Your letter, my dear and much-esteemed Apollon Nicolayevich,—a letter which delighted and surprised me,—I’ve left unanswered till now because I have been sitting down to some troublesome work, and wished to finish it at all costs. And therefore I not only failed to answer several letters, but didn’t even read anything all that time (except newspapers, of course). The work which I’ve taken so long over is only the beginning of the novel for the Russky Viestnik [The Possessed] and I shall have to write day and night for another six months at least; so that I am sick of it beforehand. There is of course something in it which draws me to write it; but speaking generally—there is nothing in the world more disgusting to me than literary work, I mean strictly, the writing of novels and stories—that is what I have come to! As for the idea of the novel, it is not worth explaining. In the first place, to express it fully in a letter is quite impossible, and you will be punished enough if you are inclined to read the novel, when it is published. Then why should I punish you twice?
You wrote a great deal about St. Nicholas—the Miracle-Worker. He will not desert us, because St. Nicholas is the Russian spirit and stands for Russian unity. We are no longer children, you and I, much-esteemed Apollon Nicolayevich; we know, for instance, this fact: that in case,—not only of a Russian disaster, but in case merely of Russian troubles,—the most un-Russian part of Russia,—a Radical—a Petersburg official, or a student—even they become Russians, begin to feel themselves Russians, although they may be ashamed of admitting it. Last winter I happened to read a serious admission in a leading article in the Golos—that ‘we almost rejoiced during the Crimean War at the success of the Allied arms and at the defeat of our own.’ No, my Radicalism did not go so far as that; at that time I was still serving my time in the galleys and did not rejoice at the success of the Allies; but together with my comrades, the unhappy ones [Note: The convicts and exiles in Siberia are called ‘unhappy ones’ by the people.] and their soldier-guards, I felt myself a Russian, I wished success to Russian arms and,—although I still retained a strong leaven of scabby Russian Liberalism, preached by … like the dung-beetle Bielinsky and the rest,—I did not consider myself inconsistent, when I felt the Russian in myself. True, the facts showed that the disease which had attacked cultured Russians was much more violent than we ourselves had imagined, and that the matter had not ended with the Bielinskys, Krayevskys, etc. But then came the miracle testified by St. Luke. The devils had entered into the man and their name was legion, and they asked Him: Suffer us to enter into the swine, and He suffered them. The devils entered into the swine, and the whole herd ran violently down a steep place into the sea and were drowned. When the people came out to see what was done they found the man, out of whom the devils were departed, sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind, and those who saw it told them by what means he that was possessed of the devils was healed. Exactly the same has happened with us in Russia. The devils went out of the Russian and entered into a herd of swine,—into the Nechayevs, Serno-Solovioviches, etc. [terrorists]. These are drowned and will be drowned, and the healed man, from whom the devils had been cast out, is sitting at the feet of Jesus. So it ought to happen. Russia has spewed out the abomination on which she has been surfeited, and certainly nothing Russian was left in those spewed-out scoundrels. And observe this, my dear friend: he who loses his people and nationality, loses also the belief of his fathers, and God. Well, if you want to know,—this is precisely the theme of my novel. It is called The Devils [called The Possessed in the existing English translation], and it is a description of how these devils entered into a herd of swine. Beyond all doubt I shall write it badly; being more of a poet than an artist I have always taken themes beyond my powers. But since not one of all the critics who have passed judgment on me has denied me a certain talent, then in this long novel too there are likely to be passages that are not so bad. Now that’s all.
And in Petersburg there still seem to be many clever people who, although they are horrified by the scoundrels into whom the swine have entered, still go on dreaming how fine it was during the liberal-humane times of Bielinsky, who still think that the enlightenment of that time should be brought back. Now, this idea can be seen even in the newest nationalist converts, etc. The old fellows do not give in: the Plescheyevs, Annenkovs, Turgenevs, and whole journals like the Viestnik Europa are of this school. They go on giving prizes in girls’ schools, distributing to the girls books like the works of Bielinsky, in which he bewails the fact that Tatyana remained faithful to her husband. No, it won’t be uprooted for a long time, and therefore, it seems to me, we have nothing to fear from external political commotions, such as, for instance, a European war on behalf of the Slavs; although it is strange: we are alone, and they are all of them together. The present position allows us two or three years of certain peace—shall we realise our position? Shall we prepare? Shall we build enough railways and fortresses? Shall we get another million rounds of ammunition? Shall we settle firmly on the border territories, and will reforms be introduced into the poll-tax and the recruiting for the army? These are the things that are needed, and the rest, that is, the Russian spirit, unity,—all this exists and will endure, and it will be so strong, it will have such wholeness and sacredness that even we are impotent to fathom the whole depth of that force, to say nothing of foreigners; and—my idea is that nine-tenths of our power consists just in the fact that foreigners do not understand and never will understand the depth and power of our unity. Oh, how clever they are! I have been assiduously reading for the last three years all the political papers, that is, the most important of them. How remarkably well they know their own affairs! How they can foretell events! What a knack they have of hitting the nail exactly on the head! (Compare them with our political papers, with their imitative rubbish, all imitation—with the exception perhaps of the Moscowskya Viedomosti.) What then? No sooner do they touch on Russia,—than they start muttering the devil knows what, like a feverish man in the dark! In Europe I think they know the star Sirius more thoroughly than they know Russia. And this very thing, for a time, is our power. And the other power will be our own belief in our individuality, in the sacredness of our destiny. The whole destiny of Russia lies in Orthodoxy, in the light from the East, which will suddenly shine forth to Western humanity, which has become blinded and has lost Christ. The cause of the whole misfortune of Europe, everything, everything without exception, has been that they gained the Church of Rome and lost Christ, and then they decided that they would do without Christ. Conceive now, my dear friend, that even in such superior Russians as, for instance, the author of Russia and Europe, I have not met with this idea about Russia—this idea of her exclusive Orthodox mission to mankind. And if this is so,—then it is really early as yet to demand independent thought from us.
But I have gone too far into the wood, and I am on the fourth page already. I live somehow, try to work, I am too much behind everywhere in delivering my work, everywhere I have broken my promises,—and suffer because of it. Anna Gregorevna too is depressed; so that I do not know what to do. I ought to return in the spring;—but I have still no money,—not only not enough to pay my debts, but not enough even to get back home. I have few acquaintances here, yet there are as many Russians in Dresden as there are Englishmen. Rubbishy people, these Russians are, generally speaking, I mean… . And, my God, what trash there is among them! And why do they wander about?
My little girl is healthy, well-nourished, weaned, she begins to understand well and even to speak; but she is a very nervous child, so that I am afraid for her, although she is healthy. My greatly respected friend, why do you give me so few details when you write about Pasha, about such an event as his marriage? For the love of Christ, tell me if you know. I have had no news from Pasha. And he is dear to me. Of course, it would be ridiculous on my part, at this distance, after a separation of three years, to claim to have an influence on his decisions. Still it is sad. I have a cousin, Misha, who married when he was still younger than Pasha; but he is a very intelligent boy, a boy of character. But Pasha is different—in character, and in the smallest matter of self-discipline.
If you can write anything to me, you will make me very, very grateful. My wife greets you. Luba kisses you. Good-bye, keep well and happy.
Wholly your F. Dostoevsky
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Type: Editorial Note / Biography
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Subject: Anna Gregorevna Dostoevsky and the context of the Memoirs.
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Source: Dostoevsky: Letters and Reminiscences (1923), pp. 99-101.
Anna Gregorevna Dostoevsky, née Snitkin, had been trained as a shorthand writer. She finished her training in 1866, and became Dostoevsky’s secretary at a time when he was hastily finishing The Gambler. During the whole of October 1866, she wrote to his dictation. They were married on February 15, 1867, in a style which gave much satisfaction to the bride. She describes the scene in her Reminiscences, in a passage as yet unpublished:
‘Fiodor Mihailovich arranged things well: the church was lighted brightly, a splendid choir sang, there was a crowd of beautifully dressed guests; but all this I learnt only later, from what had been told to me; for up to nearly half-way through the ceremony I felt as if I were in a mist, I crossed myself mechanically and my answers to the priest’s questions were scarcely audible. I did not even notice which of us was the first to step on to the pink silk cushion—I think that Fiodor Mihailovich was the first; for I have given way to him all my life long. It was only after the Communion that my head became clear, and that I began to pray ardently. Afterwards every one told me that during the wedding ceremony I was terribly pale… .’
The couple left Russia, originally for Dresden, two months later, on April 14, 1867, intending to remain away for only three or four months. Circumstances, however, some of which are sufficiently indicated in the letters to Maikov, delayed the return until the spring of 1871. At that time Dostoevsky was very ill and very homesick, as may be seen from his letter of March 18, 1871, to N. N. Strahov:
‘I have been ill for some time, and above all I have felt homesick after my epileptic fit. When I have not had a fit for a long time, and then it suddenly breaks out, then I feel an unusual nostalgia, a moral one. It drives me to despair. Formerly this depression used to last about three days after the fit, and now it lasts seven or eight days; but all the time I have been in Dresden my fits have been less frequent than anywhere else. Secondly, there is the longing for work. I am almost worn out with the slowness of my work. I must go to Russia, although I have got quite unaccustomed to the Petersburg climate. But, after all, whatever happens, return I must… . My writing does not come off, Nicolay Nicolayevich, or it is produced with terrible difficulty. What all this means—I do not know. But I think it is my need for Russia. At whatever cost I must return to Russia… .’
In his letter of February 4, 1872, to S. D. Yanovsky, six months after his return to Russia, he writes:
‘I spent four years abroad—in Switzerland, Germany, and Italy, and got terribly sick of it in the end. With horror I began to notice that I was falling behind Russia; I read three papers, and spoke with Russians; but there was a something which as it were I did not understand. I had to come back and see with my own eyes. Well, I’ve returned, and found nothing particularly puzzling; in a couple of months I shall understand everything again!’
But if Dostoevsky desired to return to Russia for his own sake, he was still more anxious to do so on account of his wife. In a letter to A. N. Maikov, Dostoevsky writes:
‘to remain in Dresden for another year is impossible, quite out of the question. It would mean just killing Anna Gregorevna with despair, over which she has no control, since hers is a genuine case of home-sickness.’
It was something more, perhaps, than home-sickness; for Madame Dostoevsky’s existence was one of incessant work, incessant anxiety. The following pages show some of her troubles; but it should further be remembered that during the last fourteen years of Dostoevsky’s life,—the most intense and productive years of his creative activity,—Anna Gregorevna was not only his wife and true friend, but also, as the Reminiscences indicate, his assistant, shorthand writer, publisher, financial adviser, and business manager.
The Reminiscences of Madame Dostoevsky, for the year 1871-1872, are taken from three of her notebooks found in the Poushkin Department of the Russian Academy of Sciences in Petersburg.