Читать книгу The Autobiographical Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky - Fyodor Dostoyevsky - Страница 26

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At last all the debts were paid. My father was now free to devote himself to his art—its master, and not its slave ! He could now give his children some pleasures, and afford a few presents for his poor wife, who had sacrificed her youth to enable him to discharge his obligations. The first diamonds Dostoyevsky offered to my mother were very small, but his joy in giving them was great.

Yet my father had no thought of enjoying the rest so hardly earned. Scarcely was he clear of debt than he threw himself into the public arena, and began to publish the Journal of the Writer,71 of which he had long been dreaming. Russian novelists cannot devote themselves exclusively to art, after the manner of their European confreres ; the moment always comes when they have to be priests, confessors and educationists. Our poor paralysed Church and our horrible schools cannot function normally, and every really patriotic writer is obliged to take over part of their duties. After his return from abroad, Dostoyevsky saw with alarm how swiftly unhappy Russia was rolling towards the abyss in which she now hes, thirty-five years after his death. He had just spent three years in Italy and Germany, in the great flowering time of their patriotism. In Petersburg he found only malcontents, who hated their native land. The unhappy Russian intellectuals, educated in our cosmopolitan schools, had only one ideal: to transform our interesting and original Russia, a land full of genius and promise, into a grotesque caricature of Europe. This state of mind was the more dangerous because our masses continued to be strongly patriotic admirers of their own country, proud of their nationality and contemptuous of Europe. Dostoyevsky, who knew both worlds—^that of our intellectuals and that of our peasantry—^recognised the strength of the one and the weakness of the other. He realised that the intellectuals only existed by virtue of the Tsars; that on the day when they, in their blindness, pulled down the throne, the people would take the opportunity of vengeance on the bare,72 whom they despised and hated for their atheism and cosmopolitanism. Dostoyevsky's prophetic spirit foresaw all the horrors of the Russian Revolution.

71 He also published under this title his articles for The Citizen

72 The name the Russian masses give to nobles and intellectuals.

When he began the publication of the Journal of the Writer, Dostoyevsky hoped to reunite this handful of wrong-headed intellectuals with the great popular masses by awakening in them the sentiments of patriotism and religion.73 His ardent voice was not lost in the wilderness; many Russians saw the danger of this moral abyss which separated our peasants from our intellectuals and tried to fill it in. The fathers were the first to respond to Dostoyevsky's appeal. They came to see him, consulted him as to the education of their children, and wrote to him from the depths of the provinces, asking for advice. These conscientious fathers belonged to all classes of Russian society. Some were humble folks of the lower middle classes, who had deprived themselves to give their children a good education, and who saw with terror that they were becoming atheists and enemies of Russia. At the other end of the scale there was the Grand Duke Constantine Nicolaievitch, who begged my father to exercise his influence on his yoiuig sons, Constantine and Dmitri. He was an intelUgent man, of wide European cultiu:e; he wished to see his sons patriots and Christians. My father's affection for the young princes lasted till his death; he was fond of both, but especially of the Grand Duke Constantine, in whom he divined the future poet.74 After the fathers came the sons. No sooner did Dostoyevsky begin to speak of patriotism and religion than the boy and girl students of Petersburg flocked to him, forgetting their former grievances against him. Poor Russian youth ! Is there any other in the world so abnormal, so crippled ? Whereas in Europe parents try to evoke patriotism in the hearts of their children, and to make them good Frenchmen, good Enghshmen, good Italians, Russian parents make their children the enemies of their fatherland. From their earliest years our little Russians hear their fathers insulting the Tsar, repeating scandalous stories about his family, laughing at priests and reUgion, and talking of our beloved Russia as of an offence against humanity. When at a later period our children go to school, they find their teachers professing the same hatred of their own country; whereas in other countries schoolmasters endeavour to cultivate patriotism in the hearts of young citizens, Russian professors teach our students to hate our Orthodox Church, the monarchy, our national flag, and all our laws and institutions. They inculcate admiration of the Internationale, which, according to them, will one day bring justice to Russia. They talk to their pupils, with tears in their eyes, of that ideal nation which has neither fatherland nor religion, which speaks all languages equally badly, and whose leaders, the future great men of Russia, are being educated in the cafes of Paris, Geneva and Zurich ! Alas ! it was in vain that our Russian students waved the red flag in the streets of Petersburg and Moscow, and yelled the war-songs of the Internationale ! Despair was in their hearts; death chilled their souls and urged them to suicide. Can there be any happiness for those who hate their fatherland? These poor young men and maidens came to my father weeping and sobbing and opened their hearts to him. Dostoyevsky received them as if they had been his sons and daughters, sympathised with all their sorrows, patiently answered all their artless questions as to the life beyond the grave. Our students are nothing but " children of a larger growth," and when they encounter a man who commands their respect, they listen to him as a master, and carry out his instructions to the letter. My father sacrificed his art to the publication of the Journal of the Writer, but these years were certainly not lost for Russia.

73 In his Journal of 1876 Dostoyevsky said : " The cure for our intellectual malady lies in our union with the people. I began my Journal of the Writer in order to speak of this remedy as often as possible." Thus my father returned to the propagation of the same idea he had formerly preached in the Vremya, with my uncle Mihail's help.

74 Later on, the Grand Duke Constantine published some charming poems and some dramas under the initials K. R. (Konstantia Romanov).

The Russian girl-students in particular were warm admirers of Dostoyevsky, for he always treated them with respect, and never gave them the kind of Oriental advice which many of our writers lavish on young girls: " What is the good of reading and studying? Marry early, and have as many children as possible." Dostoyevsky never preached celibacy to them; but he told them that they should marry for love, and that meanwhile they ought to study, read, and think, so that later they might be enlightened mothers, capable of giving their children a European education. " I expect much from the Russian woman," he often said in his Journal. He realised that the Slav woman has a stronger character than the Slav man, that she can work harder and bear misfortune more stoically. He hoped that later, when the Russian woman was really emancipated (for so far, though she had pushed open the doors of her harem, she had not emerged from it), she would play a great part in her country. It may be said of Dostoyevsky that he was the first Russian feminist.

The students now renewed their invitation to my father to read his work to them at their literary gatherings. By this time the mortal disease to which he was to succumb had already declared itself. He was suffering from catarrh of the respiratory organs, and reading aloud fatigued him greatly. But he never refused to attend these meetings; be knew what an influence well-chosen Uterature may have on young minds. He liked especially to read them the monologue of Marme-ladov, a poor drunkard, who from the depths into which he has fallen always looks up to God, hoping humbly for pardon. The miserable creature dreams that at the Last Judgment God, after rewarding the good and faithful, will remember him. Himible and contrite, hiding behind others, he waits with downcast eyes for the Lord to say a word of pity to him. AU the religious philosophy of our childlike people is contained in this chapter of Crime and Punishment.

Dostoyevsky soon became a fashionable reader. He read admirably, and could always touch the hearts of his listeners. The pubhc applauded him enthusiastically and recalled him again and again. My father thanked them smilingly, but he had no illusions concerning his audience. " They applaud me but they don't understand me," he said sadly to his collaborators at these literary evenings. He was right. Our intellectuals felt instinctively that he knew the truth, but they were incapable of changing their own mentality. The Russian people had been so strong that they had endured three centuries of tyranny without losing their dignity. Our intellectuals were so weak that they had kept up a semblance of tyranny long after the emancipation of the peasants. Their petty pride forbade them to share the ideas and traditions of the people. Unable to forget that their fathers had lorded it as masters of the serfs, they continued to treat the free peasants as slaves, trying to impose on them the Utopias they found in European literature. Just as my grandfather failed to understand the Russian people, and was killed by them, so our intellectual society lived in space, suspended between Europe and Russia, and was cruelly punished by the revolution.

The favour of the students which Dostoyevsky now enjoyed again brought about an absurd, though not illogical, incident. One day when my mother was out, the maid announced that a lady had called, but had refused to give her name. Dostoyevsky was accustomed to receive unknown visitors, who came to unburden themselves to him, and he told the maid to show the lady in. A figure dressed in black and thickly veiled entered and sat down without uttering a word. My father looked at her in astonishment.

" To what do I owe the honour of this visit? " he asked.

The lady replied by throwing back her veil and gazing at him with a tragic air. My father frowned. He disliked tragedy.

"Will you tell me your name, Madam?" he said drily.

"What! You don't know me?" exclaimed the visitor in the tone of an offended queen.

" No, I do not know you. Why will you not tell me your name?"

" He does not know me! " sighed the lady. My father lost patience.

" What is the meaning of this mystery? " he cried.

" Please tell me the reason of yotir visit. I am very much occupied at present, and have no time to waste."

The unknown rose, pulled down her veil and left the room. Dostoyevsky followed her, much perplexed. She opened the front door, and ran hurriedly down the stairs. My father stood in the anteroom deep in thought. A distant memory began to dawn upon his mind. Where had he seen that tragic air ? Where had he heard that melodramatic voice? " Good Heavens," he said at last, " it was she—^it was Pauline ! "

Just then my mother returned, and Dostoyevsky dolefully described the visit of his former mistress.

" What have I done!" he repeated. " I have offended her mortally. She is so vain. She will never forgive me for not having recognised her. Pauline will know how dear the children must be to me. She is capable of kilHng them. Don't let them go out of the house! "

" But how was it you did not recognise her? " asked my mother. " Is she so much changed? "

" No. Now I think of it, I see that she has changed very httle. But you see, Pauline had passed from my mind altogether; she had ceased to exist for me."

The brain of an epileptic is abnormal. He retains only facts that have impressed him in some way. Pauline

N was probably one of those pretty women whom

men love when they are with them, but forget as soon as they are out of sight.75

75 When she was past fifty, Pauline N married a student of twenty, a great admirer of my father's. The young enthusiast, who afterwards became a distinguished author and journalist, was inconsolable because he had never known Dostoyevsky, and he determined at least to marry one whom his favourite writer had loved. It may easily be imagined how this extraordinary marriage ended.