation, a proof of conformity.

Memoirs, however, can be tiresome, the life of which they speak can be poor, insignificant. Then do not read them; that is the heaviest punishment to be inflicted upon a book. And as to that, no special right for writing memoirs can avail. The memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini are not so interesting on account of his having been a great artist, but because the things he had to relate were most interesting.

«The right to this or that kind of words» is an expression which no longer belongs to our time, but to the time of a minority of intelligence, of the poets-laureate, of the doctors in caps, of the philosopher by privilege, of the patented learned men, and other phariseesof the academical world. In those times, the art of writing was considered sacred, the «official author», not only with the pen, but always speaking in a florid style, chose the most unnatural turning of phrases, and employed the words least used, in a word, he preached, or he sang.

For us, we speak quite plainly. We imagine that writing is an occupation fit for a layman, for any one else, a work like every other work. Here, at least, «the right to labour» cannot be doubted.

If the production can find consumers – is another question.

A year ago, I published in London, a part of my Memoirs, in the Russian language, under the title «Prisons and Exiles». This work appeared, when war had already begun, and when the means of communication with Russia had become more difficult. I did not therefore expect great success. But it happened otherwise. In the month of September, the «Revue des Deux Mondes» gave long extracts from my book, with a very flattering article about myself (although I do not share the author’s opinions). In the month of January, other fragments (likewise translated from the Russian), appeared in the «Athenaeum» of London, while Hoffman and Campe published a German translation of the work at Hamburg.

This has decided me to publish another volume.

I shall say in another place what deep interest these Memoirs have for me individually, and for what purpose I have begun to write them. I now content myself with the assertion: that there is nо country in which Memoirs can be more useful than in Russia. We – thanks to the censorship – are very little accustomed to publicity; it frightens, astonishes and offends us. It is time the imperial artists of the police of St. Petersburg, should know, that sooner or later, their actions, so well hidden by the prisons, the irons and the graves, will be revealed in the broad glare of day.

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