II
Bad-Ems, August 9–21, 1879.
Much respected Konstantin Petrovich, I have not replied up till now to your superb letter addressed to me to Staraya Roussa, for I thought to see you personally, if only for one minute, on my way to Ems; I went to your house (by the Finnish church) but did not find you, though the porter told me that you came there frequently. I was very sorry, for from you I always hear a living and strengthening word, and it was just support I needed. I went to Ems perfectly ill. My angina pectoris got so much worse in Staraya Roussa because of the bad weather during the whole summer, that I was ill not only in body, but also in spirit. Added to this, my hard work on the Karamazovs, and, finally, the painful effect of contemplating what is going on, and the ‘Mad House’ of the Russian Press and intellectuals.
I have been here now three weeks taking the cure, and I wonder what will come of it; for, at the present exchange, my journey cost me 700 roubles, which (it may turn out) might very, very well have been saved for the family. I lie here and continuously think that I will, clearly, die soon—well, in a year or two—and what is going to happen to the three little golden heads after me? It’s true, here I am generally in the most gloomy mood. A narrow defile, rather picturesque as a landscape, but which I have been visiting for four summers now, and in which I hate each stone, for it is difficult even to imagine how much home-sickness I have suffered here during my four visits. The present visit is the most awful: a crowd of many thousands of all sorts of riff-raff from all Europe (Russians there are few, and those only the utterly unfamiliar ones from the Russian borders) crammed into a narrow space; no one to exchange a single word with, and above all—it is all strange, all completely strange—this is unbearable. And I have to go on like this up to our September, i.e. five whole weeks. And mark you: literally half of them are Jews. When in Berlin, on my way, I observed to Pouzykovich that, in my view, Germany, Berlin at any rate, was becoming Judaised. And here I read in the Moscowskya Viedomosti an extract from a pamphlet, which has just appeared in Germany, Where is the Jew here? It is an answer by a Jew to a German who dared to write that Germany was becoming Judaised in all respects. ‘There is no Jew,’ the pamphlet says, ‘and there is a German everywhere; but if there is no Jew, there is everywhere a Jewish influence, for, it alleges, the Jewish spirit and nationality are higher than the German, and they have indeed inculcated in Germany the spirit of speculative realism, etc. etc.’ Thus, my view turned out to be right; the Germans and Jews themselves testify to it. But apart from the speculative realism which is rushing upon us also, you can’t believe the dishonesty of everything here, in commerce at any rate. The present-day German trader not only deceives the foreigner (this would yet be pardonable), but he literally robs him. When I complained of it here, I was told, with a laugh, that the Germans also were treated in the same way.
Well, never mind! When I came here I instantly sat down to my work again and, at last, the day before yesterday I sent off to Moscow the August quota (of the Karamazovs). It will appear on August 31. It is the sixth book of the novel and is called A Russian Monk. (N.B.—Biographical data of the life of old Zosima and a few of his precepts.) I expect abuse from the critics; although I myself know that I have not accomplished even a tenth part of what I wanted to do, yet pay attention to this fragment, much respected and dear Konstantin Petrovich, for I should very much like to know your opinion. I wrote this book for a few, and consider it the culminating point of my work. Apropos, this year I shall not finish the novel: the third and last part will remain for next year.—And now I am sitting down again to work here.
In Berlin I met Pouzykovich. He will probably be helped by some one; he gave me his word that in three days’ time he would bring out the promised number of the Grazhdanin in Berlin, but he has not brought it out yet. I don’t think he ’ll bring it out at all. I have observed one trait in him: he is a lazybones and incapable of work. You know, up till recently I took an interest in him, but now he has driven me into despair. And he constantly throws the blame on others. But now I have written a whole letter, and all about myself. Do forgive me, much respected and dear Konstantin Petrovich. Your prisoners (Saghalien and all you wrote me about them) tortured my whole soul; it is too intimate to me, in spite of the twenty-five years’ distance. But about this in a personal talk. And now till the desired, happy meeting.—Wholly your and ever devoted to you, F. DOSTOEVSKY.