The Beginning of the Struggle with the Creditors

In September 1871 a newspaper announced to the public Dostoevsky’s return from abroad, and thereby rendered us no good service. Our creditors, hitherto silent, at once presented themselves, demanding payment. The first, and a very formidable one, was G. Hinterlach. Fiodor Mihailovich owed him nothing personally, nor was it a debt contracted during the run of the reviews. It was a debt of the late Mihail Mihailovich’s, my husband’s brother, contracted when he was in the tobacco trade. [This tobacco business ceased to exist in 1861]

In order to stimulate the sale of his firm’s tobacco, Mihail Dostoevsky advertised in the papers that every box of cigars of a certain kind contained a prize,—a pair of scissors, a razor, a needle-case, a penknife, and so on. These prizes attracted customers, and at first the scheme was a great success. But as the choice of prizes was limited, the customers soon began to fall off and the despatch of boxes had to be stopped. The prizes consisted exclusively of metal articles which Mihail Dostoevsky bought from the wholesale dealer G. Hinterlach (Nevsky, opposite the Gostiny Dvor, in the courtyard). The latter sold him the goods on credit and on bills at a high rate of interest. When the subscription to the review Vremya went off successfully, Mihail Dostoevsky paid Hinterlach in full, having always considered him the most exacting of his creditors. And three or four days before his death (in July 1864) Mihail Dostoevsky told his wife and Fiodor Mihailovich with joy that he had at last settled everything with ‘that bloodsucker Hinterlach.’ And when on the death of Mihail Dostoevsky all his affairs devolved on Fiodor Mihailovich, and against his will he had to take over the liabilities of the review Vremya,—Mme. Hinterlach came to him and said that Mihail Dostoevsky owed her about two thousand roubles. Fiodor Mihailovich remembered what his brother had said about his having paid his debt to Hinterlach, and informed Mme. Hinterlach of this. But she said that this was a separate debt, and that she had given the amount to Mihail Dostoevsky without having received any acknowledgment from him.

Mme. Hinterlach implored Fiodor Mihailovich either to pay her the 2000 roubles or to give her a bill; she assured him that if she failed to get a bill, her husband would make it very unpleasant for her. She cried, fell on her knees before Fiodor Mihailovich, went into hysterics. Fiodor Mihailovich, who always believed in human honesty, believed her, and gave her two bills, of 1000 roubles each. The first bill had been paid before 1867, but the second bill, amounting with four years’ interest to 1300 roubles, was presented by Hinterlach for payment immediately after our arrival. He sent a threatening letter, and Fiodor Mihailovich went to him to ask for a postponement till the New Year (1872), when he was to receive money for his novels. Fiodor Mihailovich returned home in utter despair. Hinterlach declared that he was not going to wait any longer and decided to attach all our movables, and if the latter were not sufficient to cover the debt, he would put Fiodor Mihailovich in the debtors’ prison.

Fiodor Mihailovich said to him: ‘If I’m sitting in prison, in one room together with other people, away from my family, how shall I be able to work? How shall I be able to pay you if you deprive me of the possibility of working?’

‘Oh, you are a famous author, and I reckon the Literary Fund will get you out immediately,’ said Hinterlach.

Fiodor Mihailovich, who had no particular respect for the Committee of the Literary Fund as constituted at that time, expressed his doubt about getting any assistance from that body; and declared that even if they offered him such assistance, he would rather go to prison than accept it. In the evening Fiodor Mihailovich and I discussed the matter for a long time, and decided to propose to Hinterlach the following new arrangement: to pay him 50 roubles down, and monthly instalments of 25 roubles, and have half of the debt discharged in the coming year. With that offer Fiodor Mihailovich paid Hinterlach a second visit, and came home utterly disgusted. After a long conversation, Hinterlach had said to him: ‘Now, you are a gifted author, and I want to show you that I, a small German shopkeeper, can put a famous Russian author in the debtors’ prison, and be sure, I mean to do it.’¹

I was revolted by this impertinent behaviour to my dear husband; but I realised that we were in the hands of a scoundrel and had no means of getting rid of him. Foreseeing that Hinterlach would not stop at mere threats, I decided to try to arrange the matter myself, and without saying a single word to Fiodor Mihailovich about my intention (he would certainly have forbidden it), I went off to Hinterlach. He received me arrogantly and said: ‘Either you put the money on the table, or in a week’s time your movables will be attached and sold by auction, and your husband settled in “Tarasov’s House.”’[^2]

To this I answered coolly, that our flat had been taken by me, and not by Fiodor Mihailovich, and was registered in my name (and I had done this to prevent my husband from being troubled with household worries, negotiations with the landlady and house-porter, etc.); and therefore I should not allow my things to be attached. As to the furniture, I had bought it on credit and until I paid the furniture dealer, it all belonged to him, and could not be attached. He could attach a few of Fiodor Mihailovich’s clothes; but these would fetch too small a sum to be worth the trouble. As proof I showed him the lease of the flat and a copy of my agreement with the furniture dealer.

As to Hinterlach’s threat about the debtors’ prison, I said to him that if he fulfilled it and Fiodor Mihailovich were compelled to go to prison, if it were only for a few days, ‘Then I give you my word of honour, Herr Hinterlach, that I shall go down on my knees and pray my husband to remain in prison up to the time when the date of your bill has expired.² I shall take rooms myself close to the prison, I and the children will visit him daily, and I shall help him in his work. Certainly, if he stays in prison with others in one room, my husband will find it difficult to work, but with God’s help he will get accustomed to it and will work. But as for you, Herr Hinterlach, you won’t get a brass farthing, and besides you will be obliged to pay his “maintenance.”[^4] I give you my word that it will all be as I say, and you will be cruelly punished for your obstinacy.’

Hinterlach began to talk about my husband’s ingratitude, and said he had waited a long time for his money. This finally revolted me; I was beside myself, and said:

‘No, it is you who should be grateful to my husband for having given a bill to your wife for a debt which had perhaps been paid already. She had had no acknowledgment from Mihail Dostoevsky, and my husband was under no obligation to make himself responsible for the sum. Fiodor Mihailovich, in giving a bill to your wife, acted out of generosity, out of pity; for your wife cried and said that you would curse and reproach her eternally, if she failed to get a bill from him. But don’t think that your cruelty will go unpunished. If you dare to act as you threaten to do, I on my part will do my very best to make things unpleasant for you: I shall describe the affair with all the details and publish it in the Syn Otechestva. Let every one see what the so-called “honest Germans” are capable of. People will recognise you under an invented name, and if you take proceedings against me, I shall prove that I have written the truth; there are witnesses in whose presence your wife implored Fiodor Mihailovich to give her the bill.’

In a word, I was beside myself and spoke without picking my words, just to give vent to my overpowering anger against the man. And although more than once in my life I have been the victim of my anger, this time it was of real service to me: the German was frightened of my threat to expose him in the newspapers and, after thinking for some time, he asked me what I wanted.

‘The very same terms my husband asked you to grant yesterday,’ I said.

‘Well, give the money, then,’ said Hinterlach.

I asked him to put down our terms in detail on paper and sign them; for I was afraid that he might take back his words, and begin tormenting us again. A complete conqueror, I returned home with the document in my pocket, and with the knowledge that thereby for some time at least I had secured my dear husband’s peace and my own.

But before I tell about our struggle with our creditors and the incredible efforts and difficulties (lasting for another ten years, almost until the death of my dear husband) which we encountered in the attempt to pay off our debts, I want to say a few words about how those debts, which tormented us both so much, had mounted up.

Only a very small part of them (two or three thousand roubles) had been contracted by Fiodor Mihailovich himself for his personal needs. Partly they were debts incurred by Mihail Dostoevsky in connection with his tobacco business, which I mentioned above. But in the main they were debts contracted for the running of the reviews Vremya and Epocha, which were published by Fiodor Mihailovich’s brother, Mihail Mihailovich. In 1864 Mihail Mihailovich died, after a short illness of three days only. His family (a wife and four little children), accustomed to live comfortably, was left without any means. And then Fiodor Mihailovich, who had been left a widower with no children, considered it his duty to pay his brother’s debts, and as it were to clear his brother’s memory from reproach, and also to support his family.

With these noble objects Fiodor Mihailovich decided to sacrifice his talent (by changing it into small coin), his powers, and his time, and to take on his shoulders the load of a business completely unfamiliar to him (the publication and running of the review Epocha). Having become editor of the paper, Fiodor Mihailovich had inevitably to take over the liabilities of the review, namely, the debts to the paper manufacturers, to the printers, binders, as well as those due to the authors who published their works in the review. Fiodor Mihailovich might possibly have been able toise his noble intentions, if caution and even a slight business capacity had formed elements of his character. But these qualities Fiodor Mihailovich lacked altogether. On the contrary, he had the completest trust in people and a sincere conviction of human honesty. When later on I heard stories from eye-witnesses of the financial obligations which Fiodor Mihailovich had incurred, and learnt from old letters the details of many such instances, I was astounded at the utterly childish unpracticality of my dear husband. Every one, who had no conscience and was not too lazy, deceived him and dragged money or bills out of him.

During his brother’s lifetime Fiodor Mihailovich had no connection with the business side of the Vremya, and was ignorant of the exact financial status of Mihail Mihailovich. But after his death people began coming to Fiodor Mihailovich, some, perfect strangers to him, declaring that the deceased owed them such and such sums. In most cases they did not present to Fiodor Mihailovich any proofs of the correctness of their claims, and Fiodor Mihailovich, who believed in human honesty, did not even think of asking for proofs or of documentary evidence. He would merely say: ‘I haven’t any money at all just now; but if you like, I can give you a bill; only I ask you not to demand payment soon; I will pay you as soon as I can.’

People took the bills, promised to wait and, of course, did not keep their promises, but presented the bills for immediate payment. I shall cite one case, the correctness of which I happened to verify from documents. There was one insignificant writer B. who published stories in the Vremya. He came to Fiodor Mihailovich asking for money for some stories of his which had not been paid for. He put the amount owing to him at 250 roubles. As usual, Fiodor Mihailovich had no money (the subscription money had been received by Mihail Mihailovich, and the further subscription money went to the family of the deceased), and he offered him a bill. B. was deeply moved, thanked Fiodor Mihailovich earnestly, promised to wait until things improved, and asked for an undated bill, so as not to be obliged to take proceedings, as he would be if the date were fixed. Fiodor Mihailovich agreed.

Imagine his astonishment when, in two or three weeks’ time, the bill was presented for payment, and attachment of his property was threatened. Fiodor Mihailovich went to B. for an explanation. B. expressed extreme indignation over the affair, and said: ‘Don’t you see, my landlady pressed me hard for money and threatened to turn me out of the flat. Reduced to extremity, I decided to give her your bill, and she promised not to present it. I am in despair at having placed you in such a situation; I will arrange the matter,’ etc. etc. As a result, in order to save our property from attachment, Fiodor Mihailovich had to raise money at heavy interest to pay that bill.

About eight or nine years later, in the ‘seventies, I had on one occasion to go through a mass of documents, papers, and notebooks kept by Fiodor Mihailovich. Among the notebooks were also books of memoranda relating to the Vremya. Imagine my surprise and indignation, when I found B.’s receipt for this very same sum of money which had already been paid him by Mihail Mihailovich, and also a note signed by B. in which he acknowledged the receipt of an advance of 60 roubles on account of a story which he undertook to write. I showed all these documents to Fiodor Mihailovich. His reply was: ‘I could not have thought he was capable of deceiving me. What a man may be brought to by necessity!’

In my opinion a considerable part of the financial obligations shouldered by Fiodor Mihailovich were of a similar nature. In this way a debt of about twenty thousand roubles had accumulated and, with the ever-growing interest, it amounted to twenty-five thousand roubles, and all the last thirteen years of our married life we were engaged in paying off this debt. It was only one year before Fiodor Mihailovich’s death that all our debts were paid off, and that we could begin to breathe freely without fear of being tortured, threatened, attacked, etc. Moreover, for the payment of these, partly fictitious debts, Fiodor Mihailovich had to work beyond his powers, to work hurriedly, sometimes running the risk of spoiling an imaginative work, and terribly tormented by the thought of what he was doing. Fiodor Mihailovich, myself, and all our family had to deny ourselves not only pleasure and comfort, but our most urgent needs. We had to work hard during the whole time of our married life, concentrating all our thoughts on getting quit of the tormenting debts.

How much happier, and more easily and comfortably my poor husband could have lived these fourteen years, and I too, if there had not always hung over us the worry of debt. If we had had money, Fiodor Mihailovich would not have been compelled to offer his work to editors, but could have waited until they came to him and offered to buy his novels, as was the case with all well-to-do writers: Turgenev, Ostrovsky, Pisemsky, etc. Had he not had those debts and the resulting cares that oppressed his spirit, Fiodor Mihailovich need not have written his works hurriedly, as he was compelled to do. He could have gone carefully through them, polishing them, before letting them appear in print; and one can imagine how much they would have gained in beauty. Indeed, until the very end of his life Fiodor Mihailovich had not written a single novel with which he was satisfied himself; and the cause of this was our debts!

And when I think of my life, there always arises in me a bitter feeling. I can understand the moral satisfaction when you pay your own debts. You remember that once some one helped you out of a tight corner, helped you in an anxious moment, and you are delighted at the possibility of paying them back with gratitude. But quite a different feeling arises in my heart when I have to pay other people’s debts, the debts of a man whom I have never known—Mihail Dostoevsky died in 1864,—and above all, fictitious debts, on bills extorted from my dear husband under false pretences. I often thought how far happier and more joyful my life would have been if I had not had those eternal troubles: where to get by such and such a date such and such a sum of money, where and for what amount to pawn this or that thing, how to arrange so that Fiodor Mihailovich should not get to know about a visit from this threatening creditor, or should not discover that I had pawned that article. Truly my life was darkened by all these affairs and worries, on them my youth was wasted, my health suffered because of them, and my nerves were shattered for ever.

And when I think that at least half of these debts, and therefore half of our miseries, could have been spared Fiodor Mihailovich and his family, if amongst his friends and acquaintances there had been found one or two good men, who would have cared to advise Fiodor Mihailovich in these practical matters which were so totally unfamiliar to him, it has always seemed to me inconceivable (and, to tell the truth, cruel)—that Fiodor Mihailovich’s friends (nomina sunt odiosa 1), knowing his purely childish unpracticality, his extreme trustfulness, his ill-health and complete insecurity, could allow him to act in person and alone in this business of clearing up the liabilities of the review after the death of Mihail Dostoevsky. Could not the ‘friends’ foresee that Fiodor Mihailovich, so unpractical and so trustful, was in this case bound to make irreparable mistakes? Could not my dear husband’s ‘friends’ have formed among themselves a group to help him to investigate the business, to settle the claims and to demand proofs of each debt? I am convinced that had such a group been formed, many claims would not have appeared at all, as they would have had to be submitted to a proper control. No, among Fiodor Mihailovich’s ‘friends’ and ‘admirers’ not a single good man was found who cared to sacrifice his time and power and thereby to render him a true friendly service. Of course they were all sorry for Fiodor Mihailovich, and sympathised with his impossible position; but all their sympathy was ‘words, words, words.’

It may perhaps be said that Fiodor Mihailovich’s ‘friends’ were poets, novelists, critics, and what could they have understood of practical matters? Could they have given him practical advice? But surely they were not raw youths at that time (the ‘sixties), and they managed their own affairs superbly.

It will perhaps be said that Fiodor Mihailovich wanted to be independent, and would not have welcomed such assistance from his friends. But this is an absolutely false idea. The proof of this is the readiness and the complete confidence with which he transferred all his business affairs into my hands, and listened to and adopted all my advice, although at the outset he naturally could not consider me an experienced business person. But he trusted me; and just as profoundly did he trust his friends also, and certainly would not have refused their assistance had it been offered to him.

Yes, this has always astonished me and I never could explain to myself these ‘friendly’ relations, and in my soul there has always remained a bitter feeling of dissatisfaction and resentment against those ‘friends’ of my dear husband.