What a long, long time I have refrained from replying to your good sincere words, my good and only friend! But you are right; for of all those whom I have happened to meet and to live with for the last forty-eight years, you and you alone I consider as a man after my heart. Of all those I have met, during all these forty-eight years, I have hardly one, hardly a single one like you (I do not speak of my dead brother). You and I, although we do not mix in the same society, yet in heart, in soul, in our cherished convictions and in our cordial intercourse, are almost chums. Even our intellectual conclusions and those derived from our experience have of late begun to be strangely similar, and I think the ardour of our hearts is the same. Judge, for instance, from this fact, my dear friend. Do you remember last year, I believe it was in the summer and I believe exactly a year ago (as far as I remember, before the summer holidays), I wrote you a letter (to which I received no answer from you for three or four months; at that point our correspondence was interrupted, and when it started again in the autumn, we began to write about completely different things and forgot where we had stopped in the summer). Well, in that letter, at the end, I wrote you, full of serious and profound rapture, of a new idea that had occurred to me, strictly for you, for your use. (The idea occurred by itself, as something independent and as a complete whole; but as I could not possibly regard myself as the person who ought to realise that idea, I naturally destined it, or wished to destine it for you. So perhaps it was born in me for you, indeed, as I have already said, or rather indissolubly connected with your image, as a poet.) If you had answered me immediately then, in the summer, I would have sent you a comprehensive explanation of the idea, with full details; I had then thought out what to write to you to the last line. But I think it is as well that you did not reply then. Judge: my idea consisted then in this (I’ll say only a few words about it now)—that a series of legends, ballads, songs, little poems, romances—call them what you like—might be composed in attractive, fascinating verses, in such verses as can be learnt by heart without the least effort, which is always the case with profound and beautiful verses; here the essence and even the metre depend on the soul of the poet, and they come suddenly, completely ready in his soul, even independently of himself.
I’ll make a long digression: a poem, in my view, makes its appearance like a virgin precious stone, a diamond, completely ready in the poet’s soul, in all its essence; and that is the first act of the poet, as creator and maker—the first part of his creation. If you like, it is not even he who is the creator, but life, the mighty essence of life, the God living and real, concentrating his power in the diversity of creation here and there, and most often in the great heart and in the great poet, so that if the poet himself is not the creator (and one ought to agree that he is not, especially you, a master and poet yourself; for indeed the creation comes suddenly out of the poet’s soul far too completely, far too definitely, far too finished)—well, if the poet himself is not the creator, then at any rate his soul is that very same mine, which begets diamonds and without which they cannot be found anywhere. Then follows the poet’s second act—less profound and mysterious, but that in which the poet is concerned as artist,—the business of cutting and polishing the diamond which he has obtained. Here the poet is almost a jeweller. Now, in this series of legends in verse (in thinking of those legends I thought at times of your poem, Clermont Cathedral) should be depicted from the very outset—with love and with our thought, and with a Russian conception,—the whole of Russian history, those moments and points being distinguished in which at certain times and in certain places it as it were concentrated itself and manifested itself, all of it, suddenly, in its complete wholeness. Such all-revealing moments can be found, throughout the ages, ten at least, perhaps even rather more. Well now, to seize those points and to tell them in a legend, to all and sundry, but not as a simple chronicle, no, but as a sincere poem, even without strict adherence to the facts (but with extraordinary clarity); to seize the chief point and to relate it so that men can see out of what idea the poem was begotten, with what love and pain it was brought to light. But without egoism, without words from oneself, but naïvely, as naïvely as possible, with love for Russia streaming forth as from a living spring,—and nothing else. Imagine to yourself that in the third or fourth legend (I composed them all in my mind then and went on composing them long afterwards) I took the capture of Constantinople by Mahomet II (and this came directly and involuntarily as a legend from Russian history, by itself and without design; afterwards I wondered, at the way—without hesitation, reflection, or conscious thought—it had occurred to me to connect the capture of Constantinople with Russian history, without the faintest doubt). To relate all that catastrophe in a naïve and concise account! The Turks closely investing Tsargrad (Constantinople); the last night before the assault at dawn; the last Emperor walking in the Palace. … (‘The King pacing with long strides.’) The prayer before the image of Our Lady; the prayer; the assault; the fight—the Sultan with a bloody sword entering Constantinople. At the Sultan’s command the body of the last Emperor searched for and found among a heap of the slain; and recognised by the eagles embroidered on his boots; Saint Sophia, the trembling Patriarch, the last Mass, the Sultan on his horse dashing up the stairs into the middle of the Church (historique). Having reached the middle he stops his horse in confusion, looks round musingly, anxiously, and utters the words: ‘Here is the house of prayer for Allah!’ Whereupon the ikons and the Communion table are thrown out, the altar is destroyed, a mosque is erected, the corpse of the Emperor is buried; and the last of the Palæologi appears in the Kingdom of Russia with a double-headed eagle for her dowry; the Russian wedding; Ivan III in his wooden hut, instead of a palace, and into this wooden hut passes the great ideal of the pan-Orthodox significance of Russia, and there is laid the first stone of the future hegemony of the East; there the circle of Russia’s future destinies is extended; there is laid down the idea not only of a great state, but of a whole new world, which is destined to renew Christianity by the pan-Slav, pan-Orthodox idea and to introduce a new idea to mankind. Then comes the disintegration of the West, a disintegration which will occur when the Pope distorts Christ finally and thereby begets atheism in the defiled humanity of the West.
Nor is this idea concerned with that epoch alone; I had another idea, along with the picture of the wooden hut and of the wise Prince—cherishing a grand and profound ideal, of the Metropolitan, in poor clothes, sitting with the Prince, and of ‘Fominishna,’ gladly settled in Russia.—Suddenly, in another ballad, we pass to a description of the end of the 15th and of the beginning of the 16th century in Europe, Italy, the Papacy, art in the churches and Raphael, the worship of Apollo Belvedere, the first rumours of the Reformation, of Luther, America, gold, Spain and England, a whole vivid picture, parallel to all the preceding Russian pictures, but with hints of the future of that picture, of future science, of atheism, of the rights of man, realised in the Western way, and not in ours, all which serve as the source of all that is and will be. In my ardent musings I also thought that the legend ought not to end with Peter the Great, for instance, on whom a specially fine utterance and fine poem is needed, a legend based on a bold and frank point of view, on our point of view. I would go as far as Biron and Katherine and even further,—I would go as far as the liberation of the peasants and up to the wanderings of the aristocrats all over Europe with their last paper rouble notes, and their ladies copulating with the Borghesans, up to the preaching of atheism by seminary students, up to the appearance of omni-human citizens of the world, up to the Russian Counts who write criticisms and stories, etc. etc. The Poles would have to occupy much space. Then I would finish with imaginary pictures of the future of Russia after two centuries, and alongside with her of the eclipsed, lacerated, and brutalised Europe, with her civilisation. Here I would not stop at any imagination… You consider me at this moment certainly mad, strictly and chiefly because I have written so much; for all this ought to be spoken of personally and not written about. For in a letter one can’t say anything intelligibly. But I have become excited. You see, when I read in your letter that you were writing those ballads, I was struck with wonder: I wondered how it is that to us, separated for so long, the same idea, of the same poem, has occurred? I was made happy by this and then I began to think: Do we understand this properly, in the same way? You see, my idea is that the ballads could become a great national work and would contribute mightily to the regeneration of the consciousness of the Russian. Why, Apollon Nicolayevich, every schoolboy will know and learn these poems by heart. But having learnt a poem, he will also learn the idea and attitude, and as this attitude is true, it will abide in his soul all his life long. Since the verses and poems are comparatively short, the whole reading world of Russia will read them, as they read your Clermont Cathedral, which even now many know by heart. And therefore it is not only a poem and a literary work, it is science, it is preaching, it is an heroic act. When last year I wanted to write to you and urge you to set to work on that idea, I thought to myself: How shall I tell it him so that he will understand me completely?—And suddenly, a year later, you yourself become inspired with the same idea and find it necessary to write it! It means, then, the idea is true! But one thing, one thing is needed, without fail: the poems must have an extraordinary poetic charm, they must carry the reader away, carry him away without fail, carry him away to the point of being involuntarily learnt by heart. My friend! remember, that perhaps all your poetical career up till now was only a preface, only an introduction, and that only now you will have the power to utter the new word, your new word! And therefore look at the matter more seriously, more deeply, and with more enthusiasm. And above all, simplicity and naïveté! And remember this too: write in rhymes, and not in the old Russian metre. Do not laugh! It is important. Rhyme now is simplicity, and the old Russian metre is academism. Not a single poem in unrhymed verse is learnt by heart. The people no longer compose songs in the old metre, but compose in rhymes. If there are to be no rhymes (and no ballad metre),—really you’ll ruin the thing. You may laugh at me; but I tell you the truth! The crude truth!
About Yermak [the conqueror of Siberia] I can’t say anything; you certainly know better than I. In my notion, there is at first the Cossack dare-devilry, vagabondage and brigandage. Then is shown the man-genius under a sheep-skin coat; he divines the magnitude of his work and its future significance; but only when his whole work has made a favourable start and is running smoothly. There is born a Russian feeling, an orthodox feeling of being one with the Russian root (and it may even be a direct feeling, something of a nostalgia), and thence comes his embassy and homage to the great Russian King who completely expresses, in the popular conception, the Russian people. (N.B.—The chief and completest expression of that conception reached its full, ultimate development, do you know when, to my thinking? In our century. Certainly I am speaking of the people, and not of putrefied seminarists and aristocrats.)
But enough of this now. I only believe this: that you and I agree in ideas, and I am glad of it. Please send me something of what you have written, and if possible, send me a good deal. I shall not misuse it. You yourself can see that it interests me to the point of agitation.
You will ask: why didn’t I write to you for so long? But I have been silent for so long, that I find it difficult even to answer the question. Chiefly—nostalgia; but were I to speak and to explain further, then there would be a great deal to tell. But my nostalgia is such, that if I were by myself, I should fall ill of anguish. It is a good thing that I am with Anna Gregorevna, who as you know is again expecting to be confined. These expectations agitate us both. (We have Anna Gregorevna’s mother staying with us now, and in Anna’s present state this is necessary.) It was a great disappointment to me to have to remain in Florence, when a month ago we had decided to move to Dresden. All this happened for lack of money. It ended in my promising a story (it will be a very short one [Note: The Eternal Husband, published in Nos. 1 and 2 of Zarya, 1870.]) to the Zarya. My dear Nicolay Nicolayevich [Strahov] (who is perhaps cross with me now) arranged that affair (he gave 125 roubles to Marie Gregorevna Svatkovsky to pay interest (60 roubles), and the remaining 65 roubles he divided between Pasha (25 roubles) and Emily Fiodorovna (40 roubles); and besides he promised to send me here, to Florence, 175 roubles by a definite date). Now I relied on receiving the money by that date for the means of moving to Dresden. But there was a little contretemps. Instead of sending the money by registered post, the Zarya sent it through an agency, and I received it ten or twelve days late. (Because it was not posted, I almost missed getting it altogether; for the agency might have failed to find me at all in Florence.) Thus, for a fortnight, expecting money, we spent some more money, and we had not enough to take us to Dresden. I sent a request for relief to the Russky Viestnik. By January I shall send off a novel to the Russky Viestnik. [Note: The novel is The Possessed, which, however, did not begin to appear in the Russky Viestnik until January 1871.] In Dresden I shall work without lifting my head from the grindstone. But generally there’s a mass of troubles and worries. The heat in Florence is getting awful; it is a suffocating city, burning hot. The nerves of all of us are on edge,—which is particularly bad for my wife. We are crowded at the present moment (and all this en attendant) in the smallest, tiniest little room, facing the market. I am sick of this Florence, and now because of the heat and the overcrowding I can’t even sit down to work. On the whole, terrible nostalgia, the worse for being in Europe—everything here makes me feel like a beast. I have decided at all costs to return to Petersburg next spring (when I finish the novel), even if they put me in the debtors’ prison. I do not mention spiritual interests; but even my material interests suffer here, abroad. Imagine, for instance, this circumstance: no matter how, my works (all of them) have gone into a third, fourth, and fifth edition. The Idiot (whatever he is, I shall not argue now) is anyhow good merchandise. I know for certain that a second edition will be sold out in a year. Why not publish it then? It’s just the time now, and chiefly—I want to for one special reason. What did I do? Six weeks ago I gave Marie Gregorevna Svatkovsky the following commission: to call on A. F. Basunov [bookseller and publisher] (with a letter of introduction from me) and to give him this message: Won’t he undertake to bring out The Idiot? (It would be ready by next winter, if he took it up now.) The price—2000 roubles (I even thought of letting him have it for 1500, if he paid the money down). The legal and formal aspects of the agreement need not postpone matters: for I could send a formal and duly certified authorisation from here. I asked Marie Gregorevna just to ask Basunov, without specially urging him, to say yes or no, and let me know here. If the answer is no (although he is quite aware how my books have been selling hitherto and what sort of merchandise they are),—then it is all right, I don’t mind. I shall publish it myself when I come back and I shan’t be the loser by it. It seems that my commission was not a difficult one, was it? It could have been done in two minutes, by two words with Basunov. What then? It is now six weeks and I have not heard a word from Marie Gregorevna. Yet I asked her to do this (the first request in my life) simply because she herself eagerly offered to do any commissions for me in Petersburg, when she was in Switzerland last year. Thus my interests obviously suffer, solely because I am abroad. And not only this one thing! A great number of things, which I cannot do without, have been left behind in Russia! Did I or did I not tell you that I had a certain literary idea (a novel, a parable on atheism), compared with which all my previous literary career has been negligible, a preface merely, and to which I am going to devote all my subsequent life? But I cannot write it here—utterly impossible; I absolutely must be in Russia. Without Russia I can’t write it…
And what a mass of troubles! What a mass of worries! If only they were spared me! Apollon Nicolayevich, for the love of God, write to me about Pasha and about his quarrels with Emily Fiodorovna! It may be nonsense; but it is important to me. Yet Emily Fiodorovna has not written me a word about Pasha, but she sent me a letter the other day full of reproaches. They have queer notions. True, they are poor, but I can do only what I can.
Listen, Apollon Nicolayevich, I have a favour to ask you. If you can do it, if not—refuse to do it. And for the love of God don’t trouble yourself. Yet the trouble is not great; but my request is a delicate one. It’s about that same Basunov. I beseech you to call on him at his shop and to ask him: Is he or is he not disposed to publish The Idiot, and to give me 2000 roubles for it? (I don’t want to take less.) With Alexander Fiodorovich Basunov, as perhaps you know, you may talk frankly. Moreover, you are to make no efforts, and particularly don’t try any special coaxing, only in a friendly way—if a conversation arose—Basunov likes asking advice—say a good word for The Idiot. But above all—don’t show any particular eagerness. Having learnt what he says—write to me. That’s all I ask.
I’m sure, I’m sure you won’t refuse my request (it’s a very important thing to me, in spite of the fact that I do not wish to reduce the price; and if he says ‘no,‘—well, that’s as he pleases, I shall not lose, I’ll publish it myself, or I’ll wait). But there is one delicate point in the affair. It is this. I had commissioned Marie Gregorevna to do this very thing, and made her promise secrecy, although I informed her at the same time that I was going to write to you about it. Won’t she be offended by my asking you and passing her over? At the same time, why should she be offended? Especially as she knows that you were to hear about it from me. And besides—she hasn’t replied to me, although the time is passing, and the business is important to me. If she would only write to say that she did not want to undertake the commission, then at least my hands would not be tied; but I’ve had no word from her. At all events I think it’s quite all right; I mean, it wouldn’t be a bad idea if you were to call on Basunov, for instance, and ask him: whether he had received any proposal from me about publishing The Idiot? And then, if you thought the conversation was taking a good turn, if you spoke to him about the terms. Well now, this is my extreme request to you, Apollon Nicolayevich! If you can, do it, I beseech you. I do not ask you to conclude the business (it cannot be concluded, for an agreement and a power of attorney are necessary), but only to begin it, and to let me know about it, if only a line. Only please do not scold and reproach me for troubling and worrying you constantly. I consider it necessary, though, to tell you that one of these days I am going to write to Marie Gregorevna and to ask her to proceed no further in the matter with Basunov, and to consider my request as never having been made. I should have written this to her, even if I had not intended to ask you about Basunov. But the best of all, the best of all—would be if you would take the trouble to see Marie Gregorevna herself and simply ask her: Has she done anything in my business, or has she forgotten about it? But I am afraid to trouble you; it means too much running about for you.
I still hope to leave this place soon and go to Dresden again. Letters addressed to me in Dresden will be forwarded to me to Florence, if I remain in Florence; for I have already written about it to the Dresden post-office. But this is an extreme supposition; I really do hope to leave soon for Dresden, and therefore if you wish to write me (I shall be eagerly expecting a letter), write to me at the poste restante, Dresden.
In truth we have to move to Dresden for many urgent reasons, and chiefly because it is a city familiar to us, and comparatively cheap; we even have friends there, and it is the place where Anna Gregorevna hopes to realise her expectations (it will be towards the beginning of September). Anna Gregorevna thanks you deeply for your good words; she often remembers you and feels homesick. I am very glad that her present occupation will to some extent dispel her homesickness. Good-bye, my friend. I have written three sheets, and what have I told you? Nothing. We have been separated too long, and because of the separation we have lost touch with one another on many questions. Some idea of all that is taking place in Petersburg reaches me. I have the Russky Viestnik, Zarya, and I read the Golos which is taken in by the local library. How do you like Danilevsky’s Russia and Europe? In my opinion the book is important in the extreme; but I am afraid it has not received enough attention in the reviews. I consider Averkiev’s Comedy the best work of the year. At the first reading I was in raptures; now after the second I’ve begun to regard it a little more cautiously. I press your hand firmly and embrace you.
Wholly and ever your F. Dostoevsky.