Читать книгу The Autobiographical Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky - Fyodor Dostoyevsky - Страница 29

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Before passing on to my father's last years, I should like to say a few words about his relations with Turgenev and Tolstoy. In talking to Dostoyevsky's European admirers, I have always noticed that they were specially interested in these relations.

My father's acquaintance with Turgenev began when they were both young, and both full of ambition, as young people beginning life generally are. They were as yet unknown to the Russian public; their talent had hardly developed. They frequented the same Uterary salons, listened to the same critics, and worshipped the same masters—^their favourite poets and novelists. Turgenev attracted my father greatly; Dostoyevsky admired him as one student admires another who is handsomer and more distinguished than himself, is a greater favourite with women, and seems to him an ideal man. However, as Dostoyevsky learned to know Turgenev better, his admiration gradually changed to aversion. Later he called Turgenev " that poseur." This opinion of Dostoyevsky's was shared by most of his hterary colleagues. Later, when I myself questioned the older Russian writers about their relations with Turgenev, I always noted the somewhat contemptuous tone they adopted in speaking of him, which disappeared when they talked of Tolstoy. Turgenev had deserved their contempt to some extent. He was one of those men who cannot be natural, who always want to pass themselves off as something they are not. In his youth he posed as an aristocrat, a pose which had no sort of justification. The Russian aristocracy is very restricted; it is rather a coterie than a class. It is composed of the few descendants of the ancient Russian and Ukrainian boyards, some chiefs of Tatar tribes assimilated by Russia, a few barons of the Baltic Provinces and a few Pohsh counts and princes. All these people are brought up in the same manner, know each other, are nearly all related, and have intermarried with the European aristocracies. They give magnificent entertainments to foreign ambassadors, and enhance the prestige of the Russian Coiu-t. They have very little influence on the politics of their country, which, since the second half of the nineteenth century, have been gradually passing into the hands of our hereditary nobiUty. This is perfectly distinct from the aristocracy, and has nothing in common with the feudal nobility of Europe. I have already explained its origin in describing the Lithuanian Schliahta. This union, primarily a martial one in Poland and Lithuania, was in Russia transformed into an agrarian union of rural proprietors. Catherine II protected them, desiring to create a sort of Third Estate in Russia. The landed proprietors in each province combined and chose a Marshal of the nobility to superintend their affairs. He did this gratis, sometimes ruining himself by giving balls and sumptuous dinners to the nobles who had elected him. Nevertheless, the post of Marshal of the nobiUty was always greatly in request, for it conferred many privileges. The Emperor always bestowed the rank of Gentleman or Chamberlain on the elected Marshal, and invited him to all Court festivities. The Marshal of the nobility was quite independent of Ministers, and might ask for an audience of the Emperor at any time to speak of the affairs of the nobles in his province. Oiu: Tsars always patronised these unions, and even attempted to represent themselves as hereditary nobles. Thus Nicolas I declared that he was " the first noble of the Empire." The Grand Dukes bought estates in the provinces, fraternised with the members of the union, and signed telegrams addressed to the Marshal, " Hereditary Noble " instead of " Grand Duke." The Tsar readily accepted invitations from the nobles, and when he and his family lunched, dined or took tea at one of the provincial Assemblies, tried to ignore his Imperial dignity and to play the part of the noble, Romanov. I have been present at some of these Imperial visits, and I was surprised at the absence of etiquette and the patriarchal simplicity that obtained. The Russian aristocrats in their turn caused their names to be inscribed in the registers of the nobility, and manoeuvred for election to the office of Marshal. They were by no means always successful. Very often at the elections a prince would be rejected, and a noble, more obscure, but more highly esteemed, would be chosen. The utmost equality reigned in the Assemblies; the Russian nobility had no quarterings, and a recently ennobled member had the same rights as those belonging to the noblest families. The unions became very rich in time, for unmarried or childless members often bequeathed their fortunes, their estates and their houses to the nobility of their district. After the emancipation of the serfs most of the landowners were ruined and had to sell their properties. The unions of the nobles were wise enough not to forsake them; thanks to their wealth, they were able to grant pensions to widows, and allowances for the education of orphans. Russian parents are so improvident, and think so little of the future of their children, that without the union the latter, lacking the means of education, would have gradually lapsed into the state of the illiterate moujiks. By helping them, the unions maintained hereditary culture, the only culture which makes a man really civilised. We hereditary nobles are very proud of our union, for it has spent millions in order to introduce European culture into Russia. Better still, in introducing this it never dissociated itself from the Orthodox Church, and was always distinguished for its patriotism. This was why the Russian nobility became strong and influential, and soon all-powerful.

Turgenev belonged to this hereditary nobility,84 as did Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, and most of the writers of this period. With the exception of Gontsharov, who was the son of a merchant, and Belinsky, who belonged to the lower middle classes, all my father's literary contemporaries—Grigorovitch, Pleschdev, Nekrassov, Soltikov, Danilevsky—were hereditary nobles. Some of them belonged to a much older nobihty than Turgenev— the poet MaiTcov, for instance. This close friend of my father's came of such an ancient stock that he had even the honour of reckoning a saint among his ancestors—^the famous Nil of Sorsk, canonised by the Orthodox Church.85 Of course, Turgenev's pretensions to a higher degree of nobility irritated his literary colleagues and seemed ridiculous to them. On the other hand, the Russian aristocrats smiled at his claims, and refused to treat him as a great personage when he appeared in their salons. He was mortified, and took his revenge on the Russian aristocracy by describing in his novel. Smoke, certain well-born adventurers, such as are to be found in all countries, but whom he represents as typical great Russian nobles.

84 The distinctive term " hereditary " is generally used in this connection, for there is in our country another nobility, known as " personal." It was introduced into Russia at the time when persons not belonging to the hereditary nobUity could be condemned to suffer corporal punishment. The title of " personal nobility " was conferred on citizens who had received the higher education of the universities, in order to secure their immunity from such punishments. The " personal " nobles could not be registered with the hereditary nobles, and enjoyed none of their privileges. After the abolition of corporal punishment, the distinction lost all meaning.

85 The Orthodox Church does not canonise saints until three or four centuries after their death.

Turgenev's megalomania, which is not uncommon in Russia, would not have prevented my father from remaining his friend. Snobbery is a malady more insidious than influenza. If we were to ostracise all the snobs we know, we should live in comparative solitude. Dostoyevsky would have pardoned Turgenev's weakness, as we forgive the lapses of those we love; yet my father broke with him, and ceased to frequent literary salons some time before his arrest and his condemnation to death. To understand the situation as between Dostoyevsky and his friends, the younger writers, we must go back a little.

Petersburg was never loved by the Russians. This artificial capital which Peter the Great created on the marshes, cold, damp, exposed to all the winds of the north, and plunged in darkness for three-quarters of the year, was obnoxious to my compatriots, who preferred the peaceful, sun-bathed cities of central Russia. Seeing that the Russians would not come and settle in Petersburg, our Emperors were obliged to people the new capital with Swedes and Germans of the Baltic Provinces. In the eighteenth century Petersburg was three-quarters German, and German society led the fashion there. Towards the beginning of the nineteenth century the Schillerian tone reigned in Germany, and passed thence into Russia. Every one became lyrical; men swore eternal friendship to each other; women fell into swoons at the noble sentiments they uttered, young girls embraced each other passionately, and wrote each other long letters full of lofty sentiments. Politeness became so exaggerated that when ladies received visitors they had to smile the whole time, and laugh at every word they uttered. This tone of exalted sentimentality is to be found in all the novels of the period.

When Moscow was burnt in 1812, many Moscowites fled to Petersburg and settled there. Other families followed their example, and Peter the Great'^ favourite capital soon became Russian. When my father entered the Engineers' School, Russian society was giving the tone in Petersburg. My compatriots, who are simple and sincere, thought the Schillerian pose ridiculous, and they were not altogether wrong; but unfortunately, in their reaction against this over-sentimental attitude, they fell Into the opposite extreme of brutahty. They declared that a self-respecting man should always speak the truth, and, under the guise of frankness, they became impudent. My grandmother, a Swede, brought up her children in the Schillerian tradition, and my mother has often told me how difficult her life became when she grew up and began to visit in Russian families. " It was no use to be polite and amiable," she said: " I received insults on every side. I could not even protest, for I should have been considered ridiculous. I could only retort by similar rudenesses." By degrees my compatriots began to enjoy these incivilities, and contests in insolence became the fashion. In drawing-rooms, at receptions, and at dinner-parties two men or two women would begin to attack each other with gross impertinence,^and as they warmed to this vulgar display the spectators would listen with interest, taking sides, now for one and now for the other. At bottom of these conversational cock-fights we find the Mongohan coarseness which lurks in the heart of every Russian, and emerges when he is angry, surprised, or ill. " Scratch the Russian and you will find the Tatar," say the French, who must often have noticed how a Russian of European education and distinguished manners became coarse and brutal as a moujik in a moment of anger.

Dostoyevsky, brought up by a father who was half Ukrainian, half Lithuanian, knew nothing of this Tatar brutality. If we may judge by the lyrical letters he wrote to his brother Mihail, and the extremely respectful epistles addressed to his father, the Schillerian tone must have reigned in my grandfather's family. Russian coarseness amazed Dostoyevsky when he first came in contact with it at the Engineers' School, and was, perhaps, the principal cause of his contempt for his schoolfellows. It astonished him still more when he encountered it in the literary salons of the period. As long as he remained obscure, he had not to suffer from it. He held his peace, and observed people; Grigorovitch, with whom he lived, had been brought up in the French tradition, and was always well-mannered. 86

86 Baron Wrangel, with whom my father lived in Siberia, had been brought up in the German manner, that is to say in the Schillerian tone, which he retained till the end of his life.

But when the unexpected success of his first novel excited the jealousy of the younger writers, they avenged themselves by calumnies and insults. My father could not defend himself effectually, for he could not be insolent. He was nervous and excitable, as the children of drunkards generally are. Losing his self-control, Dostoyevsky said absurd things, and excited the laughter of his unfeeling companions. Turgenev in particular delighted in tormenting him. He was of Tatar origin, and showed himself to be even more cruel and malicious than the others. Belinsky, who was a compassionate soul, sought in vain to defend my father, reproved his rivals, and tried to make them listen to reason. Turgenev seemed to find a special pleasure in inflicting suffering on his sensitive and nervous confrere. One evening in Panaev's house, Turgenev began to tell my father that he had just made the acquaintance of a conceited provincial, who considered himself a genius, and elaborated a caricature of Dostoyevsky. Those present listened with amusement; they expected one of those cock-fights which, as I have said, were so much in favour at the time. They applauded Turgenev and awaited Dostoyevsky's counter-attack with curiosity. My father was not a game-cock, but a gentleman; his sense of honour was more highly developed than that of the Russians who surrounded him. Finding himself thus grossly insulted, he turned pale, roscj and left the house without saying good-bye to any one.87 The young writers were much astonished. They sought out my father, sent him invitations, wrote to him—but all in vain. Dostoyevsky refused to frequent the hterary salons. The young writers were alarmed. They were only starting on their Uterary career and had as yet no position. Dostoyevsky was the favourite of the public, and his young confreres feared that the public would take his part and would accuse them of jealousy and malice. They had recourse to calumny— a favourite device of the Russians, or rather of all societies still in their infancy. They went about clamouring against Dostoyevsky as a pretentious upstart, who thought himself superior to every one, and was a mass of selfishness and ill-humour. My father allowed them to say what they would. He was indifferent to public opinion, and all his life he scorned to refute calumnies. When he cut himself off from BeUnsky's advice and the literary conversation of other writers, which was so necessary to him, he consoled himself with the thought that honour and dignity are a man's best friends, and can take the place of all others. But it is very difficult for a young man to turn hermit; the youthful mind requires the interchange of ideas for its development. Having renounced literary society, Dostoyevsky sought that of other intellectuals, and unfortunately became involved with Petrachevsky.

87 " The Lithuanian is very reticent, one may indeed say modest. But when he encounters insolence, he becomes extremely haughty," says Vidunas.

The aggressive tone of the conversational cock-fights I have described have disappeared now, at least in good society. My compatriots travelled much in Europe in the second half of the nineteenth century, observed the politeness that reigned there, and introduced it into Russia. Yet in 1878, in the Journal of the Writer, my father confessed to his readers that when he was going on a journey he always took plenty of books and newspapers, in order to avoid conversation with his travelling companions. He declared that such conversations always ended in gratuitous insults, uttered merely to wound the interlocutor.

My father's uncompromising attitude made a great impression on the Russian writers. They realised that his sense of honour was more highly developed than that of his contemporaries, and that consequently they could not talk to him in the disrespectful manner usually adopted by writers to each other at that period. When he returned from Siberia, his new friends, the collaborators of the Vremya, treated him with consideration. My father, who asked nothing better than to live on friendly terms with his colleagues, but who would not sacrifice his dignity on the altar of friendship, became their sincere friend, and remained faithful to them until his death. Turgenev imitated the other writers, and was polite, and even amiable with my father. 88 They met very rarely. While my father was undergoing his sentence in Siberia, Turgenev had the misfortune to fall in love with a celebrated European singer. He followed her abroad and was at her feet all his life. He settled in Paris, and only came to Russia for the sporting season. His unhappy passion prevented him from marrying and having a family. In his novels he is fond of depicting the type of the weak-minded Slav, who becomes the slave of an evil woman and suffers, but is unable to throw off her yoke. Turgenev's character became embittered; misfortune developed his faults instead of correcting them. Seeing that the Russian aristocracy would not recognise him as the great noble he imagined himself to be, Turgenev changed his pose, and adopted the role of the European. He exaggerated the Paris fashions, took up all the manias of the French old beaus, and became more ridiculous than ever. He spoke disdainfully of Russia, and declared that if she were to disappear altogether, civilisation would not suffer in any appreciable degree. This new pose disgusted my father; he thought that if the first was ridiculous, the second was dangerous. Turgenev had, by adopting these opinions, become the leader of the Zapadniki (Occidentals), who had hitherto only had mediocrities in their ranks, and his incontestable talents gave them a certain prestige. Every time my father met Turgenev abroad, he tried to make him realise the wrong he was doing to Russia by his unjust contempt. Turgenev would not listen to reason, and their discussions generally ended in quarrels. When Dostoyevsky returned to Russia, after spending four years in Europe, he became one of the leaders of the Slavophils, the party opposed to the Occidentals. Seeing the disastrous influence the Occidentals were exercising upon the infant society of Russia, Dostoyevsky began to wage war upon them in his novel. The Possessed. In order to discredit them in the eyes of the Russian public, he caricatured their chief in his description of the celebrated writer Karmazinov, and his stay In a little Russian town. The Occidentals were indignant, and made a great outcry. They thought it quite legitimate for Turgenev to ridicule my father and caricature the heroes of his novels, but they declared it to be odious when Dostoyevsky adopted the same attitude to Turgenev. Such is justice, as understood by the Russian intellectuals.

88 Turgenev was particularly agreeable to my father at the time when the brothers Dostoyevsky were pubUshing their paper. During one of his sojourns in Petersburg he gave a grand dinner to all the staff of the Vremya. Turgenev always managed his money affairs well, made friends with the rich pubhshers and insisted on good terms for himself, whereas Dostoyevsky, who was obliged to ask his publishers for sums in advance, had all his life to take what they chose to give him.

Although he opposed Turgenev and his political ideas, my father was all his life a passionate admirer of his contemporary's works. When he speaks of them in the Journal of the Writer, it is in terms of the warmest appreciation. Turgenev, on the other hand, would never admit that Dostoyevsky had any talent, and all his life ridiculed him and his works. He acted like a true Mongol, maliciously and vindictively.