Читать книгу The Autobiographical Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky - Fyodor Dostoyevsky - Страница 28

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It was very likely the spectacle of his grotesque stepson which caused Dostoyevsky to think seriously of his duties to my brother and myself. Having failed in the one instance, he was the more anxious to succeed in the other. He began our education very early, at an age when most children are still in the nursery. Perhaps he knew that his disease was mortal, and that he had little time in which to sow the good seed. He adopted to this end the same method his father had chosen before him : reading the works of great authors. In my grandfather's home the children were made to read aloud in turn, but Dostoyevsky was obliged to read to us, for we could scarcely do so at all when our literary siances began. The first of these impressed itself indelibly on my memory. One autumn evening at Staraja Russa, when the rain was coming down in torrents and the yellow leaves lay thickly on the ground, my father announced that he was going to read us Schiller's Robbers. I was then seven years old and my brother was just six. My mother came to listen to this first reading. Dostoyevsky read with fervour, stopping every now and then to explain some difficult expression. We listened open-mouthed; this Germanic drama seemed very strange to our childish minds. What were we to think of that fantastic Germany, that far-off country to which my father went reluctantly every year by his doctor's orders, and where the good children rode about on little donkeys with long, long ears ? Alas! there were no donkeys in The Bobbers. But there was a very unpleasant father, who was always quarrelling with his sons; also a young girl who tried to reconcile them, and who was always crying. " No wonder, poor girl 1 " I thought, as I listened to my father's passionate declamation. " It must be dreadful to live with people who quarrel all day. And yet they ought to have been happy living in Germany, where there are so many little donkeys. Why, then, were they so miserable, and why did they quarrel all the time? Germans must have very bad tempers. . . ."

If I could not understand the works of SchiUer at the age of seven, I understood perfectly that this fantastic drama interested my father immensely, and that I must pretend to be interested in it too in order to please him. Cunning as most little girls are, I put on intelligent airs, nodded my head approvingly, and appeared highly appreciative of Schiller's genius. Feeling that sleep was getting the better of me as the brothers Moor plunged more desperately into crime, I tried with all my might to keep my childish eyes open; my brother Fyodor went to sleep unconcernedly. . . . Seeing such an audience my father stopped, laughed, and began to reproach himself. ..." They can't understand, they are too young," he said sadly to his wife. Poor father I He had hoped to experience afresh with us the emotion Schiller's dramas had once aroused in him; he forgot that he must have been at least double our age when he had first enjoyed them.

Dostoyevsky waited a few months before he resumed the literary evenings. This time he chose the old Russian legends which our rustic bards relate in the villages at evening gatherings. These unlettered Homers have extraordinary memories and can recite thousands of verses without hesitation. They repeat them rhythmically, with much taste and expression; they are indeed poets, and often add passages to the poems they recite. The chief subject "of the legends is the Hfe of the knights of Prince Vladimir, that Russian Arthur, who loved to assemble his warriors round him at his table. Our people, who have no idea of history, intermingle with these ninth- and tenth-century legends the more ancient mjrths of pagan times, and the knights of Vladimir's Slavo-Norman Court have to encounter giants and dwarfs, etc. The legends are written partly in Russian, partly in the early Slav language, which adds to their poetry.83 They suited our childish imaginations better than Schiller's tragedies. We listened entranced, weeping over the misfortimes of the errant knights, and rejoicing at their victories. Dostoyevsky smiled at our emotion, and was himself full of enthusiasm for the popular poets of our race. Passing on from the legends, he read us Pushkin's stories, written in admirable Russian; Lermontov's Caucasian tales; and Gogol's Taras Bulba, a magnificent romance of Cossack life in ancient Ukrainia. Having thus formed our literary taste a little, he began to recite to us the poems of Pushkin and of Alexis Tolstoy, two of his favourite poets. Dostoyevsky recited their verses admirably. There was one poem which always brought tears to his eyes— Pushkin's Poor Knight, a mediaeval legend. It is the story of a dreamer, a deeply rehgious Don Quixote, who wanders all his life in Europe and the East, upholding the creed of the Gospels. He has a vision in the course of his wanderings; in a moment of supreme exaltation, he sees the Holy Virgin at the foot of the Cross. He lets down " a steel curtain " over his face, and, faithful to the Virgin, will never look again on any woman. In The Idiot Dostoyevsky describes how one of his heroines recited this poem: " A spasm of joy passed over her face." This was just what happened to my father when he read it; his face was irradiated, his voice trembled, his eyes filled with tears. It was the story of his own soul. He, too, was a poor knight, without fear and without reproach, who fought all his life for great ideas. He, too, had a beatific vision; it was not the mediaeval Virgin who appeared to him, but Christ, Who came to him in his prison, and called him to follow Him.

83 The Orthodox liturgy, the Gospel and the prayers are said in Old Slav in our churches, so that in Russia every one knows the ancient tongue more or less, even children, who with us begin to attend Mass at the age of two.

Although Dostoyevsky attached great importance to reading, he did not neglect the theatre. In Russia parents take their children very often to the Ballet. Dostoyevsky did not care for the Ballet, and preferred to take us to the Opera. Strange to say, he always chose the same, Russian and Ludmilla, which Glinka composed on a poem by Pushkin. My father seems to have wished to engrave the legend on our childish hearts. It is indeed very curious; it is a political allegory, prefiguring the destiny of the Slav nations. Ludmilla, the daughter of Prince Vladimir, represents the Western Slavs. Tchernomur, an Oriental magician, a hideous dwarf with a long beard, who personifies Turkey, arrives at Kiev when a great festival is in progress, plunges every one into a magic sleep, and carries off the fair Ludmilla to his castle. Two knights, Russian (Russia) and Farlaff (Austria), pursue the dwarf, and after many adventures arrive at Tchernomur's castle. Russian challenges him; Tchernomur accepts the challenge, but, before the combat, again plunges Ludmilla into a magic sleep. While they are fighting, the cunning Farlaff seizes the sleeping maiden and brings her back to Kiev to Prince Vladimir, who had promised her hand to the knight who should rescue her. Farlaff tries in vain to wake Ludmilla; she does not respond to his advances. Russian, having slain Tchernomur, takes his magic ring. Returning to Kiev, he puts it on Ludmilla's finger, and she at once awakes, throws herself into his arms, calls him her dear betrothed, and turns disdainfully away from Farlaff. Seeing that Ludmilla will have nothing to say to him, Farlaff leaves Kiev ignominiously.

This fine opera, very splendidly put on the stage, delights children. My brother and I admired it greatly, though we were unfaithful to it on one occasion. On a certain evening when we arrived at the theatre we learned that one of the singers had been taken ill, and that Russian and Ludmilla could not be performed. The Bronze Horse, a very popular comic opera, had been substituted. My father was vexed and proposed to go home. We protested and began to cry; he sjmnpathised with our disappointment and allowed us to stay for this Chinese or Japanese spectacle. We were enchanted. There was so much noise, so many little bells jangling, and the great bronze horse, which figured in every act, struck our childish imaginations. Dostoyevsky was not very well pleased at our admiration. He evidently did not wish us to be dazzled by the wonders of the Far East. He wanted us to be faithful to his beloved Ludmilla. . . .

When Dostoyevsky went to Ems, or was too busy to read to us himself, he begged my mother to read us the works of Walter Scott, and of Dickens, " that great Christian," as he calls him in the Journal of the Writer. During meals, he would question us concerning our impressions, and evoke episodes in the novels. He, who forgot his wife's name and the face of his mistress, could remember all the English names of the characters of Dickens and Scott which had fired his youthful imagination, and spoke of them as if they were his intimate friends.

My father was very proud of my love of reading. I learned to read in a few weeks, and I devoured all the books I could lay hands on. My mother protested against this inordinate reading, which was, of course, very bad for a little nervous girl, Dostoyevsky, however, was indulgent to it, seeing in it a reflection of his own passion for books. He chose historical novels and the sentimental tales of Karamzin for me from his bookshelves, discussed them with me and explained the things I had not understood. I got into the habit of keeping him company while he breakfasted, and this was the happiest hour of my day. Thus our literary conversations began, but, alas ! they did not continue long.

The first book my father gave me was the History of Russia, by Karamzin, beautifully illustrated. He explained the pictures, which represented the arrival of Rurik at Kiev, the struggles of his son Igor against the nomad tribes who surrounded what was then the small Slav nation on every side, Vladimir introducing the Christian religion into his principality, Jaroslav promulgating the first European laws, and other descendants of Rurik, who founded Muscovy, defending the infant Great Russia against the invading Tatars. The Slavo-Norman princes became my favourite heroes. I heard their songs and war-cries as in a dream. My favourite heroine was Rogneda, daughter of the Norman prince Rogvolod; I liked to act her part in our childish plays. Later, when I began to travel in Europe, I sought the traces of my dear Normans everjrwhere. I was surprised to find Europeans talking always of Latin and Germanic culture, and forgetting that of the Normans. At the time when Europe was plunged in mediaeval barbarism, the Normans were already protecting liberty of conscience, and allowing the practice of all religions in their realms. Instead of worshipping power and riches they reverenced poets and men of learning, invited them to their courts, and even shared their labours. Thus in Sicily the Norman prince Roger II helped the learned Arab Edrizy to write the first geography under the artless title of The Joy of Him Who Loves to Travel. The civilisation of the Normans was so advanced for their period that it could not find admittance in barbarous Europe; it could only subsist in small forgotten countries such as Lithuania and Sicily. And yet this fine civilisation is not dead; it lives on in souls of Norman descent, and manifests itself from time to time in some great poet or writer.

One thing which struck me as strange at a later date, when I began to analyse this period of my life, was the fact that my father never gave me any children's books. Robinson Crusoe was the only work of this kind I read, and this my mother gave me. I suppose Dostoyevsky knew nothing about children's books. In his youth they did not exist as yet in Russia, and he must have begun to read the works of the great writers at the age of eight or nine. Another thing, still more curious, strikes me when I recall our conversations. Dostoyevsky, who spoke to me with so much pleasure of literature, never uttered a single word to me about his childhood. My mother told me of the smallest details in her life as a little girl, described her earliest impressions, and her affection for her brother, but I cannot recall a single detail of my father's childhood. He maintained the same reserve as his father before him, who would never tell his sons anything about their grandfather or their Ukrainian uncles.

Dostoyevsky superintended our religious education, and liked to worship in company with his family. In Russia we communicate once a year, and we prepare for this solemn event by a week of prayer. My father performed his rehgious duties reverently, fasted, went to church twice a day, and laid aside all literary work. He loved our beautiful Holy Week services, especially the Resurrection Mass with its joyful hymns. Children do not attend this mass, which begins at midnight, and ends between two and three in the morning. But my father wished me to be present at this wonderful ceremony when I was barely nine years old. He placed me on a chair, that I might be able to follow it, and with his arms around me, explained the meaning of the holy rites.