§25
After dragging on for a year, the affair of Sungurov and our other friends who had been arrested came to an end. The charge, as in our case and in that of Petrashev’s group, was that they intended to form a secret society and had held treasonable conversations. Their punishment was to be sent to Orenburg, to join the colours.
And now our turn came. Our names were already entered on the black list of the secret police. The cat dealt her first playful blow at the mouse in the following way.
When our friends, after their sentence, were starting on their long march to Orenburg without warm enough clothing, Ogaryóv and Kiréevski each started a subscription for them, as none of them had money. Kiréevski took the proceeds to Staal, the commandant, a very kind-hearted old soldier, of whom more will be said hereafter. Staal promised to transmit the money, and then said:
“What papers are those you have?”
“The subscribers’ names,” said Kiréevski, “and a list of subscriptions.”
“Do you trust me to pay over the money?” the old man asked.
“Of course I do.”
“And I fancy the subscribers will trust you. Well, then, what’s the use of our keeping these names?” and Staal threw the list into the fire; and I need hardly say that was a very kind action.
Ogaryóv took the money he had collected to the prison himself, and no difficulty was raised. But the prisoners took it into their heads to send a message of thanks from Orenburg, and asked some functionary who was travelling to Moscow to take a letter which they dared not trust to the post. The functionary did not fail to profit by such an excellent opportunity of proving his loyalty to his country: he laid the letter before the head of the police at Moscow.
Volkov, who had held this office, had gone mad, his delusion being that the Poles wished to elect him as their king, and Lisovski had succeeded to the position. Lisovski was a Pole himself; he was not a cruel man or a bad man; but he had spent his fortune, thanks to gambling and a French actress, and, like a true philosopher, he preferred the situation of chief of the police at Moscow to a situation in the slums of that city.
He summoned Ogaryóv, Ketcher, Satin, Vadim, Obolenski, and others, and charged them with having relations with political prisoners. Ogaryóv replied that he had written to none of them and had received no letter; if one of them had written to him, he could not be responsible for that. Lisovski then said:
“You raised a subscription for them, which is even worse. The Tsar is merciful enough to pardon you for once; but I warn you, gentlemen, that you will be strictly watched, and you had better be careful.”
He looked meaningly at all the party and his eye fell on Ketcher, who was older and taller than the rest, and was lifting his eyebrows and looking rather fierce. He added, “I wonder that you, Sir, considering your position in society, are not ashamed to behave so.” Ketcher was only a country doctor; but, from Lisovski’s words, he might have been Chancellor of the imperial Orders of Knighthood.
I was not summoned; it is probable that the letter did not contain my name.
This threat we regarded as a promotion, a consecration, a powerful incentive. Lisovski’s warning was oil on the flames; and, as if to make it easier for the police, we all took to velvet caps of the Karl Sand[[53]] fashion and tricolor neckties.
[53]. The German student who shot Kotzebue.
Colonel Shubinski now climbed up with the velvet tread of a cat into Lisovski’s place, and soon marked his predecessor’s weakness in dealing with us: our business was to serve as one of the steps in his official career, and we did what was wanted.