§12
Statistics saved me from office work, but they had one bad result—they brought me into personal relations with the Governor.
There was a time when I hated this man, but that time has long passed away, and the man has passed away himself—he died about 1845 near Kazán, where he had an estate. I think of him now without anger; I regard him as a strange beast encountered in some primeval forest, which deserves study, but, just because it is a beast, cannot excite anger. But then it was impossible not to fight him; any decent man must have done so. He might have damaged me seriously, but accident preserved me; and to resent the harm which he failed to do me would be absurd and pitiable.
The Governor was separated from his wife, and the wife of his cook occupied her place. The cook was banished from the town, his only guilt being his marriage; and the cook’s wife, by an arrangement whose awkwardness seemed intentional, was concealed in the back part of the Governor’s residence. Though she was not formally recognised, yet the cook’s wife had a little court, formed out of those officials who were especially devoted to the Governor—in other words, those whose conduct could least stand investigation; and their wives and daughters, though rather bashful about it, paid her stolen visits after dark. This lady possessed the tact which distinguished one of her most famous male predecessors—Catherine’s favourite, Potemkin. Knowing her consort’s way and anxious not to lose her place, she herself procured for him rivals from whom she had nothing to fear. Grateful for this indulgence, he repaid her with his affection, and the pair lived together in harmony.
The Governor spent the whole morning working in his office. The poetry of his life began at three o’clock. He loved his dinner, and he liked to have company while eating. Twelve covers were laid every day; if the party was less than six, he was annoyed; if it fell to two, he was distressed; and if he had no guest, he was almost desperate and went off to the apartments of his Dulcinea, to dine there. It is not a difficult business to get people together, in order to feed them to excess; but his official position, and the fear his subordinates felt for him, prevented them from availing themselves freely of his hospitality, and him from turning his house into an inn. He had therefore to content himself with heads of departments—though with half of them he was on bad terms—occasional strangers, rich merchants, spirit-distillers, and “curiosities.” These last may be compared with the capacités, who were to be introduced into the Chamber of Deputies under Louis Philippe. I need hardly say that I was a “curiosity” of the first water at Vyatka.
§13
People banished for their opinions to remote parts of Russia are a little feared but by no means confounded with ordinary mortals. For the provincial mind “dangerous people” have that kind of attraction which notorious Don Juans have for women, and notorious courtesans for men. The officials of Petersburg and grandees of Moscow are much more shy of “dangerous” people than the dwellers in the provinces and especially in Siberia.
The exiled Decembrists were immensely respected. Yushnevski’s widow was treated as a lady of the first consequence in Siberia; the official figures of the Siberian census were corrected by means of statistics supplied by the exiles; and Minich, in his prison, managed the affairs of the province of Tobolsk, the Governors themselves resorting to him for advice in matters of importance.
The common people are even more friendly to the exiles; they always take the side of men who have been punished. Near the Siberian frontier, the word “exile” disappears, and the word “unfortunate” is used instead. In the eyes of the Russian people, the sentence of a court leaves no stain. In the Government of Perm, the peasants along the road to Tobolsk often put out kvass or milk and bread on the window-sill, for the use of some “unfortunate” who may be trying to escape from Siberia.