§14
And now our turn came. Oranski rubbed his spectacles, cleared his throat, and gave utterance to the imperial edict. It was here set forth that the Tsar, having considered the report of the Commission and taking special account of the youth of the criminals, ordered that they should not be brought before a court of justice. On the contrary, the Tsar in his infinite clemency pardoned the majority of the offenders and allowed them to live at home under police supervision. But the ringleaders were to undergo corrective discipline, in the shape of banishment to distant Governments for an unlimited term; they were to serve in the administration, under the supervision of the local authorities.
This last class contained six names—Ogaryóv, Satin, Lakhtin, Sorokin, Obolenski, and myself. My destination was Perm. Lakhtin had never been arrested at all; when he was summoned to the Commission to hear the sentence, he supposed it was intended merely to give him a fright, that he might take thought when he saw the punishment of others. It was said that this little surprise was managed by a relation of Prince Golitsyn’s who was angry with Lakhtin’s wife. He had weak health and died after three years in exile.
When Oranski had done reading, Colonel Shubenski stepped forward. He explained to us in picked phrases and the style of Lomonossov,[[77]] that for the Tsar’s clemency we were obliged to the good offices of the distinguished nobleman who presided at the Commission. He expected that we should all express at once our gratitude to the great man, but he was disappointed.
[77]. I.e., an old-fashioned pompous style. Lomonossov (1711-1765) was the originator of Russian literature and Russian science.
Some of those who had been pardoned made a sign with their heads, but even they stole a glance at us as they did so.
Shubenski then turned to Ogaryóv and said: “You are going to Penza. Do you suppose that is a mere accident? Your father is lying paralysed at Penza; and the Prince asked the Emperor that you might be sent there, that your presence might to some extent lighten the blow he must suffer in your banishment. Do you too think you have no cause for gratitude?”
Ogaryóv bowed; and that was all they got for their pains.
But that good old gentleman, the President, was pleased, and for some reason called me up next. I stepped forward: whatever he or Shubenski might say, I vowed by all the gods that I would not thank them. Besides, my place of exile was the most distant and most disgusting of all.
“So you are going to Perm,” said the Prince.
I said nothing. The Prince was taken aback, but, in order to say something, he added, “I have an estate there.”
“Can I take any message to your bailiff?” I asked, smiling.
“I send no messages by people like you—mere carbonari,” said the Prince, by a sudden inspiration.
“What do you want of me then?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Well, I thought you called me forward.”
“You may go,” interrupted Shubenski.
“Permit me,” I said, “as I am here, to remind you that you, Colonel, said to me on my last appearance before the Commission, that no one charged me with complicity in the students’ party; but now the sentence says that I am one of those punished on that account. There is some mistake here.”
“Do you mean to protest against the imperial decision?” cried out Shubenski. “If you are not careful, young man, something worse may be substituted for Perm. I shall order your words to be taken down.”
“Just what I meant to ask. The sentence says ‘according to the report of the Commission’: well, my protest is not against the imperial edict but against your report. I call the Prince to witness, that I was never even questioned about the party or the songs sung there.”
Shubenski turned pale with rage. “You pretend not to know,” he said, “that your guilt is ten times greater than that of those who attended the party.” He pointed to one of the pardoned men: “There is a man who sang an objectionable song under the influence of drink; but he afterwards begged forgiveness on his knees with tears. You are still far enough from any repentance.”
“Excuse me,” I went on; “the depth of my guilt is not the question. But if I am a murderer, I don’t want to pass for a thief. I don’t want people to say, even by way of defence, that I did so-and-so under the influence of drink.”
“If my son, my own son, were as brazen as you, I should myself ask the Tsar to banish him to Siberia.”
At this point the Commissioner of Police struck in with some incoherent nonsense. It is a pity that Golitsyn junior was not present; he would have had a chance to air his rhetoric.
All this, as a matter of course, led to nothing.
We stayed in the room for another quarter of an hour, and spent the time, undeterred by the earnest representations of the police-officers, in warm embraces and a long farewell. I never saw any of them again, except Obolenski, before my return from Vyatka.