V
Staraya Roussa, July 25, 1880.
Kindest and deeply esteemed Konstantin Petrovich, you gladdened me very much by your letter, and still more by your promise not to forget me in the future. I finally decided not to go to Ems: I have too much work to do. Because of the chaos in the spring I neglected the Karamazovs, and now I have made up my mind to finish them before I go away from Staraya Roussa, and therefore I sit down to them day and night.—Now about your commission:
Father Roumyanzev is my old and true friend, the worthiest of the worthiest priests I ever knew. It is in his house that your Father Alexey Nadiozhin lives. The family of a certain M. Rot, of Petersburg, rents a flat in the house of Roumyanzev for the summer season; M. Rot is a Louga landowner, and proprietor of several houses in Petersburg; however, he is ruined now. Alexey is a friend of the Rots and lives, although apart from the family, on the top in the attic, but, it seems to me, he simply hangs on for the time being to the Rots—though he gives lessons to the numerous Rot children. I saw him once before at Father Roumyanzev’s, but only had a glimpse of him. On receiving your letter I immediately went to Roumyanzev, at 5 o’clock in the afternoon (quite close to me), and communicated to him in secret your commission, having made him promise not to say a single word to Father Alexey. Roumyanzev and Father Alexey, although they are acquainted (they live in the same house), are not very much so. By my wish, Roumyanzev immediately invited Father Alexey, who was walking in the garden, to tea which was ready on the table. Father Alexey, although he kept on refusing, at last came in, and I spent with him a whole hour, saying nothing to him about your commission.
This is my observation and conclusion:
He is forty-seven, bald, black-haired, sprinkled with grey. His face is rather fine looking, but flushed. He is evidently of a strong constitution. But positively ill. He is resigning his priesthood because of the absolute impossibility to officiate by reason of his ill-health. This is irrevocable, and himself he will never agree to remain a priest, as he himself declared to me several times during our conversation. His illness is a strange one, but, luckily, familiar to me, for I myself suffered of the same illness in the years 1847, ’8, and ’9. I also have a brother (still alive) who suffers from the same illness precisely. Its chief cause is a most violent abdominal plethora of blood. But in certain cases the fits of this illness bring on moral derangement, of the soul. A man gets infected with an unbounded suspicion and at last imagines himself to suffer from all diseases, and is continuously treated by doctors and treats himself. The chief cause is this, that hæmorrhoids in this stage react on the nerves and upset them almost to the point of psychical fits. Father Alexey has now been convinced for a few years that because of his hæmorrhoids he is suffering from anæmia of the brain. ‘Last year I consented to officiate at the Easter matins,’ he said, ‘and I got so weak that my legs felt paralysed, I could not stand. Once I also officiated at vespers but could not finish. Since then I have ceased to officiate. I believe that if I were told now that to-morrow I should have to officiate, I should not sleep all night, but tremble, and certainly I should not be able to walk to the Church, but would faint.’ (There is visible, at any rate, a very great conscientiousness in his devotion to his office and to the administration of sacraments.) He formerly was a domestic priest of Voyekov’s, then inspector of a charitable institution in the Nevsky Lavra Monastery; he gave many lessons, eight hours weekly. ‘When I finished the week, and Sunday came, I would sit at home lying on the couch the whole day and reading a book—it is a great delight!’ Now he spends the whole time undergoing cures; he drinks here some water specially prepared for him; he loves to talk much of his diseases and with enthusiasm. I do not know whether he is as expansive on other topics also, for evidently he has no other topics now: he brings down everything immediately to the subject of his illness. He is artless and not sly, although he hardly has any great need of spiritual communion with people; in spite of his artlessness he is somewhat suspicious, not only with regard to his diseases. I believe he is a perfectly honest man. The appearance of indubitable honesty. Of true convictions, far removed from Lutheranism, he looks upon Orthodox Russians of our educated society quite correctly. Conscientiousness he has, but has he ardour for spiritual work? I do not know. Of the future he is not afraid: ‘By himself alone, a man is not poor,’ he said to me. He is rather hurt that on his request for assistance it was decided to pay him 48 roubles per annum, or to pay for him in the hospital, in case he goes there before he is cured. ‘I have spent on cures all I had saved,’ he said; ‘I did not trouble any one, and now they give me only 48 roubles!’ Though, if ever he criticises, he does it without any great spite. The final trait: he seems to be rather fond of comfort, he loves a separate room, if only a single one, but well-arranged. He loves to be alone, loves to read a book, he is a bit of a maniac, but he does not avoid company. That is all I managed to observe. I send you a hasty photograph without retouching. But the chief and final observation—he would not for anything in the world continue being a priest. He has a rather independent air, is not insinuating, self-seeking, intriguing—all this is completely lacking in him. His motto is rather: ‘Leave me alone.’
Now, to conclude about myself: besides the Karamazovs, I am bringing out shortly, in Petersburg, one number of The Journal of an Author, the only number for this year. In it is my speech in Moscow, a preface to it, written in Staraya Roussa, and, finally, a reply to my critics, chiefly to Gradovsky. But it is not a reply to the critics, it is my profession de foi for the whole future. In it now I express myself definitively and undisguisedly, I call things by their names. I think, all manner of stones will be cast at me. I won’t go further into the matter now; it will come out in the very beginning of August, on the 5th or even earlier, but I would very much ask you, deeply respected friend, not to disdain to read The Journal and to tell me your opinion. What is written there is fateful to me. From next year I intend to renew The Journal of an Author, and now I appear such as I wish to be in the renewed Journal.
I watch your valuable activity from the newspapers. Your superb speech to the schoolgirls I read in the Moscowskya Viedomosti. Above all, God grant you health. One must not tire oneself too much. Indeed, the chief thing is to give the lead. And a lead is organised only by a long action. I remember too well your words in the spring.
God bless you.—Embracing you and affectionately devoted to you. Your FIODOR DOSTOEVSKY.
P.S.—I do not know your address! I address this simply to the Grand Procurator of the Holy Synod—perhaps it will reach you.