In 1838 I wrote from this point of view some historical scenes which I supposed at the time to be dramatic. They were in verse. In one I represented the strife between Christianity and the ancient world, and told how St. Paul, when entering Rome, raised a young man from the dead to enter on a new life. Another described the contest of the Quakers against the Church of England, and the departure of William Penn for America.
The mysticism of the Gospel soon gave way in my mind to the mysticism of science; but I was fortunate enough to escape from the latter as well in course of time.
§10
But now I must go back to the modest little town which was called Chlynov until Catherine II changed its name to Vyatka; what her motive was, I do not know, unless it was her Finnish patriotism.
In that dreary distant backwater of exile, separated from all I loved, surrounded by the unclean horde of officials, and exposed without defence to the tyranny of the Governor, I met nevertheless with many warm hearts and friendly hands, and there I spent many happy hours which are sacred in recollection.
Where are you now, and how are you, my snowbound friends? It is twenty years since we met. I suppose you have grown old, as I have; you are thinking about marrying your daughters, and have given up drinking champagne by the bottle and tossing off bumpers of vodka. Which of you has made a fortune, and which has lost it? Which has risen high in the official world, and which is laid low by the palsy? Above all, do you still keep alive the memory of our free discussions? Do those chords still resound that were struck so vigorously by our common friendship and our common resentment?
I am unchanged, as you know, for I suspect that rumour flies from the banks of the Thames as far as you. I think of you sometimes, and always with affection. I have kept some letters of those former days, and some of them I regard as treasures and love to read over again.
“I am not ashamed to confess to you,” writes one young friend on January 26, 1838, “that my heart is full of bitterness. Help me for the sake of that life to which you summoned me; help me with your advice. I want to learn; make me a list of books, lay down any programme you like; I will work my hardest, if you will point the way. It would be sinful of you to discourage me.”
“I bless you,” another wrote to me just after I had left Vyatka, “as the husbandman blesses the rain which gives life to his unfertilized field.”
I copy out these lines, not from vanity, but because they are very precious to me. This appeal to young hearts and their generous reply, and the unrest I was able to awaken in them—this is my compensation for nine months spent in prison and three years at Vyatka.