Читать книгу The Autobiographical Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky - Fyodor Dostoyevsky - Страница 18

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DOSTOYEVSKY soon learned what it was to have debts. Scarcely had he signed the papers taking over his brother's liabihties when the creditors, who ought to have been grateful to him for recognising obligations which the law declared null and void, became extremely insolent, insisting on the immediate payment of their claims, and threatening to throw him into prison. To satisfy the most inexorable of them, Dostoyevsky in his turn got into debt, undertook to pay interest at a very high rate, and fell into the clutches of an unscrupulous publisher, one Stellovsky, who bought the right to bring out a complete edition of his works for an absurdly small sum. Stellovsky further stipulated that my father should add to this edition a new novel of a certain number of pages. This was to be dehvered on the 1st of November of the same year; if it should not be finished by that date, Dostoyevsky would lose his copyright and his works would become the property of Stellovsky. Harassed by his brother Mihail's creditors, my father was forced to accept these barbarous conditions. He laid aside Crime and Punishment 58 the epilogue of which was not yet finished, and set to work feverishly to write The Gambler. He worked night and day till his eyesight was affected. He was obliged to consult an oculist, who forbade him to work, telling him that if he persisted in doing so he would become blind.

58 Stellovsky, who was a regular usurer, threatened to send my father to prison, and the police despatched one of their officers to inform him of these threats. My father received the man pleasantly and talked to him with so much candovu- of his imfortu-nate financial position that the police officer was deeply touched. Instead of helping Stellovsky to get my father imprisoned, he placed all his legal knowledge at Dostoyevsky's service, to enable him to escape from the usurer's toils. He conceived a great admiration for my father, came to see him often and related to him many of the strange experiences he had had m the course of his career. It was thanks to this man that Dostoyevsky was able to treat the police element in Crime and Punishment in so masterly a manrier. This episode illustrates my father's manner of makmg friends, and shows us why he was able to transform the most savage convicts into faithful servants. It also indicates that the character of Prince Mishkin in The Idiot, who had the same faculty of transforming his enemies into friends, was reaUy Dostoyevsky's own portrait.

My father was in despair. It was then the beginning of October, and there was nothing but a rough copy of the novel. Dostoyevsky's friends were very anxious about him, and tried to hit upon some way of helping him. " Why don't you engage a stenographer? " said A. Milinkoff to him. " You could have dictated your novel to him, and he could have written it for you." At this time stenography was still a novelty in Russia. A certain Ohlin had studied it abroad and had just started some courses, in which he hurriedly prepared the first Russian stenographers. My father went to see him, explained his case, and asked Ohlin to send him a good stenographer. " Unfortunately," said Ohlin, " I cannot recommend any of my pupils. I only began my classes in the spring, I had to close them for the summer holidays, and in these three months my pupils forgot the little they had learnt. I have only one good pupil, but she does not want money, and has taken up stenography rather as a pastime than as a means of livelihood. She is still quite a girl, and I don't know if her mother would allow her to go and work for a man. In any case, I will offer her your work to-morrow, and I will let you know what she says."

The young girl of whom Ohlin spoke became in time my mother. Before relating Dostoyevsky's romance, I should like to say a few words about the family of his second wife, who was his guardian angel for the last fourteen years of his life.

My maternal grandfather, Grigor Ivanovitch Snitkin, was of Ukrainian origin. His ancestors were Cossacks who settled on the banks of the Dnieper near the town of Krementshug. They were called Snitko. When Ukrainia was annexed by Russia, they came to live in Petersburg, and to show their fidelity to the Russian Empire, they changed their Ukrainian name of Snitko into the Russian Snitkin. They did this in all sincerity, with no thought of flattery or servility. To them Ukrainia always remained Little Russia, the younger sister of the Great Russia which they admired with all their hearts. In Petersburg my great-grandparents continued to live after the Ukrainian tradition. At this time Ukrainia was under the influence of the Cathohc priests, who were reputed the best instructors of youth in the country. Accordingly, my great-grandfather, although he belonged to the Orthodox Church, placed his son Grigor in the Jesuits' College which had just been opened in Petersburg.59

59 It was subsequently closed by order of the Russian Government.

My grandfather received an excellent education there, such as the Jesuits generally give, but throughout his life he was the least Jesuitical of men. He was a true Slav : weak, timid, kind, sentimental and romantic. In his youth he had a grand passion for the celebrated Asen-kova, the only classical tragic actress we have had in Russia. He spent all his evenings at the theatre, and knew her monologues by heart. At this period the managers of the Imperial theatres used to allow the admirers of the artists to go and visit them behind the scenes. My grandfather's timid and respectful boyish passion pleased Asenkova, and she distinguished him in various little ways. It was to him she would hand her bouquet and her shawl when she went upon the stage to recite Racine and Corneille's beautiful verses; it was his arm she would take to return, trembling and exhausted, to her dressing-room, while the delighted audience applauded the beloved artist frantically. Other admirers sometimes begged for these privileges, but Asenkova always declared that they belonged to Gi-igor Ivanovitch. Poor Asenkova was very ill and weak; she was consumptive, and died very young. My grandfather's despair was unbounded; for years he could not enter the theatre, of which he had been a devotee. He never forgot the great actress, and often visited her grave. My mother told me that one day, when she was still a child, her father took her and her elder sister to the cemetery, made them kneel down by Asenkova's tomb, and said to them: " My children, pray to God for the repose of the soul of the greatest artist of our age."

I had supposed that this passion of my grandfather's was known only to our own family. I was therefore much astonished to find it in an historical journal, related by an old theatre-goer. He asserted that my grandfather's passion was not the love of a young man for a pretty woman, but admiration for the talent of a great artist. We must suppose that such a passion is very rare in Russia, or it would not have so impressed the old chronicler. He added a detail which was unknown to me. Shortly after the death of Asenkova one of her sisters made her dibut as a tragic actress. On the evening of her first performance, my grandfather reappeared in the theatre where he had not been seen since the death of his idol. He listened attentively to the young dibutante, but her acting did not please him and he disappeared once more.

My grandfather was of a type which ages very early. When he was thirty-five he had lost all his hair and most of his teeth. His face was lined and wrinkled, and he looked like an old man. It was, however, at this age that he married under somewhat strange circumstances.

My maternal grandmother, Maria Anna Miltopeus, was a Swede of Finland. She said that hei* ancestors were English, but that in the seventeenth century they had left their country as a result of the religious troubles there. They settled in Sweden, married Swedes, and subsequently migrated to Finland, where they bought land. Their English name must have been Miltope— or perhaps Milton !—for the termination " us" is Swedish. In Sweden men belonging to the learned professions—writers, scientists, doctors and clergymen— habitually added the syllable to their names. I do not know what was the calling of my great-grandfather Miltopeus; I only know that he had rendered such services to his country that he was buried in the Cathedral of Abo, the Westminster Abbey of Finland, and a marble tomb was raised to his memory.

My grandmother lost her parents while she was still very young, and was brought up by her aunts, who did not make her happy. As she grew up, she became very beautiful, quite in the Norman style. Tall and slender, with features of classic regularity, a dazzling complexion, blue eyes, and magnificent golden hair, she was the admiration of all who saw her. Maria Anna had a lovely voice; her friends called her " the second Christine Nilsson." Their compliments turned her head, and she determined to become a professional singer. She went to Petersburg, where her brothers were serving as officers in one of the regiments of the Imperial Guard, and disclosed her project to them.

" You must be mad I " exclaimed they. " Do you want to have us turned out of our regiment? Our brother officers would not allow us to remain in it if you were to become a professional singer." There has always been a very severe etiquette on such points in Russia : an officer was obliged to resign before marrying an artiste. Very probably in my grandmother's time no Russian officer had any relations on the stage. Maria Anna sacrificed her artistic ambitions to the military cal-eer of her brothers. She did so the more readily because, soon after her arrival in Petersburg, she fell in love with one of their comrades, a young Swedish officer. They became engaged and were about to be married, when war broke out; the Swede was sent to the front, and was one of the first to fall. Maria Anna was too proud to show her grief, but her heart was broken. She went on living with her brothers, but was perfectly indifferent to men; they had ceased to exist for her. Her sisters-in-law found the presence of this beautiful girl, who was extremely headstrong and masterful, most irksome. In those days no single woman of good family could live alone; she was obliged to make her home with her relatives. The only way of getting rid of her was to marry her. Her sisters-in-law accordingly set to work; they gave parties and invited young men. The beautiful Swede, who sang with so much feeling, was greatly admired. Several suitors presented themselves. Maria Anna rejected them all. " My heart is broken," she said to her relations. " I cannot love any one." The sisters-in-law were annoyed at such speeches, which seemed to them absurd, and they tried to make their romantic kinswoman listen to reason. One day, when they were urging her to accept an advantageous offer, Maria Anna lost her temper and exclaimed : " Really your protdgS disgusts me so, that if I were absolutely obliged to marry some one, I would rather take poor old Snitkin. He at least is sympathetic." Maria Anna attached no importance to these imprudent words. Her sisters-in-law fastened upon them eagerly. They sent devoted friends to my grandfather, who spoke to him eloquently of the passion he had inspired in the heart of Mile. Miltopeus. My grandfather was greatly astonished. He certainly admired the fair Swede, and listened with delight to her operatic airs, but it had never entered his head that he could possibly find favour with a beautiful girl. Maria Anna took no notice whatever of him; she would smile abstractedly as she passed him, but rarely spoke to him. However, if she really loved him as they said, he was quite ready to marry her.

Maria Anna's sisters-in-law laid my grandfather's proposal triumphantly before her. The poor girl was greatly alarmed. " But I won't marry that old gentleman," she said. " I mentioned him by way of comparison, to make you reaUse how odious the other suitor was to me." This explanation came too late. Maria Anna's relatives told her severely that a well-brought-up girl should never utter imprudent words; that it was permissible to refuse a suitor who made an offer without knowing how it would be taken, but that to refuse an offer after actually inviting it was to insult a worthy man who by no means deserved such treatment; that Maria Anna was twenty-seven years old, that her brothers could not keep her indefinitely with them, and that it was time to think seriously of her future. My grandmother saw that her sisters-in-law had laid a trap for her, and resigned herself to the inevitable. Fortunately, " poor M. Snitkin " was not antipathetic to her.

The marriage of these two dreamers did not turn out badly. My grandfather never forgot the famous Asen-kova, and my grandmother cherished the memory of her fair-haired lover who had fallen on the field of honour; notwithstanding, they had several children. Their characters suited each other; my grandmother was masterful, her husband was timid; she ordered, he obeyed. Nevertheless, in matters he considered really important, he managed to enforce his will. He wished his wife to change her religion, for he thought their children could not be brought up as good Christians if their parents professed different creeds. My grandmother became Orthodox, but continued to read the Gospel in Swedish. Later, when the children began to talk, my grandfather forbade his wife to teach them her native tongue. "It is unpleasant to me to hear you talking Swedish together, when I can't understand it," he said. This embargo was very disagreeable to my grandmother, who could never learn to speak Russian correctly. AU her life she expressed herself in a picturesque idiom which made her friends smile. When something important had to be said, she preferred to speak German to her children.

After their marriage my grandparents lived at first in lodgings, as people often did in Petersburg. But this manner of life did not please my grandmother, who had been accustomed to a more spacious existence in Finland. She persuaded her husband to buy a piece of land which was for sale on the other side of the Neva, in a lonely quarter not far from the Smolny monastery. There she had a large house built, and surrounded it with a garden. In the middle of Petersburg she lived as if she were in the country. She had her own flowers, fruit and vegetables. She did not Uke her husband's Ukrainian relatives, and received them only on family festivals. On the other hand, all the Swedes who came to Petersburg, and who were acquainted with one or the other of her numerous cousins in Finland, came to see her, lunched, dined, and sometimes stayed the night. The house was large and contained several guest-chambers. When they returned to Sweden, my grandmother's friends invoked her good offices for their children, whom they had placed in the various Crown establishments : sons who were to become officers in the Russian army. On the festivals of Christmas and Easter the house and garden echoed with the laughter and the Swedish chatter of little schoolgirls, pupils of the Cadet Schools, and shy young officers who could not as yet speak Russian fluently and were happy to find a bit of Finland in the strange capital. Like all the women of Germanic origin, my grandmother cared very little for her new country, and thought only of the interests of those of her own race.

This Finland which invaded the house of her parents found no favour with my mother. The Swedish ladies, with their severe profiles, stiff, ceremonious manners and unknown language, frightened her. The little Anna would take refuge with her father, whom she resembled, and whose favourite she was. He took her to church, and visited the reUgious houses of Petersburg with her. Every year she accompanied him on a pilgrimage to the famous monastery of Valaam, on the islands of Lake Ladoga. My mother had all her life tender memories of this kind, simple, sentimental soul. She became religious like him, and remained faithful to the Orthodox Church. The new religious ideas, which her friends eagerly adopted, gained no hold over her; my mother thought more highly of the wisdom of the early Fathers than of the fashionable writers. Like her father, she loved Russia passionately, and could never forgive her mother the indifference, verging on scorn, displayed by her towards her husband's country. My mother considered herself a thorough Russian. And yet she was but half a Slav; her character was much more Swedish. The dreamy idleness of the Russian woman were unknown to my mother; she was very active all her life; I never saw her sitting with folded hands. She was always taking up fresh occupations, becoming absorbed in them and generally turning them to good account. She had nothing of the large-minded-ness of Russian women, which they generally increase by wide reading; but she had the practical mind which most of her countrywomen lack. This disposition made a great impression upon her women friends; later, during her widowhood, they habitually consulted her in difficulties, and the advice she gave them was generally good. Together with the good qualities of her Swedish ancestors, my mother had inherited some of their faults. Her self-esteem was always excessive, almost morbid; a trifle would offend her, and she easily fell a victim to those who flattered her. She was something of a mystic, believed in dreams and presentiments, and had to some extent the curious gift of second sight possessed by many Normans. She was always predicting in a jesting manner, without attaching any importance to what she was saying, and was the first to be astonished and almost alarmed when her predictions, often of a fantastic and improbable kind, were realised, as if by magic. This second sight left her completely towards her fiftieth year, together with the hysteria which ravaged her girlhood. Her health was always poor; she was anasmic, nervous and restless, and often had hysterical attacks. This neuroticism was aggravated by the characteristic indecision of the Ukrainians, which makes them hesitate between half a dozen possible courses, and leads them to transform the most trivial circumstances into dramas, and sometimes into melodramas.